1
By the time the blue ten-passenger van skids to a stop in a cloud of dust, the snarl in my stomach has tightened beyond undoing.
We’ve been driving for nine hours straight on potholed rural roads and rocky two-tracks so narrow that tree branches scratch the sides of the van. All to skirt our way around the three-million-acre Big Basin Wilderness surrounding the remote Middle Fork of the Garnet River.
And this is just the beginning.
“Kaia, babe, wake up! We’re heeeere!” squeals Macy, the cute-as-a-button blonde rafting guide who’s buckled into the middle seat beside me.
I keep my eyes squeezed shut a few seconds longer.
I’m not actually asleep. More like playing dead, so I won’t have to participate in the nonstop “group bonding” and ice-breakers that began the second the van’s engine started nearly ten hours ago.
“We’re gonna need all you ladies to work together as a team out there on the river.
Let’s dig deep so we don’t flip on the Devil’s Stairs,” said Gracie, the second guide in our van—an adorable carbon copy of Macy, right down to the rhyming name.
Then she asked conspiratorially, “If you could have any substance come out of your belly button when you press it, what would it be?”
“Chloroform” was the answer on the tip of my tongue, but I didn’t want to hurt either Macy’s or Gracie’s feelings.
So I kept my eyes squeezed shut, leaning my head against the vibrating side of the too-warm van, listening to the other women laugh about how they’d choose ketchup or toothpaste or, in one curious case, glue.
When I booked this trip with Idaho Rapids Unlimited ages ago, it hadn’t been this trip, exactly.
I’d originally booked the couples’ retreat—which would have happened last month.
If things were different, if I’d been on that trip instead, I probably would have participated in all nine hours of twenty questions.
Because my husband Parker would have made everyone laugh so hard with his goofy answers, I couldn’t have pretended to be asleep.
And I wouldn’t have wanted to miss any of it.
The trip was supposed to mark our thirtieth birthdays. It still does, I guess. But I’m the only one here to celebrate.
Maybe I could’ve wrangled a refund if I’d explained what happened.
I must have picked up the phone half a dozen times to call.
Because I really wasn’t in the mood for an adventure anymore.
And I could have used the four thousand dollars back in my account.
But between the big red letters on the Rapids Unlimited website FAQ page stating Absolutely no refunds for multi-day float trips and the churn in my gut when I thought about what it would mean to cancel, I finally sent an email asking if I could switch to the women’s retreat.
The cost was about the same; a five-day trip for one on the Middle Fork of the Garnet versus a three-day on the Lower Fork for two.
I didn’t offer a reason for the request to swap. And the only question the woman asked was whether I’d like a complimentary swim shirt to make up for the small price difference.
I said no.
Inside the creamy white envelope that arrived in the mail a week later, I got my official packing list and a description of the trip: We’re pleased to welcome you on an exclusive, unforgettable, ladies-only adventure on the Garnet River.
Perfect for sisters, friends, and solo travelers!
Disconnect from the hustle and bustle! Reconnect with your inner spark while enjoying five days of home-cooked meals and the thrill of world-class whitewater on the River at the End of the World.
It was almost identical to the letter that Parker and I had received, except this one didn’t promise three days with your sweetheart in the great outdoors.
“Kaiaaaaa! Girl, it’s go time!” Macy—or Gracie—calls right next to my ear, laughing.
I startle against the seatbelt where the warm metal sticks to the skin peeking beneath my crop top and blink at the open doorway. All of the other women are already outside, stretching in the late-afternoon sun and gushing over the towering canyon walls rising up from the launch point.
A second dusty ten-passenger van lurches to a halt beside us, spitting out two more guides wearing bright green quick-dry shirts—both men—along with another load of women, bubbling with excitement that they’ve finally made it to the remote put-in on the Middle Fork of the Garnet.
Someone starts whistling a meandering song I don’t recognize, with a surprising amount of skill.
I sigh, paste on a smile, and peel my thighs from the vinyl bench seat, shooing my dark thoughts away like a swarm of gnats. They’ll be back, but I’ve gotten better at sending them scattering, if only for a few moments.
