Personal Narrative: My Trip To The Colorado River

It was a scorching summer day in Las Vegas and my dad and I were meandering around the city in awe of the size of everything. We were acutely aware that we had overdressed for the weather, having just left a chilly Illinois. It was the hottest place to which I had ever been. The both of us, father and son, were going to meet up with my grandpa to go to the Grand Canyon for one of the greatest trips ever. We were going white water rafting on the Colorado River for eight days.

Returning to the hotel, we immediately headed into the conference room to begin the week's plans. Surrounding me were men and women at least sixty years old and I fleetingly realized that I was, by far, the youngest one there. It was not long until the meeting commenced. The tour guide quickly went through the schedule, then, he was pounded by a rapid succession of unwise questions. “Will our bags be dragged behind us in the river?” a retired woman asked. The guide was professional and dealt with questions such as this rather seriously. My granddad, however did not act professionally and I heard a loud and obnoxious groan from his direction and observed him face-palming himself. Despite being the oldest one
I shuffled off the bus and onto the dry, cracked ground. It was then that I met our river guide, Glade, a man with golden hair and a beard that reached down to his chest. He spoke with a Californian surfer lingo and had a humorous expression. Behind that expression was something else. Wisdom. The most one could have at his age, too. He not only knew the name of every rapid if it had one, but he also knew where the rocks were in those rapids so that he’d know where to steer the raft. He also knew just about every joke about the Grand Canyon that one could imagine. Glade told the group to put our jackets on and to load up and just like that, we were on our