What the Colorado River taught me about being single — and partnership
My pal Wes and I consider ourselves to be ageless — at least most of the time. Even so, we wanted to do something epic to celebrate a significant year in our chronology. She suggested a Colorado River rafting trip, which hovered near the top of her bucket list.
“Let’s do it!” I crowed.
I had already checked this one on my bucket list, though that didn’t dampen my enthusiasm for a repeat. In 2006, I had embarked on the same adventure with the love of my life, a few weeks after we were married.
When we met in 2005, Jamie and I had knocked out two (each) practice marriages. We’d given up on looking for The One. We weren’t bitter or cynical about love, but we both had figured finding a True Life Partner in this crazy, crowded world wasn’t meant to be. And then, through the grace of cosmic serendipity, our paths crossed. We started out working together, quickly fell in love, and married. We couldn’t believe our good fortune. He was the full package: my best friend, my lover, and a partner in all the best senses of the word. Then our great love story manifest the requisite tragic ending: In 2014, Jamie was diagnosed with ALS. He died on his 63rd birthday in 2015, the 10th anniversary of the day we met.
Doing the river a second time would be full of sentiment and memories. I knew this. Even so, I was excited to experience it with Wes, my true and loyal friend since high school.
Among our river boat companions, none of whom we’d met before, were four couples. Two had found each other later in life, through online match services, and their marriages were fresh. The other two couples, neither of them in original marriages, had been together longer, with long-established lives and blended families. We also traveled with a family from the Netherlands: George and three of his four adult children, Pauline, Adriaan, and Olivier, who were accompanying their father on his 20-year-old dream, finally come true. And then there were four single women, including Wes and me. Two were widows, and the other two had divorced and never remarried.
Throughout the trip, the singular gravity pulled the four of us together from time to time, in various configurations. We shared lots of things, but in particular, we often talked about being single, with a focus on the advantages of being unattached. We could do what we wanted without consulting or negotiating. We had singular control of our budgets and schedules and living environments. We talked about our hear-me-roar strength and independence. We could take care of ourselves. In one particularly memorable chat, sandwiched between the woo-hooting that erupted when we hit the rapids, Cindy, a widow for 11 years, cracked: “I don’t want to be anyone’s nurse or anyone’s purse.” Wes and I laughed and nodded in enthusiastic solidarity.
Even so, watching the four couples together often gave me a sad and poignant pang. This husband offered his hand and encouragement while helping his wife up and over boulders on a challenging hike. That wife delivered morning coffee to her husband. They reminded each other to use sunscreen, to buckle their life vests, and to stay hydrated. As we ran the river, I’d surreptitiously watch the couples. Rod and Cathy, setting up camp. Ron and Cindy holding hands on a dusty trail. Ed and Mary exchanging kisses. Peggy and Phil bending their heads in hushed, intimate conversation. As the boat hit the sand for the night, the couples consulted on where to find prime camping spots. They huddled close to each other as we gathered for adult beverages and appetizers in the evenings. All the stuff that Jamie and I had done in 2006.
From the start, I noticed the continuous micro-expressions of affection and caring, which also delivered a fair number of emotional thwacks. Missing Jamie is a constant, a thrumming deep in my bones that changes in volume but never disappears. I had expected that thrumming to intensify on the river, so that wasn’t a surprise. What knocked me off center was the emotional stew of regret and envy. I felt an uncharacteristic yearning for the restoration of the partnership I was witnessing among these couples. I was newly bereft. How dare life rob me of that gift — the confidence that came with knowing my partner had my back?
And then one night, when sleep eluded and brilliant stars enticed, the error in my perspective began to shine through my dark, self-pitying thoughts. On the river, I was constantly surrounded by partners — I just wasn’t married to them. Wes and I chose our campsite together, with careful consultation. She’d jump off the boat when it beached, and I would hand her our day bags so I could easily jump off too. Laughter punctuated our teamwork as we helped each other set up cots and organize the campsite: “The ground cloth can go here. We can hang our wet clothes on this rock.” We held the solar shower aloft for each other as we rinsed off the layers of dirt deposited by river water and sandy trails. With great hilarity, we helped each other patch our rain pants — both pairs had split in the seat — with duct tape. Wes fetched us adult beverages in the evenings. I brought her coffee in the mornings. We often sat in the evenings, heads bent together, reviewing our day.
On the river, partnership wasn’t circumscribed by friendship. It was on constant display among the amiable folks who comprised our river gang. The young Dutch Brothers (as I came to affectionately think of them), had seeming super powers, appearing out of nowhere with a steadying hand when someone felt shaky about traversing a vigorous waterfall or a precarious ledge. The guides, Scott and Lena, cooked our delicious meals and attending to our needs (like, “Do you have any duct tape to fix our pants?”) They kept a watchful eye on the trails, quick to assist if scrambling the boulders could be eased by a gentle push, a tug, or a word of encouragement. Olivier, fearless in the way that only handsome, athletic 30-year-olds can be, crouched behind Wes, who clung nervously to a rocky ledge, contemplating a 10-foot leap into a pool of water. He issued gentle directions and a stream of assurances that she could do it — the way Jamie had done for me 11 years before. She leapt. The next day, George and Lynn, both in their 70s, declared they weren’t going to pass up the opportunity to make a more dramatic 20-foot jump into the river from a rocky crag. They’d been inspired by Olivier and Adriaan, who had done flips off the rock. Wes was inspired by Lynn and George. I helped her quickly divest herself of the (futilely patched) rain pants so she could climb up after them.
Throughout the trip, partners materialized as needed. After a particularly vicious wave nearly knocked Adriaan off the pontoon, Lynn quickly grabbed his lifejacket and yanked him back into the boat. Ron retrieved and returned my sunglasses, blasted off my face by a river torrent. After Wes heard Cathy fret about crawling in the dark at night to “use the facilities,” we insisted that she take one of our headlamps for the week. Cindy offered up her eye drops when my contacts got gritty. Peggy gave Wes one of her walking sticks, which she would pass to me after she had descended a steep part of the trail. As Pauline fretted about George’s precarious perch on a ledge at camp one night, several people hopped up to push the sand around and stabilize his chair. We all took swigs — right from the bottle — of Malibu Spiced Rum, booty bartered from another boating group that ran out of ice. People took photos of each other for sharing later. Lynn organized an email list. Everyone shared sunscreen, helpful suggestions, and stories. Conversations were often intimate and profound.
Under the glimmering skies that night, I realized my yearning was misplaced and unproductive. Partnership doesn’t require a contract, vows, or a ring. Partnership is a simple willingness to be in someone else’s corner. To have their backs when the going gets tough. Partnership is graciously grasping the proffered helping hand.
At the end of our spectacular trip, we all exclaimed and hugged and vowed to keep in touch. One group split off, heading to Las Vegas. A smaller group, including Wes and me, took the flight back to Marble Canyon, where our epic adventure had begun. We were tired, dirty, and achy. And maybe a little sad and out of sorts. After the shuttle bus stopped, Rod hopped down from the van, then quickly disappeared in search of luggage. His wife, Cathy, a diminutive 71-year-old, blocked our exit as she eyed the big step required to descend. She sighed and murmured “Ugh. Where did he go?”
“I think he’s getting the luggage,” I said, extending my arm. “Here. Hold on to me.”
Rod might have (temporarily) disappeared, but all was well. We had her back, because that’s what partners are for.
