Rafting's Flip Side

"I think they're a little bit edgy," Matt reports, having picked up snatches of tension from around the tents. "A lot of times, by the end of the day, people are tired. They want to get comfortable in their own space. Women particularly. They don't want to drink much water out here because it's a hassle to pee, so they get dehydrated. And southern women, especially, are used to not being dirty. They get irritable. Their husbands get irritable."

We make a point of being solicitous for the rest of the night.

"They'll feel better with dinner and wine," Sarah says.

Sure enough, the group's mood soars the next day as we get nearer the rapids, some of North America's biggest. We enter Cataract Canyon just below the confluence of the Green River inside Canyonlands National Park. The boats get livelier in the frisky water and we run our first genuine white water, a set of starter waves called Brown Betty. We pull over at a spectacular campsite below a vermilion wall, where it's Ben and Luke's turn to cook. I comment to the guests on my raft: "We trust these guides with our lives on the river, then they get out and make lunch for us. It's as if your airline pilot came out of the cockpit to serve you your sandwich."

The next morning, I act as sweep hiker for a few die-hards who opt to climb several hundred feet up to the canyon rim. We get back down just before lunch, sweaty and exalting, ready for some serious white water. I'm pumped.

"Steve," says Sarah in a serious voice. "One of the guests is complaining about you."

Apparently, one of the women traveling solo finds me overly "sarcastic and irreverent." She couldn't give Sarah many examples, but she definitely didn't like my pilot-serving-sandwiches remark. Her husband (who is not on the trip) is a pilot and she took my comment as a general dig against airline food.

Suddenly I'm not so pumped. Complaining? About me? It's not that I'm blessed with gigolo charm or anything, but it's been at least since high school that I annoyed anyone so much they felt the need to report me to the authorities. The woman in question struck me as pleasant and good-humored. Our exchanges -- to my mind -- have been brief, polite and superficial. I'm utterly baffled, and totally bummed.

"You're a guide now, dude," says Matt when I tell him about it. "You're right in it. It's all about how things are perceived out here. I've had people get attitude at something they overhear me say to someone else!"

At any rate, there's no time to stew. We're just above Mile Long, Big Drop, Ben Hurt, Capsize and the other star rapids of the Colorado. The guests are much quieter as they saddle up. Neely is certified in Oregon but not Utah, so she can't carry paying passengers. "You and Ariel can go with Neely," Sarah says. "She can't take people." We're not people, we're swampers.

Beating the rapids makes all the difference. All the guides, Neely included, nail their runs through the thundering sluices, pulling hard to skirt the whirlpools, boldly threading the blink-and-you're-fish-food gaps between the rocks and falls. This is what guests pay for, and guides live for. We climb out at the base of the last major rapid, Powell's Pocket Watch, soaked and electrified. The South Carolinians are whooping and high-fiving; all the tension has been replaced by drenched pride.

I find myself face to face with the woman who doesn't like me. I take off my dripping hat and apologize for anything I'd said that offended her. She gives me a big smile and hugs my neck. Nothing like facing nature's fury together to make everything right, I guess.

Fly-By Guide

The rest is epilogue. The last night is marked by crazy costumes and a bawdy version of "Proud Mary" performed by the South Carolinians. On the last morning, we rope all the rafts together, set up the stoves and have breakfast on the river. That gives us time for a hike up to a canyon swimming hole and still lets us make our rendezvous at the Lake Powell ramp.

It's midafternoon as we putt-putt into the still black waters of the lake. Houseboats and super-bridges rule over this tamed stretch of the river. We see trucks on the highway and watch a plane land at the air strip. We're back in the bubble.

The paying guests will fly to Moab on two small planes, a dazzling dragonfly scoot back through our canyon route. The guides will ride four hours in the truck, followed by the chores of de-rigging back at the warehouse. Sarah tells me there are often spare seats in the plane if I'm interested in taking a short route home. She does it herself sometimes.

But after all this, how could I abandon my fellows in favor of a little high-end comfort? Surely, for a real guide, there's only one response to this insulting offer.

It was a spectacular flight.

If you'd like to be a paying customer on Abercrombie and Kent's five-day Cataract Canyon trip, there are departures into September at $1,550, plus $120 for the scenic flight back. Next year's trips begin in May (800-323-7308, www.abercrombiekent.com). Several companies offer less luxurious and less expensive runs on western rivers. O.A.R.S, for example, offers six days on the San Juan River for $912 (800-346- 6277, www.oars.com).

Steve Hendrix will be online to discuss this story Monday at 2 p.m. during the Travel section's weekly chat on www .washingtonpost.com.