A year ago to the day, Lauren and I packed our bags, rocked our Tivas, and descended into the Grandest of Canyons for a three day float down the Colorado river. Was it hot? Try 100 degrees. Was the water cold? Try 50 degrees. Was it everything I’d ever hoped for and more? Try reading the rest of this blog post.

More Canyon after the break.

The trip started at one of Sin City’s most coveted destinations. The Las Vegas Marriott. At 6 A.M. From there we boarded a bus with 25 of our closest friends, then boarded a prop plane with those same friends. Through crackling headphones we listened to a 50’s-era tourism recording as we soared over The Hoover Dam and pretended to be Indiana Jones. At least I did anyway. Then the plane dropped us off at a ranch on the rim of the canyon, where we boarded yet another vehicle. This time a helicopter that dropped us right into the thick of things. And by dropped I mean that quite literally, the thing dive bombed into the canyon—landing on a sketchy patch of rocks that must have been a landing pad but looked more like a sketchy patch of rocks. It was glorious.

Abandoned in the canyon we met our crew, secured our dry bags, and boarded our J-Rig. Fueled by a sense of adventure and watered down lemonade, we rafted down the “soul-stirring scenery” (tour company’s words, not mine) for a few hours before finding a sandy bend in the river that looked promising.

Setting up camp was easy, since we made friends with the crew members who told us “only nerds pitch a tent.” OK, maybe they said it differently, but that was definitely the underlying message. So Lo and I grabbed a cot and trudged as far away from the rest of the group as possible. As the sun set we lounged in the river, made fun of our enemies, and only left the water when the dinner bell rang.

As we sat sluprin’ spaghetti, Lauren turned to our guide and asked “You think it’s going to rain tonight?” The man looked up toward the rim, surveying the landscape with the seasoned eye of a true river rat. “Nah”.

Two minutes later all hell broke loose. Monsoon level rains ripped through the canyon as most of our group abandoned their meals for the safety of their tents (later we’d learn some dude hid under the desert table as if uneaten cheesecake might protect him from nature’s wrath.) Lo and I laughed. “How romantic!” we crooned, wrapping ourselves in a tarp to enjoy the experience while waiting for it all to to pass.

It did not pass. Soon we were hastily pushing our cots together for warmth, pulling the tarp over our bodies as a thin barrier from the torrential downpour. Then the lightning came. So bright the flashes burned through our eyelids. So loud our eardrums rang with each clap. For 45 minutes we endured, holding hands to keep our sanity, not moving to keep our soaked bedding from getting even more amphibious. I looked into my wife’s eyes and could see her spirit fading. Mine had left long ago.

Then came our savior. A champion named Cory. On his mother’s request, he ventured from the safety of their tent to make sure we were still alive. “You guys OK?” he screamed over the downpour “want to come into our tent?” Lauren peeked her head from beneath the tarp. “No, we’re ok!” I looked at her in disbelief. “You sure?” Cory pleaded, “you’re the only ones out here not in a tent!” I sat up and looked around. I couldn’t see more than three feet in front of my face, but I knew he was right. Lauren jumped up and headed to the safety of shelter, while Cory and I pitched a tent with only our headlamps to guide us. To this day, I’m not sure how we did it (or did it so quickly) but soon our tent was up and only filled with about ten inches of water. To us, it looked like paradise. Lauren rejoined and together we shed our sopping clothes and laughed naked like little kids until we passed out. The rain lasted for hours.

The rest of the trip paled in comparison to the perils of that night. In two days time we left the river with many memories, and one very important life rule. “If you have a tent, pitch it.’