My eyes open, slowly, lizardlike, from sleep and dreams. I feel the early morning breeze moving liquid on my naked body. I am aware of the sugary sand beneath where my hand lies; the tangerine light splayed high on the canyon's walls above me; the silver falling scales of a canyon wren's song; and the toneless music of the river.
I roll over and touch a warm, bare, male back. He stirs in his sleep, moves closer to me, kisses my shoulder, begins to breathe heavily again. I turn on my side and close my eyes. I drift, thinking of floating, slow motion free fall, weightless space, free climbing, everything to do with letting go. Because today is the day I have chosen to begin to work without a net. Today is the day I untie the bowline and leave grief and sadness on shore.
Most of us on the river have rituals we adhere to, talismans, sayings, that (sometimes rather self consciously) we hope will make a difference in our runs ending sloppy or superb, or simply coming through a rapid right side up. Today is no different. Today is Lava Day. Lava Falls has its' unique rituals, those belonging to scores of boatmen over the years. War paint, chanting, sage smudges, jaegermeister shots, beer can rattles, tall tales—does it keep your boat upright? You and your passengers from swimming Lava? Maybe; maybe not. All we know is that not paying attention to the ceremony before Lava is like not wearing your seatbelt. Odds are, you might not crash-but if you do, the words "what if" reverberate loudly in your soul for a long long time to come.
So. Breakfast is done, the kitchen broken down and packed, dry bags dragged through the feathery lilac tamarisk to water's edge, and the boatmen are taking extra time to rig today. Rig to flip, that's the process and so we pull and pull and tie off lines, stow loose gear inside rocket boxes, check and recheck one more time camstraps securing the frame to boat, the equipment to the frame.
I sit on the beach in the May sunlight, and write a letter to my late husband, who died 16 months and three days ago of cancer. I write to him as though he is sitting beside me. I tell him about the past days, this group of people, now my river family who have become closer than friends. I tell him about this transition I feel myself moving into, what I feel I must do today. I tell him why I feel I must do it now. I've been stuck in a fierce eddy swirled with grief and sadness, I tell him, and I'm worn out with passing by the same shoreline over and over again. I tell him I love him, have never stopped, that my love for him is one termination I won't allow. And I tell him that I need his help in rowing out of this whirlpool, this keeper hole of sorrow. The strength I hope to gain from my actions today will do much to move me into the downstream current once again, into sunlight, into warmth, into love, into the next chapter of this life of mine. I close my eyes, once, open them, and dig in my ammo box. There in its rusty bottom, lies one earring. It is a silver bear with a heartline. I bring it out, lay it in the middle of my letter, seal the letter around the bear with duct tape. I slip the note back in my box.
I amble slowly down the sand, back to our boat. Time to go, to move, to float, to breathe, to live. We reverse row out of the eddy, into the flowing timeless water, mile after mile. I am calm, strangely so. Facing the biggest whitewater in North America, I feel serene inside. My leaving will take place well before we do Lava. My own big water run, the one that began when Bill died, is nearly over.
He knows what I am about to do, this partner now accompanying me, and he is honoring me, showing support and friendship, tenderness, caring, and love, yes… love, by not speaking of this personal ritual of mine. His beautiful strong hands grip the oars and noiselessly move us toward Vulcan's Anvil. An ancient volcanic rock, weathered and worn, it protrudes from the middle of the river like the handle of a knife, cleaving the verdant green river water in two.
We float closer to the Anvil and land upstream of it. The current is strong here, nearly too strong to do what we have come to do. Digging my fingertips into the holds of the ebony rock worn by eons of swirling river currents, I pull us to downstream side of the Anvil as my companion rows around. I have already removed from my personal box what I will place on this river altar. Pushing my free hand into the pocket of my shorts I pull it out. I find a niche high above the water's edge and slip the tape-wrapped square in it.
I reach out again and am handed one more item: a case with old, scratched glasses inside. I open the case, take out the contents, and place them next to my letter. They are Bill's. He wore them, rowing down this very river 5 years before. The lenses reflect the green golden light on the river's surface and return it fractured and splintered into my eyes.
I look at my companion. The look on his face says it all to me---that it is ok, this leave taking is alright. And at this particular moment I love him for this. I look downstream, at what lies before me. I turn back once more, and look to see what I have left behind.
The current is tugging us away. I let go of the rock. There is no need to hang on any longer.

Robyn Slayton