Our first day on the water dawned cloudy and cold, and I sighed as I struggled into my too-small wetsuit and inflated my trusty blue ducky. I had envisioned shorts and sunscreen for my first time back on the water in more than three years. However, even as distant thunder rumbled, tears rolled down my cheeks as I pushed off shore.  

Six months ago, I was so sick that this wouldn’t have seemed possible. But here I was, in a veritable flotilla of forty-two badass women who had descended on Rancho Del Rio, a funky campground on the upper reaches of the Colorado River, for a Labor Day “Ladies of Whitewater Rendezvous.” Women from across generations and around the country brought rafts, kayaks, duckies, pool toys (even a Creature Craft!) to boat, listen to music, look at the stars, make new friends and do crafts. I came to celebrate the end of the hardest year of my life.

It started normally enough. The sore throat, the body aches, the two-line positive test. Covid ran through the house (our two-year-old, my husband, then me). A hassle, but nothing to be alarmed about. After the requisite five days, my sore throat and congestion were gone, but I almost passed out—twice—on a short walk around our block. 

And so began my nine-month journey with Long Covid, which impacts anywhere from ten to thirty percent of people who have had Covid. During that time, I developed crippling fatigue that forced me into bed for most of the hours of the day. This hallmark exhaustion was paired with significant cognitive, vestibular and sensory issues. My vision began to blur, and words swam on the page if I opened a book. My processing speed slowed, and my short-term memory was shot. Everything became unbearably loud and bright—even simple outings required earplugs and sunglasses.

I tried to live normally for a while, white-knuckling it through days at work and trying to care for our toddler, until it became clear that this was not possible. So, I took an extended leave of absence from work, and we made sure I would not have to care for our daughter for more than an hour or two at a time on my own. My husband would drag her from my room, screaming for Mommy. It was excruciating.

There is no way to know when, or if, a person will recover from Long Covid. I grieved for the months I had lost and feared the future. 

Slowly, I began to return to myself. I was able to work longer hours, do a short errand, or take myself to a doctor’s appointment. I began walking for ten minutes at a time on a treadmill. It was around this time that I saw the “Women’s Whitewater Rendezvous” advertised on the Women of Whitewater Facebook group, nearly six months away. I signed up immediately and texted my husband, “I’m going to rafting camp!”

Whether I would actually be going to rafting camp remained to be seen, but having something to look forward to that would symbolize a complete return to health was energizing and inspiring. Besides, I hadn’t so much as sat on a boat since I was pregnant, three years ago. It was time to return to the river.

***

This section of the Colorado is immensely popular due to its proximity to the Front Range and relative accessibility. I spent quite a lot of time up there, first as a child, and later as a free-wheeling young adult. As we continued downstream, we passed the campsite where I spent my first night ever on the river over twenty-five years ago.

I remembered my five-year-old brother and his friend pulling their arms at 5 am to get the train engineer to blow the whistle, huddling in ponchos during a torrential downpour, and watching my dad rescue a father and son who had flipped on a rock. We only boated sporadically during my childhood in my dad’s old boat, a 1980s self-bailer with a homemade wood and aluminum frame. But those early trips laid the foundation for a lifelong love of the water. 

The last time I had been on this part of the “Upper C” was Labor Day weekend fifteen years ago with a friend in that same old boat from my childhood. Cold water splashed my face as I laughed at the memory of charming our way into a crowded campsite, nearly leaving her dog on the beach, and taking third place in a dance contest (there were only three contestants). It was the first of many progressively difficult trips we would do together, and the beginning of a lifelong friendship. 

Since then, we have both become spouses, parents, and working professionals. She lives in Montana now. We see each other maybe once a year, and the memories of those long-ago river trips are like looking backwards through a pair of binoculars. Clear, but so far away. Reliving those happy memories, I found myself missing her and those carefree days of our early 20s profoundly. 

Some women got off the water at a take-out a few miles downstream, deciding that the next eight windy, largely flat miles were not their idea of a good time. I’d had enough of the ducky/wetsuit life and hopped on a 10.5’ raft with a new friend and her large dog. We remarked on the scenery and evaluated the campsites along the riverbank and chit-chatted about other trips we had been on.

