Switchback Spring, May 22-24, 2027 in New Orleans, LA
•
Switchback at TRE, December 1-3, 2026 in San Antonio, TX
Before the medic closed the helicopter door, I held my brother’s hand, told him I loved him, and said, “You’re gonna be alright.” Just a few hours earlier, a brutal hit in a whitewater rapid had left him immobilized.
As dusk fell across the Grand Canyon, the helicopter whirred to life, blasting sand across our campsite. Bracing against the whirlwind, I squinted at the sky and watched the machine dart down the canyon and disappear in the shadows.
For a few moments, I stood on the bank of the Colorado River and just stared into the distance. Saying goodbye to my brother Ben was difficult, and the cascade of events that day had drained both my body and mind. Then I looked around at our small crew and the fellow boaters who had dropped everything to help us. In their presence, the feeling of emptiness soon faded, and I was buoyed by an unexpected wave of hope and gratitude. Over the past several hours, I had witnessed incredible acts of kindness that left me feeling fortunate—and deeply proud—to be part of the rafting community on The Grand.
Our first experience with that river spirit came a week into our 16-day journey. As a self-guided party, our 6-person crew had no commercial safety net. Traveling in three 18-foot rafts, we were entirely self-reliant, navigating 225 miles of the Colorado River using our collective skills, experience, and gear. Three of us had rafted The Grand previously, while two crew members—Jeremy and Jayson—had rowed it multiple times. For my cousin Tom, however, this was his first time at the oars on this stretch of water.
On the seventh day, we aced two significant rapids and enjoyed a side trip to Phantom Ranch, where we enjoyed lemonade at the canteen and purchased bags of ice—a rare commodity on The Grand. We were cautious but upbeat as we approached the Class 8 Horn rapid at river mile 90. (The Grand Canyon has its own unique rating system, ranging from 1 to 10).
Due to the low river flows (about 6,800 to 9,200 cfs), we chose not to do the classic move on the rapid where you “split the horns,” slipping between two prominent rocks. Instead, each boat went to the right of the horns, which led us to the face of a huge boulder.
I was riding in the front of Tom’s boat as the tremendous current drove us straight toward the massive rock. Swiftly, our raft rode up the face and then flipped, flinging Tom and me into the churning water. For about 5 frightening seconds I was submerged, finally bobbing to the surface below the rapid. As I swam, I saw Tom holding onto our upside-down boat. Fortunately, we didn’t have to swim for long as our team members dashed to grab us from the water and tie a line to our flipped boat. As I scrambled into Jayson’s raft, I landed on Ben’s ankle and apologized to him. “My ankle’s fine,” he groaned. “My back is the problem.”
Soon, a motorized commercial rig from Arizona River Runners emerged from the Horn rapid, and one of the guides named Tristan asked if we needed help. Our response was, of course, an enthusiastic, “Yes!”
“I’ve got a good trick we can use,” Tristan said as he brought his boat alongside our raft. Next, we attached several ropes to the far side of the overturned craft. Then, the guide encouraged his passengers to lend a hand, and they jumped in, pulling on the lines until our raft flipped to its proper orientation.
The assistance from the commercial boat was a true gift. Without their help, we might have worked for an hour or more to flip the raft. As we thanked them repeatedly, Tristan said, “Hey, we’re all in this together.”
Eventually, we pulled into a quiet eddy to assess my brother, who groaned in agony at the slightest movement. It was quickly clear that he couldn’t sit up, let alone stand, and ending his trip was the only option. After Jayson, a former nurse, helped us send an SOS message to the National Park Service (NPS) using our Garmin inReach device, the NPS responded moments later and instructed us to row two miles down to Granite camp for the medevac.
As the sun dipped below the canyon walls later that evening, a second act of kindness unfolded—this time from the generous hearts of fellow river runners.
Approaching the Granite camp, we saw that it was occupied by a 16-person independent expedition that began their Grand Canyon journey the same day as us. With the helicopter parked downriver, a member of the rescue crew advised the group to batten down their camp and boats so the helicopter could land safely. I could see the campers had been preparing dinner and hoped they wouldn’t be too disturbed by us. After they learned what happened, members of their group immediately offered to help.
