When I emerged on the other side upright, sucking in air and collapsing my body over the front of my kayak, I was as surprised as I had ever been. When I’d summited Mount Everest, although I knew it was a huge endeavor, I was convinced it was repeatable. Someday, I thought, another blind person will stand up here. It’s within the realm of possibility. But below Granite, still shaking with adrenaline, I laughed—and it came out as a snort, with snot and river water spewing from my nose. There wasn’t a chance in hell any other blind person would ever subject themselves to the insanity of Granite. I was confident that my goal to be the first blind kayaker down the Grand Canyon was totally safe.

It turned out I was completely wrong.

By the summer of 2012, I felt like I was making an inkling of progress. I’d gotten back on Clear Creek, near my house, and on sections of the Colorado River like Radium and Shoshone. I was even planning a big training trip down the Río Maraûùn at the headwaters of the Amazon. I’d heard that some of the canyon walls there are nearly ten thousand feet high on both sides. It’s no wonder it was dubbed the Grand Canyon of South America.

In early September I’d just come off a training trip with my team on Westwater Canyon of the Colorado. My friend Steven Mace pulled out his phone and checked Facebook.

“Erik. You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “But some other blind guy just kayaked the Grand Canyon—at least that’s what this press release says. His name is Lonnie Bedwell, and he’s a farmer from Indiana and a retired navy veteran.”

At first, I thought it was a joke, but then when Steven didn’t laugh, I was flat-out shocked. I couldn’t believe it. From the beginning, as I had learned to kayak, slamming into rocks, flipping my boat, and swimming through rapids, I’d end each day with the same pronouncement: “At least I learned something today … I learned exactly why there aren’t any other blind kayakers in the world.”

Even though that statement was a joke, I had built a life around being the first, a trailblazer, and had gotten used to it. In fact, when Rob had once said, “There are seven billion people on earth, and you’re the only blind whitewater kayaker,” I have to admit, my ego had swelled.

Now, my defense mechanisms kicked into gear: Maybe he could actually see, at least a little bit. He’s faking it. Maybe he’d gotten in a raft for part of the descent. Maybe he had skipped some of the big ones like Crystal and Lava Falls. There had to be an explanation other than a blind farmer from Indiana had just scooped me.