I blink in the sunlight, breathing deep when the smell of sunbaked pine wafts inside the vehicle, drawing me out of the empty van. Despite the dust, the air feels squeaky clean, and I get my first glimpse of the majestic river, sparkling just beyond the primitive road.
“Everybody, grab your dry bags out of the cage!” Macy points to the rusty white box at the front of the second van’s raft trailer.
Then she stops in her tracks and smacks herself on the forehead playfully, sending her thick blonde ponytail bouncing.
“Hold on, hold on!” she calls to the women from the second van, who are already bustling around the loaded cage.
“I haven’t even met some of y’all in van two!
We need to do introductions again! I’m Macy, and this is Gracie.
” Her big brown eyes crinkle as she grabs the other female guide by the arm and pulls her into a bear hug.
“And yeah, our names rhyme, but we’re not twins or anything.
Although she might as well be my sister by this point.
We’re both seniors at the University of Idaho, we’re both studying recreation therapy, and we’ve both worked at Rapids Unlimited every summer for the last four years. So … we’re the senior staff.”
“Recreation therapy?” someone asks.
Macy’s grin softens. “Using outdoor activities to help people heal. Veterans, kids with trauma, stuff like that.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal.
“I started guiding to pay for school, but it turns out this”—she gestures to the canyon around us—“isn’t just fun.
It’s medicine. There’s nothing like a Class-Four rapid to get you out of your head. ”
I think about that note I got in the mail, the promise that I’d “find” myself again out here, and cringe a little.
Recreation therapy sounds like a nice idea, but I’m not banking on any miracles.
I tried hot yoga and meditation already, and neither touched the wreckage in my heart.
My body can sweat and breathe deep all it wants, but it’s still just a body.
It’s physical, just like this adventure.
How much could a river float actually heal somebody?
It doesn’t matter. I’m not here to find healing, anyway.
I’m here for Parker.
Gracie smiles. “I’m counting Macy’s spiel as my intro, too. We’re pretty much the same person, except I like Twizzlers and she likes those disgusting Red Vines.” She laughs and looks expectantly at one of the male guides, like it’s his turn to take the baton.
Right on cue, he stops fiddling with a strap on the raft and turns to face the group. “Senior staff, my ass! I’m about ten years older than both of you girls.”
I raise an eyebrow. That makes him my age, although I wouldn’t have guessed it. All the river guides have the same weathered look: wind-chapped skin, sun-bleached hair, scraped-up shins, and that telltale tan line around their eyes in the shape of sunglasses.
Gracie’s smile widens. “You’ve only been here three summers, though. Everybody, this is Josh, a.k.a. ‘River Jesus.’ I know this trip is a women’s retreat, but we appreciate the muscle!”
The other women titter as River Jesus—Josh—crosses his arms over his impressively muscled chest and rises to his full height—at least six foot two.
It’s pretty obvious how he’s earned the nickname when he does a little toss of his sun-bleached brown, shoulder-length hair and pats his full beard with a waggle of one bushy eyebrow.
“Lord have mercy,” murmurs a stout middle-aged woman with a severe auburn bob. She lifts the collar of her long-sleeved PALM BEACH swim shirt and fans it as if to cool herself.
Macy snorts. “Oh, don’t give him a bigger ego than he’s already got.”
A sprinkling of laughter dissolves into shrieks as a bulky bin comes toppling over the stack of rafts on the trailer, nearly hitting Josh in the head before landing at his feet.
Whoever was whistling that tune in the background stops abruptly.
“Holy shit!” Josh cries, leaping forward to snatch at the contents of the cooler that’s just burst open on the ground. An array of bagged deli meats and cheeses, tortillas, and veggies spills out onto the dirt, scattered among ice cubes.
We all look up at the raft atop the trailer, where the second male guide with bleached-blond hair stands with his mouth hanging slightly open. “Sorry, sorry, I was just trying to get the coolers down so we could have a snack before we get on the river, and I tripped—”
“Over your flip-flops?” Josh snaps.
Macy and Gracie—along with some of the women from van two—snicker as they kneel to salvage the cooler’s contents.
