Before launching on a seven-day commercial motorized rafting trip in the Grand Canyon, my dad offhandedly let slip that he wasn’t at all concerned about the whitewater as “there were only nine rapids on the Colorado River anyway.”

I sputtered.

My 64-year-old dad is an incredibly outdoorsy and fit dude. He exercises daily, and he fills his weekends with biking and hiking in the southeastern Minnesota rolling hills where I grew up. He had called me weekly since signing up for the trip a year prior. Still, the man had no idea what he was getting into.

My dad had been on a few commercial whitewater rafting day trips. He’d chatted his way through Class IV rapids on the White Salmon while my brother bellowed paddle commands and been in the raft while I bumbled my way through Browns Canyon on the Arkansas River as a fresh-faced rookie. My brother and I had high-sided desperately, narrowly avoiding flipping on an innocuous rock, while my dad looked calmly at the scenery, his paddle barely in the water.

When my brother and I were kids, our family and some friends had gone on day trips in Jackson Hole and British Columbia. I spent the entirety of both trips sitting in the middle of the raft, hanging onto straps, enraged that I wasn’t allowed to paddle. My dad asked the questions that I now know cause whitewater guides to roll their eyes. “How deep is the river?” “How tall are these canyon walls?” and so on.

He’d even taken whitewater kayaking lessons in northern Minnesota while in the throes of a midlife crisis, learning eddy peelouts, proper paddling technique and the critical wet exit. When my brother took us kayaking on the Saint Louis River the following weekend, he shook his head and whispered to me, “So Dad’s a pretty huge lily dipper, huh?”

Of course, there would be no paddling on this trip, in a raft or kayak, which only made him underestimate the hazards of the Colorado River even more. He would be riding along on a huge raft with two pontoons on either side, accompanied by his wife Virginia (who, due to a traumatic swim in her youth, was understandably terrified), two friends from Minnesota, and 12 strangers.

As the trip approached, Dad obsessed over mundane details like the size of the duffle bag and the traction of his shoes  He asked numerous times what size bag would fit inside the company-issued dry bag before settling on a high-end option he proudly proclaimed he’d gotten on clearance.

While this could have been my dad clinging to any semblance of control over an unfamiliar situation, I wonder if he may have been trying to impress me and the other guides. But I saw right through his sun shirt and synthetic fabric facade and knew that while he wasn’t cocky, he was concerned about the wrong things.

My brother, who’d rafted the Grand Canyon twice and was a river guide for ten years, sat my dad down and gave him a serious tutorial about what to expect and how to behave. We figured it would be best for our dad’s sometimes incessant questions if he had a guidebook of his own; we got him two editions just to be sure.

I would be the “swamper” on this trip, essentially the guides’ assistant and cook. I generally sat on a padded chair in the back next to the guide, occasionally roaming my way around the boat on flat water to entertain and chat. Following the phone call mentioned above, I explained that not only were there more than nine rapids, there were more than nine rapids per day, all of which would be green frothing monsters that didn’t quite compare to the cold creaky runs of Minnesota.

Hearing this, his wife, Virginia, almost bailed out of the trip entirely. To her credit, she chose to come anyway, claiming her seat in the back of the raft every morning, her lips pursed, hands clasped tightly in her lap, wearing every ounce of clothing she’d brought.

On launch day, I sat with the guides at Lee’s Ferry, grinding my teeth and pacing as I awaited the group’s arrival. The night before, I’d met dad and his crew for dinner, after which we had an in-depth chat that mainly involved where he was going to put his prized new duffle bag.

At the ferry, everyone was given a safety talk and a bright orange PFD before boarding the massive rigs, which entails a fair amount of upper body strength and balance. My dad and Virginia hopped on with ease, choosing the raft in which I would be riding. My dad took a seat in the front, Virginia in the back. The passengers chatted amicably to the guide, Kelsey, as I pushed the massive tubes off the boat ramp.

The boat took off faster than I was anticipating, and soon I was wet and spluttering, fingers grasping at the rope as the ramp disappeared beneath my feet. My dad jumped into action, pulling me in by the shoulder straps of my purple PFD. He grinned. I slunk to the bank of the raft, ringing the water out of my shirt. Kelsey laughed and turned the boat downstream to Paria Riffle.

The river ran green, boulders showing up as shadows beneath the surface that Kelsey dodged expertly. Kelsey asked everyone to sit down and hold on as we approached Badger Creek, the first big rapid of the trip. My dad stood up to lather on sunscreen, adjust his hat, and retie his shoes, oblivious to how he was impeding Kelsey’s view. I hissed at him to sit down. He looked downstream, saw the horizon line with the surging “Room of Doom” on the right, and sat down quickly.

