It started with an Instagram story.

I was lying in bed, doom-scrolling as usual when I saw a post from a photographer who I’d briefly met five years earlier at an outdoor women’s leadership retreat. Captivated by the gorgeous photo of the Colorado River swinging around a dramatic turn beneath high red cliffs, I tapped my finger on the story to pause it long enough to read: “We have a last-minute spot on our Grand Canyon trip—no rowing experience needed.”

A boat trip through the Grand Canyon? I envisioned smiling families, a perfectly laid-out dining table and a price tag way beyond what I could afford. Yet, here was an opening on a private trip. A random, serendipitous and fleeting invitation. Doom scrolling be damned. It was a quick and unambiguous decision: if they’d have me, I’d go.

Everyone warned me this trip would be a life changer. But I disregarded this advice because it felt like a common trope, and it didn’t seem probable that floating down a river could be that influential. Would it be fun? Yes. But would I become a different person with different dreams and goals? That seemed highly unlikely.

“That’s Muav limestone,” my boatmate shared, pointing to the dimpled, yellow rock layer. All morning, we reveled in the incredible rock formations, pulling up close to see the intricate textures before drifting back into the middle of the river to marvel at the 4,000+ foot expanse towering overhead. 

Before this trip, rivers were something that wound alongside a hiking trail or a place to swim on a hot summer day. Living on a river, hearing it every night, and watching it for hours a day changed rivers from a side character to the hero of the story.

Needing to heed the river’s changes, anticipate its needs and know how to read it shifted the water into a living, breathing being— another member of our trip. The river was a mode of transport and our livelihood. A friend and sometimes a foe, pulling us left at Bedrock and pushing us into a corner at Horn Creek. 

And as December wore on, the Colorado River carried us closer to the solstice and the middle of the canyon. The temperature began to drop, the days shortened and the lack of personal space began to weigh on me. 

“There’s sun,” I heard the lead boat yell as we all whipped our heads around toward where the river bent left. It had been days since we’d had direct sunlight, overnight temperatures hovered near freezing, and the reality of boating in December was challenging the whole team’s mood and energy.

We floated towards the patch, the glorious glittering sunshine slicing through the high, beautiful walls. As we crossed the line from shadow to light, we cheered, turned up the speakers and danced.

I rolled over again, pulling the comforter up to my chin. It was 2 AM, and I couldn’t sleep. It had been a week since we got off the river, and I still yearned for the whispering water’s sound to lull me to sleep. Agitation overflowed my veins; the unhealthy cocktail of spiked dopamine and adrenaline from being connected with the stress and expectations of immediacy. Despite those 29 days spent in the canyon, the magic of the river was quickly fading. I had to go back.

Clear, bright blue skies lit up the sculpted landscapes as we floated through the reddish-brown rocks of Desolation Canyon. I was back on the river again, this time in Utah, enjoying a summer float trip replete with consistent sunshine and warmth.

“Holy shit, get over here!” I was resting under a large cottonwood on our layover day, enjoying the simplicity of just existing in the wilderness when the urgent voice interrupted my daydreams.

A snake had caught a lizard on the beach and was slowly, deliberately swallowing it whole. Completely unphased by the growing group of spectators, the snake continued its routine feeding. A few people came and went, but I remained transfixed, fully present in watching something so simple and raw. 

Among the quiet moments beholding nature and the silly costumed dance parties, River Sarah emerged. It felt so freeing to find that version of myself, a version my friend described as “Sarah without the bullshit,” a side of myself that had been hidden, ensconced in the pressure and expectations of the Real World. 

To be able to find a space where you have the freedom to feel like you’re just you is unbelievably beautiful. Maybe River Sarah always existed—I just needed three to seven days on a beautiful body of water to find her. But now that I had her, I didn’t want to let her go. 

From there, it was a quick descent into river madness. My entire summer schedule, all of my travel plans, and all of my extra cash were now being invested in river trips. It felt almost like a compulsion, a series of opportunities I felt I couldn’t say no to. If there was a way for me to design my life to maximize time on the river, I had to do it, right? 

Backpacking and hiking took a back seat as I found my way to the Lochsa, the Flathead, the Salmon, and even up to Canada’s Northwest Territories to explore the Nahanni River. Each river held the same promise of connecting me to jaw-dropping landscapes and space to be present as myself, of bringing me back to River Sarah.

It was a random Wednesday in February when I opened my email to a surprise: “Winner Rogue River Lottery 2024.” Soon, I was planning complicated shuttle logistics, doing confusing beer cooler math and building a team of rowers that I trusted. “This is what I do for fun,” I thought as I spent a Saturday night researching groover capacity and human excrement averages. 

Throughout the months-long process, I felt overwhelmed, stressed with recruiting the right group, hassling my friends to complete small tasks and organizing logistics. With each email and spreadsheet, River Sarah felt further away. Would she be able to show up? Or would trip leading feel more like a job than a vacation?

It was day three, and it was perfect. We spent the morning splashing through a series of Class II rapids, letting some of the newer rowers get a chance on the oars before settling into a wide, sandy camp. With so much sunshine and day left, we walked up to the Rogue River Ranch Museum and poked around, excited to see and learn about some of the area’s history and access a well-kept outhouse.

A small, hand-painted sign that said “SWIM” led us down a steep rocky path to a quiet swimming hole, the dense green canopy creating a cool calm away from the aggressive sun. Suddenly, the stillness of our recently discovered Eden exploded into wild ripples as each person jumped in. 

I was drawn to that original trip on the Grand Canyon because of its grandiosity, the massive water and the opportunity to explore one of the seven natural wonders of the world. And while I relished every rapid and rock, the deep joy was found around the wood stove on frigid nights along the Colorado, in the sand staring at the clouds along the Green, and at a swimming hole near the Rogue.

Before discovering river life, so much of my self esteem was based on doing, measured in units of achievement, quantity of busyness, maximization of productivity.

Despite the flow of the river and the thrill of the rapids, it was when I stopped still that River Sarah finally had space to emerge. 

For the rest of the afternoon, we lazed around, jumping off rocks and doing a group breathwork session. The months of planning, the cross-country travel, the rigging, the gear, the rentals, the doing—brought us here, to this quiet place in the middle of the Rogue River Valley, to just be.

Watching my friends relax into the pace of river life, I realized that I had River Sarah all wrong. She doesn’t need a three to five-day river trip or secret swimming holes, though they certainly help. Ultimately, River Sarah is permission. Permission to think I’m enough. To know I’m enough. Permission to be exactly as I am and be okay with that. To not feel guilty for not being productive or uncomfortable to be bad at a sport. To let myself continue to learn and grow. 

The rigging and rowing might have brought us to this Eden, but once we arrived, it was just us and the water. Alongside the river, we permitted ourselves to just exist. Humans, stripped of expectations—both our own and others— and absolutely enough.

***

Guest Contributor Sarah L. Knapp is the founder of OutdoorFest and Mappy Hour, a community platform that connects urban dwellers to outdoor recreation in cities. She is the former publisher of award-winning green travel publication, offMetro. Her writing can be found at Outside, Travel & Leisure and Lonely Planet. She believes that the best way to explore a city is by bike and the best place to get to know someone is outside.

Says Sarah, “Thank you to my boatmates Paulina Dao, Sara QB Bishop, and Jen Racicot for sharing your photos with me for this piece.”