Alan LeCheminant’s Rafting Stories: My first river trip.
In 1972, I embarked on my very first river trip—an unforgettable journey through the Grand Canyon. I was just 12 years old, wide-eyed and eager, with no idea that this trip would spark a lifelong love for whitewater rafting and the great outdoors.
A Family Adventure on the Colorado River
My dad, Wilford, was a dedicated volunteer with our local Boy Scout unit, known as “Peanut.” His role was to transport scouts to their summer activities, ensuring they had access to enriching outdoor experiences. When a Grand Canyon river trip was planned, he volunteered to drive the scouts to the river, but he also asked if he could bring me and my brother along for the ride.
The trip started at Lees Ferry, and as we pushed off from shore, I felt a mixture of excitement and nervousness. The water was calm at first, gliding us through towering red rock cliffs that stretched endlessly into the sky. I had never seen anything like it. The walls changed color with the sun, from deep reds to glowing oranges and purples as the day faded. It felt like stepping into another world.
The Power of the River
It didn’t take long for me to realize that the Colorado River had a will of its own. At first, it was a gentle giant, carrying us smoothly through the towering canyon walls, lulling me into a sense of security. But that illusion shattered as we approached our first major rapid—Badger Creek. The distant roar of whitewater grew into a deafening thunder. I gripped the raft tightly, my heart pounding. The moment we hit the first wave, the boat lurched upward, and then we plunged down into a trough, cold water crashing over me. I gasped, half in shock, half in exhilaration. I had never felt anything like it.
We rode in a classic J-rig, a 25-foot raft with an inner ring and massive pontoons. Sitting on top of the gear, our feet dangled over the edges as the outboard motor powered us forward. Some rapids were playful, drenching us with spray, while others, like Soap Creek and House Rock, were full of chaos. These waves had a mind of their own, tossing the raft like a toy, forcing us to hold on with white-knuckled grips. I watched in awe as the guides read the water instinctively, weaving the raft through massive standing waves, keeping us upright when it felt like the river wanted nothing more than to flip us over.
Between the rapids, the canyon fell silent, except for the rhythmic slap of water against the raft. I had time to take in the sheer immensity of the place. The rock layers towered above us, their deep reds and oranges whispering stories of time beyond my comprehension. The call of canyon wrens echoed off the cliffs, their notes floating through the air. In those moments of quiet, I felt it—something bigger than myself. A connection to the river, the canyon, and the wild, untamed world around me. I didn’t just want to be on the river—I wanted to be part of it, forever.
Life on the River
As we navigated deeper into the canyon, I watched in awe as the guides seemed to read the river like a well-worn map. They pointed out eddies and standing waves, predicting how the water would move long before we reached it. Their skill fascinated me, and I found myself studying every flick of the oars, every subtle shift of the boat. I imagined what it would be like to one day guide a raft through these same rapids, feeling the river beneath me, knowing it as they did.
Unlike commercial trips where guests could sit back and enjoy the ride, this was a Boy Scout expedition, and that meant we were expected to pull our weight. Each evening, we’d pull onto a sandy beach, unload gear, and set up camp. Scouts rotated through chores—some chopped vegetables, others stirred pots of stew over propane stoves, while a few unlucky ones scrubbed dishes in the freezing river water. Despite the hard work, there was a deep sense of camaraderie. We weren’t just passengers on this trip; we were part of a team, learning the unspoken rhythm of river life together.
At night, we gathered around makeshift campfires, swapping stories and laughter. The older scouts told tales of past trips, of monstrous rapids and legendary swims. My dad, ever the minimalist, had packed lightly—too lightly. Instead of sleeping bags, we had only a tarp and bath towels for blankets. It seemed fine in the heat of the day, but when the desert chill crept in at night, I shivered under the thin fabric, burrowing into the sand for warmth. Yet, as I lay there, staring up at the Milky Way stretched across the canyon sky, all discomfort faded. In that moment, beneath an endless sea of stars, I felt a connection to something bigger than myself—a world of adventure that I knew I wanted to be part of forever.
The Tough Hike Out of the Canyon
Each bend in the river brought new wonders—hidden waterfalls, side canyons begging to be explored, and even glimpses of bighorn sheep balancing on sheer cliffs. But all adventures have their trials, and mine came at Phantom Ranch. This was where our river journey ended, and the real challenge began: the hike out of the canyon.
We started around noon, the sun blazing overhead. The trail to the South Rim was relentless, a steep climb that seemed never-ending. I could feel my legs burning, my throat dry despite the salt tablets we took to keep sweating. By the time we reached the top, my shirt and hat were crusted with white salt stains. I was exhausted, but I had done it. I had conquered the canyon—not just by raft, but on foot.
A Journey That Led to a Life on the River
That trip wasn’t just an adventure; it changed me. I didn’t know it then, but the Grand Canyon had set something in motion. Over the years, my love for rafting only grew stronger, leading me to explore other rivers. One river, in particular, captured my heart—the Salmon River. It had the same wild beauty and thrilling rapids as the Colorado, but something about it felt even more untamed.
Eventually, my passion for river running became more than just a personal pursuit. I wanted to share these experiences with others, to help them feel the same wonder and excitement I had felt as a 12-year-old kid on his first river trip. Today, my son, Matthew, and I run Wild River Adventures, guiding trips on the Salmon River and continuing the legacy of adventure that started all those years ago.
Join us at Wild River Adventures for an unforgettable whitewater rafting experience on the Salmon River!