We all chuckled, but as I thought about it, the name was perfect. Rob was paternal, not in an overbearing way, but like a good sheepdog watches over his flock, attentive and aware. His role had changed from being my lead guide to now being one of the secondary guides, supporting Harlan. This had actually been Rob’s decision. He’d known that Harlan’s experience and unparalleled knowledge of the Grand Canyon made him the best choice to guide me. It was a typical Rob Raker maneuver, absolutely devoid of ego, and I respected him even more for it. Though he had stepped back, I knew he would always be nearby, always right behind or on the periphery, watching every move to make sure his team was safe and the trip would go smoothly.

Timmy was right. He was our Papa Duck.

Now on flat water, our flotilla spread out over the wide river. Rob paddled off to see if he could spot more condors or bighorn sheep on the cliffs. The muscles in my arms were already feeling the effect of what would dominate much of the next three weeks: paddling flat water downstream into variable headwinds. Harlan had warned us: “When people envision the Grand Canyon, they only think about white water, but between those rapids, there’s a lot of flat water, 91 percent to be exact. So there’ll be plenty of time to chat and chill between the carnage.”

It was three miles until the next rapid, Soap Creek, so Harlan and I settled into a steady rhythm, rolling underwater every few minutes to stave off the heat. Then I heard a quick splash. Harlan chuckled and said, “E, check this out. Hold out your hands.” I lay my paddle across my boat and put my palms up, and he plopped a large, slimy, wriggling trout into my hands. He’d seen it swimming in the clear water and literally plucked it out of the river. I smiled in disbelief before dropping it back. Harlan had such an intimate relationship with this place. I remembered how on our first trip down here, his sister had described him surfing and flipping in the play waves, how he was virtually one with his kayak, and he and his kayak were one with the river. On the Usu, he’d told me that, during one busy year, between guiding biologists and leading private trips, he’d spent over one hundred days down here. He knew every bend, every side canyon, every tributary, every beach, bench, and riffle. I was awed by that kind of deep connection and knowledge.