The entire boat whooped and hollered as we snuck between rocks, teed up to a wave train, and came out peacefully in the calm water below. My dad stood up and exhaled deeply. He looked rather pale as he picked his way to the back of the boat to sit next to Virginia, shaking the water from his canvas bucket hat. He kept a smile on his face through Soap Creek, but I couldn’t help but notice how tightly his hands were wrapped around the straps over his seat. The river had humbled him, and I couldn’t help but feel a little smug.

Despite my dad being completely over his head, his confidence returned on shore. He ran back and forth between the boats and the kitchen, kicking up sand behind his heels, offering to carry the heaviest of kitchen items. At cocktail hour he clinked drinks with new and old friends, and complimented the daily menu.

Slowly, my dad began to creep his way back to the front of the boat. He was inspired by his friend Peter, who sat with his camera in the front of the raft for every rapid and always emerged after the rapid to stand, whoop, and pump his fist. Peter is one of my dad’s best friends; they’d met at an outdoor club in Minnesota. I’d taken Peter and my dad skiing at my home mountain in Colorado the year prior, and not only was Peter an excellent skier, he had more stoke than anyone I’d seen, happy to hike to the top of a steep bowl for more turns, smiling his way down every run.

By the time we got to the Granite Gorge, my dad was sitting on the side, and by the time we got to Hermit, he’d snuck his way to the front, the hood of his raincoat zipped tightly against the splash of the waves. He took Peter’s lead and stood up after the rapid, and while not yet whooping, he smiled at us in the back.

It was after the hike to the Nankoweep Granaries a day later that—maybe it was the cardio, maybe the view of the Colorado River winding its way through the red —something happened that I hadn’t expected. He began to thrive.

My dad was first to be ready in the morning, his duffel tucked safely away in his dry bag, his now slightly faded water shoes tied tightly around his bare feet. He charged his way up every side hike, impressing the septuagenarians with his climbing moves. At Havasu Creek, he was the first to tube down a small chute and surf wave. He ditched the tent, casting his cot in the sand under the stars.

Dad also became rather popular once everyone realized he had a pair of guidebooks. He not so humbly talked to his new friends about how his children were both river guides and how the Colorado River compared to all the other rafting he’d done.

And yes, he began to whoop.

His transformation was flabbergasting. I was, I must say, quite proud. I had started the trip off anxious to field his questions and even warned the guides of my dad’s loftiness in the face of whitewater. By day four, I’d decided he’d do just fine without my babysitting.

By the time we reached Lava Falls on the final day, the rest of the crew had grown accustomed to saving the front seats for Peter and my dad. I no longer had to shout at my dad to sit down. Peter had his waterproof camera strapped tightly around his chest; my dad had zipped the hood of his green raincoat tightly under his bucket hat. They looked like two kids ready for the roller coaster ride of their lives. Not afraid. Ready.

Kelsey went big, steering into the biggest waves, drenching even those in the back of the monstrous raft. I saw my dad and Peter stand up and look back at Kelsey, laughing uproariously. Peter gave his customary fist pump and an air high five to us in the back. Dad unzipped his hood, chuckling as he looked back to check on Virginia, who, miraculously, was smiling.

At Whitmore Helipad, where the customers would fly out early the next morning, dad helped me set up the kitchen while sipping a gin and tonic, chatting amicably with his friends while chopping tomatoes for the night’s salad. Usually, by this day, I’m ready for the trip to be done. To wave the guests off in the chopper, take a long shower, scrub the sand out from beneath my fingernails, and sleep in a proper bed. This time, I wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye.

The next morning, my dad and his friends picked up their duffel bags, waved at me, and stepped carefully onto the helicopter while holding onto their hats. I turned and walked down to the rafts, surprised to feel my eyes welling up with tears.

I napped for most of the customary 90-mile runout Pearce Ferry. When my phone got reception again, I had a text message. It was a selfie of Dad and his crew back above the rim, standing next to the helicopter. They were smiling, their cheeks sunburnt, their once-white sunshirts sandy and tattered, his trusty duffle nowhere in sight.

My dad is hoping to visit this winter to ski my home mountain in Southwest Colorado. This time, I’m not apprehensive about his arrival. I don’t have any qualms about his ability to adapt and thrive despite being in unfamiliar mountain territory. He’s already started shopping for new duffel bags and has requested a guidebook. I can’t wait.

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Photography courtesy of Peter Keller.