The Grand Canyon is an iconic example of our nation’s courage, and wisdom, to set aside lands for the benefit of current and future generations. The Colorado River, which formed it, is a poignant example of the power, and creative force, of water. One of the greatest gifts that JD Swed has given me throughout our years together is to know this place – both at and below its surface. Sixteen years ago, he accompanied me on my first walk on the south rim, silently and tenderly holding space as I peered down into the Canyon’s depths. Since then, we have returned several times, watching sunrises and sunsets from the south and north rim, sometimes alone and other times with those that we love. JD, a talented reader of water and adept oarsman, has also provided me with safe passage through the mighty rapids of the Colorado River – each time teaching me a little more about reading, and rowing, its calmer waters. Our first trip down this mighty river through the Grand Canyon was 14 years ago. Our last concluded on April 29 of this year. 

I jokingly referred to our first trip down as JD’s “fiancé survival test”. It wasn’t so much the rapids as the narrow, harrowing ledges of some of the side Canyon hikes that terrified me. And one hike in particular, up Tapeats Creek to its junction with Thunder River. It was there that I began to seriously question whether I had what it took to keep going, as we bouldered and gently sought footing on shifting shale slopes where the “trail” was scarcely wide and flat enough to support a footprint, and mere feet away, the slope gave way to a sheer, vertical cliff. Not to mention, it was August, and when JD and I hiked down the Bright Angel Trail to Phantom Ranch, joining a river trip already in progress, the temperature was 117 degrees Fahrenheit. Simply put, I was out of my element. But, I was in love with JD Swed, and the places he was taking me. So, I pushed on. 

In the following years, we married, and in the last four years I have – by some stretch of inexplicable luck – been awarded not one, but two permits in the Colorado River lottery. (I’m sure that, by acknowledging this publicly, the National Park Service will flag my name in their system, thus ensuring I never draw another permit again. If so, I can accept that. I’ve been lucky enough.) This year we ventured down river one more time, with a group of people hand selected for their skills, and camaraderie – experienced boatmen; former EMTs,  paramedics, and a current ER nurse; an extraordinary food and menu coordinator; musicians, writers and poets; former and retired public servants for the National Park Service, US Forest Service, and US Fish and Wildlife Service; and three young adults in their mid-20s who are each beautifully and passionately forging their own unique path as they seek to change the world.

“Like water, be gentle and strong. Be gentle enough to follow the natural paths of the earth and strong enough to rise up and reshape the world”

Brenda Peterson

We had, by all accounts, a successful – JD called it a “Royal” – trip. No flips, no swims, no evacuations, no injuries or accidents. Although we were at notably low flows, the water of the Colorado was crystal clear. Our group was a great mix of people who chipped in, helped and supported each other, and fully appreciated the gift of just being there. And, accompanying the adventure and camraderie, was a tender awareness of that some of us may never get the opportunity to return. 

Returning this time was significant for JD, and me, also. Last fall, in Africa, JD and I and our entire boat of passengers swam while rafting the Zambezi River, along the border of Zambia and Zimbabwe.  It was a harrowing experience for us both – a visceral reminder of the strength that water possesses, and the paradoxical need to stop fighting against it, and trust your PFD (personal flotation device) to return you to the surface. 

And, this trip represented my first return to the Colorado River since getting sober, some two and a half years ago. It’s a lot for me to write these words, but I need to say it. Because while the story behind them is not one I’m ready to share, at least not here, one of the lessons I’m learning in recovery is that facing and embracing the truth of who we are is key to setting ourselves free. Free from the fears that keep us small, hidden, and alone.

The road of recovery hasn’t been easy, but it’s a hell of a lot easier than the years leading up to the point of my surrendering to the fact that alcohol wasn’t doing me any favors. And, as I ventured down river with JD this time, aware of my growing ability to accept and embrace myself as I am – without using alcohol to numb and avoid what threatens to overwhelm me – I found myself surrounded by reminders of the power of water to cleanse, and reshape the past into something new. 

That JD has stuck with me as I’ve worked to free myself from an addiction that has had me in it’s grip since I was a young teen – is a testament to his capacity to be loyal, to forgive, and to love. To see beneath the surface, to have the courage to believe in what lies beneath, and to trust that people are more than their worst mistakes. It also reminds me of his talent for reading water – a skill he says he learned, decades ago, from the women boaters who taught him to rely on finesse, not force or strength, when meeting a rapid. When facing a challenge that could, if you’re not ready, flip your boat. 

Spending 20 nights, 21 days, outside, anywhere, is a gift to the soul. To turn off the news and tune into the stars, the beauty of wild things, the sound of the water and the Canyon wren, and of laughter around a (charcoal) camp fire, helps to replenish my faith in what is still good, what is still here, what is still right in this troubled world. JD helps me to spend quality time in such places, and to be safe while doing so. I’ve always told him: when going through a big rapid, I want to be in your boat. He helps me to trust the river – out there, and within. And I’ll forever be grateful to him for that.