Soon, the helicopter landed, and the lead medic assessed my brother and gave him pain medicine. When it was time to move Ben from the boat to a stretcher, the medic encouraged anyone available to participate, which surprised me. I had expected an attitude of “stand back and let the professionals handle this.” But I was learning that down in this rough, remote canyon, it really does take a village to overcome obstacles. Without hesitation, several of our new friends pitched in to shift my brother to the stretcher and then helped carry him to the helicopter. Sensing that I was a little wobbly and overwhelmed, the trip leader—Nico—offered to take my spot on the stretcher. In that simple gesture, the distinction between our two groups evaporated. We had used Moenkopi Riverworks to outfit our self-guided trip, while Nico’s group had hired Ceiba Adventures—yet down in the canyon, those logistical boundaries completely dissolved. Different outfitters, different gear, but we were all part of the same river crew.
After the chopper exited the canyon, the remaining five of us gathered around our boats to assess our situation. Within moments, Nico approached us, handed over a few beers, and invited us to join them for dinner and made us feel welcome by showing us the location of their “groover” (the toilet) and letting us camp in their site for the night. We returned the favor the best we could, providing them with ice we had purchased earlier that day at Phantom Ranch. That proved to be a welcome surprise, as ice and cold drinks are rare and highly valued treats on The Grand. After dinner, we helped wash dishes and then chatted with our hosts, a mix of geologists, biologists, and other scientific professionals from Flagstaff and Pocatello, Idaho.
In my 40 or so years of exploring the outdoors, I don’t think I’ve ever experienced that level of generosity in the backcountry. The day’s events had left our crew physically and mentally frayed, and the hospitality came as a great relief and lifted our spirits. While I was still reeling from my brother’s exit, that evening in camp put me in a better frame of mind to continue our trip.
Over the next week, we crossed paths with Nico’s group many times, swapping spices, extra eggs, and other supplies. At every encounter, people would ask for an update on Ben, and I was grateful to eventually share the good news: scans revealed just a small lesion on his kidney and severely strained back muscles that would fully heal.
Down in the bottom of the gorge, nature dictates the terms. The Grand Canyon is an unforgiving, remote environment—a place so raw and unpredictable that it can push even the most seasoned adventurers to their absolute limits. Out here, weather and water shift without warning, leaving no room for complacency.
That shared vulnerability is precisely why a strong sense of community exists among the people who row these waters; when the canyon throws a curveball, reliance on one another becomes essential.
We faced yet another test just days before our scheduled takeout. Monsoon rains unleashed flash floods, washing out the road to Diamond Creek and closing our planned exit. Our outfitter relayed the tough news: to get off the river, we would have to row an extra 50 miles to Pearce Ferry. For our small, 5-person squad—already battered and depleted after weeks in 100-plus-degree heat—it was a daunting prospect. Pushing back our exit date meant missing flights, so we chose the hard way out. We rallied for a 40-mile marathon row to reach the final stretch of rapids. As midnight approached, we lashed our three boats together into one giant raft and floated through the flatwater overnight.
Drifting through the darkness on an invisible river, I was reminded of how this place strips away the routine world and reshapes your perspective. By day, floating beneath towering red cliffs and ancient rock layers that hold millions of years of Earth’s history, you realize pretty quickly how small you really are—and how fleeting our time here is. Down in the gorge, feeling that small is precisely what draws us together, making it second nature to lean on and look out for your fellow travelers.
But it isn’t just the river community that leaves its mark; it’s the raw, overwhelming landscape itself. The endless parade of sheer cliffs, roaring rapids, scorching heat, turquoise waters, and dead-silent, starry nights leave you completely awestruck. Together, the place— and its people—turn a Grand Canyon expedition into the kind of journey that fundamentally changes lives.
My brother only got to spend a week in the canyon, but those seven days left an indelible mark on him. Just before the flight crew pulled the helicopter door shut, Ben signaled for our trip leader, Jeremy, to come over. Ben grasped Jeremy’s hand and said, “Thank you. This is the best trip I’ve ever been on.” Even in pain, he realized that the magic of the canyon and the people you share it with are unforgettable.
