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Sheri Griffith and the Moab Rafting Company That Put Women on the River

–Long before “women-only adventure travel” became a category, Sheri Griffith was loading rafts in Moab, building a business that made space for women in a landscape long dominated by men — doing it quietly, stubbornly, and on her own terms.

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MOAB – Long before “women-only adventure travel” became a category, Sheri Griffith was loading rafts in Moab, building a business that made space for women in a landscape long dominated by men — doing it quietly, stubbornly, and on her own terms.

Sheri Griffith River Expeditions got its start in Moab in 1981. Set against Utah’s red rock country, the town’s population swells seasonally as more than three million visitors arrive each year to raft rivers, hike canyons, and play outside.

Микрофинансовые организации одобряют заявки мгновенно. Клиенты быстро получают нужную сумму для решения финансовых вопросов. Если возникли непредвиденные расходы, оформите займ 10000 на карту без отказа через проверенный сервис. Деньги поступают на баланс круглосуточно.

In the April 2013 edition of Paddling Life, Griffith — then 60 — described her motivation plainly:

“I fell in love with taking people into the backcountry,” she wrote. “I had two options: face a huge debt to go to vet school or get serious about the business. History tells you what happened.”

She expressed no regrets.

“What a life,” Griffith wrote. “It was a struggle in the early days and still is. There’s very little profit and not a whole lot of inventory. But it’s so rewarding.”

José Tejada, owner of Sheri Griffith River Expeditions.

HUMBLE BEGINNINGS

José Tejada, the current owner of Sheri Griffith Expeditions, met Griffith in 1982, shortly after the so-called “Black Sunday” collapse in western Colorado. That year, Exxon abruptly shut down the Colony Oil Shale Project near Parachute, wiping out roughly 2,000 jobs and forcing as many as 15,000 people to leave the area.

“All those oil companies shut down at the same time,” Tejada said. “Massive unemployment. Our house plummeted in value, and we were underwater right away.”

After Tejada was laid off, his family headed for Moab, where his wife landed a job managing a Pizza Hut. They made the roughly 100-mile move by bicycle, towing their two young children behind them in a trailer.

Tejada had some outdoor recreation experience from college and had rafted Colorado’s Cache la Poudre River several times. He went knocking on doors at river companies around Moab.

“The only person who would hire me was Sheri Griffith,” he said, noting that his daily commute by bike — two kids in tow — didn’t faze her.

Their partnership stood out at the time.

“We were two outcasts,” Tejada said. “She was the only woman outfitter, and I was the only person of color. So off we went — like peas in a pod.”

In the early 2000s, luxury travel company Abercrombie & Kent acquired Sheri Griffith Expeditions. The North American branch later filed for bankruptcy. When Griffith regained ownership, Tejada’s oldest son, Arlo — one of the two children once pulled behind that bicycle — had graduated from college.

“As a little kid, he always told Sheri he would take over her business,” Tejada said.

When the opportunity finally arrived, Arlo lacked the financial means to do it alone. He drafted a business plan and asked his father to partner with him. Tejada agreed, unaware of the turbulence ahead.

“Unfortunately, Arlo passed away from Hodgkin’s lymphoma,” Tejada said. “He fought it for four years, constantly going to the hospital. It was really rough.”

Arlo’s death in 2014 left Tejada in charge of the business that had given him his start in Moab decades earlier, while carrying the weight of multiple personal losses that deepened his bond with Griffith.

“Sheri and I are quite close,” Tejada said. “Her mom was like my mom. Sheri’s brother died of cancer as well, back in those early days. He was one of my good friends.”

Left to right: José Tejada, Emma, Lee Griffith, and Sheri Griffith.

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HOW WOMEN THRIVE

According to National Geographic, women are “reshaping the way we travel … Offering everything from safety to sisterhood, all-female travel is on the rise,” wrote Qin Xie in an August 2025 story.

But Sheri Griffith Expeditions embraced that approach long before it became a recognizable trend.

“One of the things Sheri did differently was food,” Tejada said. “Back in the day, it was all men — canned goods, Dinty Moore stew, that kind of thing. She made it so women would be more comfortable. We had chairs. We did all the dishes.”