In the rare way that time outdoors can turn strangers into confidantes, we also talked about our parents, the recent loss of one and the decline of the other, then puzzled over politics and how to be good people in difficult times. We talked about my daughter and the kind, adventurous person I hoped she would become. 

At camp that afternoon, as we relaxed over snacks and tie-dye, a woman and her four-year-old daughter came over to see what we were up to. I asked her if her daughter went rafting. “Oh yes,” she said. “She loves it!” I asked how old she had been on her first trip. “Eight months,” the woman replied. “You know, the portable crib and all that.” 

“Wow,” I said, and my stomach squirmed in the familiar way it does when I meet adventurous parents who are doing things with their children I feel like I should be doing, too. 

My daughter, named after the ubiquitous canyon wren of desert rivers, did go on a raft during the second trimester of my pregnancy, and I swear it was the first time I felt her move. Now, she loves going out on the paddleboard with me on the local reservoir. But rafting? No way. I worry about her not being a strong enough swimmer or getting too hot or refusing to sleep for days. Long camping, international travel? It felt like we barely survived camping trips an hour from home.

Our move from the mountains and my shifting understanding of what feels reasonable (and enjoyable) makes me question if we will ever be the “rafting family” I dreamed about. In fact, we sold our raft at the beginning of the summer, finally accepting that we hadn’t used it in five years. We talk about what family boat we might get in the future, enjoying the fantasy of our little girl rolling in the sand and playing in the water, but… maybe not. Not yet, at least. 

As I danced under the stars that night, I thought of the ways my life has changed profoundly since I last danced on the banks of a river, from becoming a parent to facing a life-altering illness. I no longer take it for granted when I ride my bike or go on a trip with my family. Sometimes, even a simple trip to the grocery store can seem like a miracle. 

I hope I never take these little things for granted again, but I am also trying to put it behind me and get back to living an adventurous life, even if those adventures now take the form of wading in the creek and looking for crawdads or helping Wren collect sticks along the bike path. Still, sometimes those days feel tedious, and I crave my “old” life, longing deeply to just take off into the wilderness for days. 

I would like to say that I returned from the trip fully rejuvenated and reconnected with the person I once was, before Long Covid, before the birth of my child. I had as much fun as is possible to cram into one weekend and it felt great to stretch my paddling arms again, but mostly, I was tired. This lingering exhaustion can be one of the long-term effects of Long Covid, and I just don’t bounce back as quickly as I used to. After a short nap, I was sitting outside watching Wren splash in her kiddie pool, squirting me with toy fish. 

My mind drifted to the week ahead: the job applications I needed to fill out, the grocery list, an overdue dental appointment. I had ultimately left my job in the spring, walking away from a career of fifteen years. Now I was a full-time parent, a life I had never imagined for myself. Already I felt the invigoration of the weekend drifting away. When, really, would I be on the river again? Would we end up selling the rest of our boating stuff, now buried in the shed beneath strollers and baby clothes? Aside from those sporadic trips when I was a child, my parents hung up their oars once I was born. Was this, too, my future? 

A few weekends ago, my Montana friend made an impromptu trip to Colorado with her family. We smiled as we watched her seven-year-old daughter snuggle up to Wren in a huge armchair and read every single one of her books aloud. “Anna,” I said. “If someone had told us fifteen years ago that we would be content watching our kids read together, would we have believed it?” 

“No way,” she replied. “We would have laughed and then gone to do something stupid.” She went on, “Maybe we would have imagined ourselves cross-country skiing or rafting or something, but, really, this is the good stuff.” 

Being on the water and spending time outdoors with other women will always be an anchor for me, a tether to both my past and future selves. But my Montana friend is also right. The good stuff is right in front of me. Whether the future holds a new raft and family trips every summer, or just a float on the paddleboard or river rendezvous now and again, the life I am living now is filled with its own form of wonder.

***