Rafting's Flip Side

"There's not a damn thing to do there," she laments. "I know a guide who calls it 'Shake and Bake' because it's brutally hot and there are fire ants. But we have no choice."

Loo With a View

We tie up to the high bluff and go immediately into longshoreman mode. First to come off are five heavy bales of folding canvas chairs -- one for each guest. We lug them across the molten white sand and set them up in a scrap of shade at the cliff base. We want them ready so the guests -- no doubt weary from the exertion of sitting right next to someone who is rowing a 1,500-pound raft for hours at a time -- can step ashore and head right to a seat in the shade and a good view of us unloading and setting up camp. These guests have paid a premium to do none of their own camp work. So by the time the passengers arrive, we have the eight family-size tents erected, all the insanely complicated cots assembled, the long dining table set for 13 and the portable kitchen ready to go.

Most importantly, the groover is standing by.

Nothing is more crucial to camp karma than the placement of the two portable toilets known as groovers. Much reflection is put into "groover feng shui," finding the spot that offers the perfect combination of seclusion and view. Ariel and I haul two military ammo boxes to a breezy grove of tamarisk bushes downriver of camp. One contains the groover itself, a steel box with an extremely secure lid. The other contains toilet paper, cleaning supplies and a detachable toilet seat. (The name groover comes from the days before they included the seat; you sat directly on the hard rims of the shot box, which left two deep grooves in your -- well, you get the idea).

The groover may be more comfortable these days, but it's no less terrifying to newbies. Sarah leads a tour of the facilities, which most of the guests approach with all the enthusiasm of a condemned prisoner getting his first look at the electric chair. Sarah explains the hand-washing pump, the privacy sign and the proper disposition of Nos. One (in a bucket, which we will dump in the river) and Two (in the groover, which we will pack up and load onto the rafts). At least a couple of ladies from the South Carolina detachment (our largest group) look as though they have made a grave misjudgment in coming on this trip.

"They'll get over it," says Sarah. "They always do."

Sure enough, nature moves them inevitably toward, if not actually embracing the technology, at least making regular use of it. I know, because the thing gets a lot heavier as the trip goes on.

The guests retreat to their tents to regroup before wine and hors d'oeuvres. The crew, meanwhile, seizes a few minutes down on the rafts for a "boatmen's meeting," which is river-speak for a nightly chance to chug a beer and talk about the guests before the dinner rush. I expect a lot of catty gossip. Instead, the guides trade insights about the emerging dynamic and brainstorm on how hard to push this group, how much to coddle. But within a few minutes, we can see guests peering down at us expectantly from the bluff above. Break over.

I help rustle up chicken fajitas with Matt and Neely South, an Oregon-based guide down here on temporary duty. The others hand out guacamole, lead a few rounds of bocce ball and keep people distracted. Sarah works on a loose duty log for the next few days, giving each of us a mix of cooking, leading hikes, making camp and -- the most exhausting for these action figures -- socializing with the guests. Two of us, by turns, will eat at the big table. Otherwise, we scarf down our grub standing around the kitchen. When something good comes back uneaten from the table -- a heel of pound cake or some dregs of wine -- it's dubbed "guide kill" and we devour it. These 16-hour shifts burn a lot of calories.

Riding the Rapids

The next day is a pleasant repeat of the first. Another hike up another exquisite canyon is followed by another lunch in the riverside shade. But by late afternoon, nature exerts itself a bit. When Ariel, Sarah and I reach camp, we're fighting a relentless up-canyon gale. It flattens the chairs, flips tables and sandblasts our eyes.

Pitching a tent is impossible, and when the guests arrive, there's some disappointed grumbling that the only shelter is a clearing in the brush where we've set the chairs. To compensate, Sarah has us set up a beer and wine bar, lay out some munchies and rig a shower by hanging a plastic bag filled with warm water from a teepee frame of oars that guide Ben Bodily builds.

By the time we get the tents up, dinner is behind schedule and the boatmen's meeting is filled with warnings.