Finding connection in a fractured world.
Forget the river. Forget the majestic cliffs, the wildlife, the splashing waves, and even the incredible food (though I’ll get to that). What you have left on a four-day float down the Green River through the Gates of Lodore is a highly unique sociological experiment.
Twenty people, five groups, from wildly different backgrounds come together. They camp side-by-side, eat together, sleep in tents not far from one another, drink and laugh under the stars, hike the same trails, and share space on rafts and duckies. Some are smokers. Some are quiet types. Some love to party. Some crave early nights and morning silence. But all are bound by one thing: a love of the outdoors and especially the whitewater here in the majestic canyons.
At first, the vacationers remain in their respective bubbles. There’s a bit of polite awkwardness, a sprinkle of “stranger danger.” But then the laughter comes. Slowly, guarded conversations melt into real dialogue. We start talking across the lines — listening, sharing stories. Something ancient stirs. A tribe forms. It feels so much more human, so much more real, than the fragmented world we left behind.
In our day-to-day lives — tucked away in suburban homes with smart devices and curated news feeds — we rarely connect beyond our own echo chambers. Our politics define our friendships. Our screens consume our time. Kids know how to swipe, but not how to speak. Conversations about real experiences — unfiltered and face-to-face — have become almost exotic.
But on the river, there’s no algorithm. There’s no “us vs. them.” Nature is the great equalizer. It doesn’t care who you voted for. It doesn’t care what car you drive or whether your kids are in AP classes. The canyon walls, sun-scorched rocks, bighorn sheep, and roaring rapids speak to something deeper, something universal.
Take Gage, for example. Or Gabe, as I mistakenly called him for half the trip. He’s 19 years old with a mop of red hair and a personality as wide open as the sky. Gage self-identifies with ADD/ADHD, which he describes as a “can’t-sit-in-front-of-a-computer-for-too-long” syndrome — or more positively, “wanna-get-out-in-nature-and-live-life” disorder. Despite our 30-year age gap, we connected immediately over our shared love for outdoor adventure. We tackled rapids side-by-side in inflatable duckies, paddling through a wild mix of adrenaline, sunlight, and splashing waves.
Gage has already lived a story. He used to race muscle cars — “drifting” in Boise — and once got caught removing a radar speed sign from the freeway. He owned it. Paid restitution. And now he’s training to be a plumber through an apprenticeship. “Every millionaire I’ve talked to says trades are where it’s at,” he told me. “You can’t outsource a good plumber to AI.” He’s probably right.
Then there’s Donna and Rose — two retired school teachers in their sixties. You’d think they’d want to float gently down the river in the main raft. Nope. They jumped on the duckies. They wanted to feel the thrill of the rapids for themselves. Rose told me her late husband never wanted to leave the house. Too much anxiety. Now, she travels anywhere she wants — and she beams with anticipation about her next big trip. Donna told me about a past trip to the Grand Canyon, where her husband insisted on carrying his beer up a brutal incline rather than risk mailing it. That was, she said with a chuckle, their last trip together.
Politics didn’t come up once on the river. We likely had MAGAs and anti-MAGAs onboard, but no one brought it up. Why risk a metaphorical nuclear war in such a serene setting? Conversations stayed grounded in things that matter: personal stories, past adventures, and how to preserve the Western lifestyle now threatened by unchecked growth.
Our guides — Gigi, Boaz, and Brenda — brought the trip to life. Brenda, who’s been guiding for Sherri Griffith Expeditions for 29 years, has a rare gift: she handles both rapids and young kids with equal grace. She tells the story of how Lodore got its name, maintains calm when tensions run high, and gently reins in over-excited guests with kindness and authority. She’s the soul of the trip.
And Gigi, with five seasons under her belt, leads the line through some of the biggest rapids in challenging conditions. Under her and Brenda’s guidance, we feel both safe and fully alive.
By the third night, my asthma had completely settled — no inhaler required. I slept deeply, despite having skipped dessert on night one and doing Wim Hof breathing exercises instead. Being outside, away from screens, stress, and stimulation, my body reset itself.
That’s when it hit me: nature heals in ways our modern world can’t replicate. We’re a society addicted to stimulation and plagued by anxiety, depression, burnout, and disconnection. We try to “self-medicate” with substances and screen time. But the root causes — bad sleep, too much pressure, poor diets, no time to slow down — are persistent.
On this trip, I began to believe that the answer isn’t more apps or therapy or productivity hacks. It’s simpler than that. We need more rivers. More nature. More conversation. More real human connection. More presence. More God.
My asthma was gone. My patience was longer. I felt balanced again.
The only question now is, ‘When can I go again?’
Feature Image and additional photos by Richard Markosian.