“I guess that’s as good an introduction as any to our newest guide,” Gracie says with an eye roll, nodding up at the baby-faced man still perched atop the raft trailer.
“Is this Temu River Jesus?” one woman whispers to her friend, eyeing his stocky build and patchy brown beard, which does little to conceal a minefield of acne scars.
I shoot the woman a dirty look over my shoulder, but thankfully the new guide isn’t paying any attention to her snide remarks. He’s laser-focused on Gracie, his cheeks flushed crimson.
Gracie stifles a laugh. “Everybody, this is Bryan, a.k.a. Flip-Flop. And if you can’t tell, he’s fresh out of guide training.”
“I told you, I don’t like that nickname.” Bryan crosses his arms over his quick-dry shirt, which is at least two sizes too big. If he’s trying to draw attention away from his soft midsection, his tight life jacket only accentuates his bulky form.
“We don’t choose our nicknames, buddy. The nicknames choose us,” Josh crows, bringing his hands together in a prayer pose.
He turns to the women brushing dirt from baggies of sliced cheddar.
“Flip-Flop can clean up the mess he made. Let’s finish introductions so we can get going on the river.
” Hands still in prayer pose, he points his steepled fingers at a woman wearing a hat embroidered with the words CRIME JUNKIES.
“You! Kick us off. Tell us your name and … something unique about yourself.”
I sigh. The website hypes this rafting trip as the ultimate wilderness adventure for soul-seekers, but between the Econo vans and the never-ending icebreaker questions, this is starting to feel like summer camp.
But the bright smiles on every face around me make it clear that I’m the only Debbie Downer here.
I try to perk up, reminding myself that very few get the chance to float down this stretch of river.
Chatty Cathys be damned, we’re on the Middle Fork.
I let out a slow breath and shift my focus to the absolute majesty surrounding me. It’s every bit as stunning—more, even—than the photographs from the Pacific Northwest Whitewater calendar that Parker bought us a couple of years ago.
We’d used it to count down the days to our long-awaited trip.
It’s still on my apartment wall. I can’t bear to take it down.
I swallow the lump in my throat and try to think of an answer to Josh’s question.
The woman in the Crime Junkies hat laughs and cocks her head, lips pursed in concentration. “Okay. Well … I’m Allie. I’m the captain of my intramural softball team … and all of my fingers are double-jointed.”
She holds up her hands to illustrate, flexing each finger into a perfect right angle as everyone “Oohs.”
“I’m also a high school librarian in Boise,” she adds. “Which means I spend a lot of time convincing sixteen-year-olds that books are cooler than TikTok. Mixed success rate. But I get summers off, and I won this trip in a district-wide Christmas raffle, so no complaints.”
Josh raises an eyebrow, then points his prayer hands at the next woman, a tall older lady with silver-and-brown streaked hair. But before she can introduce herself, Allie blurts out, “Hold on. Um, how close are we to Camas Creek?”
Macy and Gracie glance at each other uneasily, seemingly caught off guard by the question. Bryan, who has finished cleaning up the spill and is dragging the cooler to the river’s edge, looks up sharply. Some of the women shift uncomfortably in the silence, waiting for the guides to answer.
“About forty miles,” Bryan says matter-of-factly. “We’ll be making camp there tomorrow night, just above Anvil Falls. It’s one of the few campable beaches on the river.”
This statement earns a few uneasy murmurs from the group.
Allie, however, looks almost thrilled by this information. “Oh my god, that’s what I thought, but I wasn’t sure. I have so many questions,” she begins. “The timing of this trip worked out perfectly for me, since all the rumors about Kellen Stroop have finally died down,” she says brightly.
“What’s she talking about?” the taller woman with the silver-streaked hair asks, frowning. “What’s Camas Creek? Who’s Kellen—”
“Stroop,” Allie finishes for her.
Josh shoots Allie a stern look, seemingly putting an end to the questions. I expect him to move on with introductions, but instead he says, “It’ll be dark before we know it. Everybody grab your bags and a life jacket! Let’s get some food in our bellies and get these rafts in the water!”