The company’s trips emphasized comfort without softening the adventure, creating space for camaraderie, ease, and reflection alongside physical challenge.

AROUND THE BEND

Tejada, now 74, hopes to retire soon. When that time comes, there’s no one he would rather see take over ownership than longtime employees Kristl Johnson and Brenda Milligan.

Johnson oversees reservations, while Milligan manages operations. Both wear multiple hats and have spent years immersed in the daily rhythms of the business.

Johnson said the three are working to finalize the transfer of ownership this year, with the goal of preserving both the Sheri Griffith name and the vision behind it.

“That vision is rooted in the outdoors,” Johnson said. “There’s something about being in the wild — away from judgment and expectations — that allows people to be themselves. And once you realize that, you realize it’s okay.”

Feature image: Brenda Milligan, Operations Manager at Sheri Griffith River Expeditions, enjoying a day on the water. Photos courtesy of Sheri Griffith River Expeditions.

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  • Inside Moab’s Political Divide: Land, Tourism, and the Future of Grand County, Utah

    In the late 1950s, Edward Abbey took a job as a park ranger at Arches National Monument, just outside Moab. What he found there, and what he watched happen to it, would shape the rest of his life. Roads were being cut into the canyon country. Cars were replacing foot traffic. The National Park Service, in the name of accessibility, was engineering a kind of industrialization of the wilderness he’d come to love. Abbey wrote about it in Desert Solitaire, published in 1968, and the anger in that book wasn’t abstract. It came from watching something specific be changed by people who either didn’t understand what they had or didn’t care.

    Grand County has long been the most reliably left-leaning county in the state, a fact that puts it in sharp contrast to nearly everything around it. To understand how that happened, and where things stand now, I spoke with longtime residents and politicians who’ve watched it from the inside, people who’ve served in local government and lived through the shifts firsthand.

    Robert Greenberg.

    Bob Greenberg came from New York in 1976, took a job at the community mental health center, and never left. He went on to chair the Grand County Democratic Party and serve on the county council. When he arrived, he said, “the Democratic Party was said to be able to meet in a phone booth” — and even then, its members were a contradictory bunch. Yellow Dog Democrats from the oil patch were fiscally conservative but surprisingly open socially, allowing different demographics to feel safe moving to the county. 

    “The town fathers were desperate to have new people come to town,” Greenberg recalls. “They just didn’t want the people who actually showed up. They wanted some other people.”

    What followed was a demographic shift nobody planned. The people who filled the gap left by the bust were river guides, federal agency workers, artists, and eventually waves of outdoor recreationists discovering that southeastern Utah was among the most spectacular landscapes on earth. Tourism ended up being the only economic development avenue that actually worked. Manufacturing never had the labor force or market access, sewing factories came and went. The people the tourist economy attracted tended to be younger, more outdoor-oriented, and more liberal.

    Kevin Walker.

    Kevin Walker, a former Grand County commissioner who moved here in 1990 for the landscape, puts the county’s diversity in context. “Moab [is] a pretty diverse place since, I think, at least the 1950s with the uranium mining boom,” he says. “So it’s not a typical Southern Utah town.” 

    Part of what makes Grand County distinct is self-reinforcing. Federal agencies like the Park Service, the Forest Service, the BLM, have large presences here and pull in a different demographic than surrounding counties. People looking to live in Southern Utah with certain values gravitate toward the place where those values already have a foothold. Over time, that critical mass has made Grand County what it is politically, while neighboring counties went in very different directions.

    The defining conflict in Grand County has always been over land.

    In the 1970s and 80s, it was extraction versus preservation in the starkest terms. County commissioners floated toxic waste incinerators. A plan emerged to site a high-level nuclear waste repository at the entrance to Canyonlands National Park. 

    “It really, really galvanized environmentalists everywhere, but particularly in Grand County,” Greenberg says. Activists put up signs at the park entrance, watched them get chainsawed down, and came back with steel reinforcement. That stubborn, physical, unglamorous persistence became part of the local political character.

    Continue reading and support independent Utah journalism with a purchase of Utah Stories (Digital + Print) or 3 month free trial (Digital).


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