I believed I was as ready as I’d ever be, though some doubts still lingered. We all helped unload and organize piles of equipment we’d need for three weeks on the river, from Paco pads and folding chairs to giant ceramic water filters and a three-burner stove. The meat and vegetables had all been frozen solid, and even though the air temperature would most likely top one hundred degrees in the lower canyon, perishables would last the whole trip in superinsulated coolers that were submerged at the bottom of the rafts. At an average of forty-eight degrees, the river water was a natural refrigerator. We also carted out the portable toilets that river people affectionately called “groovers,” for the grooves they formed on your butt cheeks. The Grand Canyon was a pristine ecosystem. There were strict regulations about packing out all garbage and human waste. From past trips, I’d gotten used to muddling along narrow, weaving, bouldery trails, through tangles of prickly plants, and past wild visitors like scorpions and rattlers to find the groover, always tucked away in a discreet location at one end of camp.

Once everything had been unloaded, Rob led me through the maze of gear to cool off, and we stood ankle-deep in the icy water, splashing our faces and soaking our caps and bandannas. For a year, I’d been memorizing the river’s fabled rapids and their different mileage points, and now their names chanted like a chorus in my head: Hance, Sockdolager, Horn Creek, Granite, Hermit, Crystal, Deubendorff, Upset, and, of course, Lava Falls. Even though it was 179 miles from where I stood, the thought of Lava terrified me. Most people agreed that this four-hundred-yard stretch of raging chaos was the biggest, baddest rapid in the Grand Canyon. In 1869, John Wesley Powell’s team had the good sense to portage their gear around it, even though it took three hours of backbreaking work. Then they’d lowered the boats on ropes through the maelstrom. In the modern age, Lava was responsible for more wooden boats splintering, more rubber rafts folding like tacos, and more kayakers swimming for their lives than any other of the rapids.

As I stood there with Rob, I remembered the story Harlan had told us about his first Grand Canyon expedition. Twenty-five years earlier he’d been pitched out of the raft and his mom had clutched his life jacket, desperately clinging to him, right there on the big black Cheese Grater Rock at Lava Falls. The very thought of it made my stomach do flip-flops and made me want to run for the groover. But there were plenty of rapids between Lees Ferry and Lava Falls that could easily hammer me, plenty of whirlpools, boils, holes, and fierce eddy lines. So I told myself not to think too far ahead, just to focus on each day, on every single paddle stroke.