Denise Chavez
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Slowly I become more attuned to the river. She is unpredictable and strong, gentle and loving. The last days pass full of wonder, indescribable joy, broken now and again with sudden paralyzing anguish. I am overwhelmed by the smallness and fragility of our raft in this vast space . . .

La Raza

I may be the only Mexican rafting the Colorado. Everyone else is at Disneyland or in Las Vegas. I ask Wade and Doug, another guide, how many ethnic people raft the canyon. Few, they both say. I wonder why? Is it the cost? It is prohibitive, but not for all. It’s more than that . . .

We are a people who want comfort, manageable thrills, self-made happiness. Our blood runs too deeply down the muddy river. We were and are its slaves, its laborers, its workers, its drones. The memory of hardship is still too much to bear. Our ancestors tried to conquer this river, but they turned back too soon. On land the Spanish ruled, but in this hallowed place they met their match. Conquistador Row is impressive, its high walls a temple to the power of nature. Inside these sheer cliffs every man and woman is insignificant, how much more so those already trampled by the road. Better to go to Las Vegas where at least the odds are higher, where we can take a chance and be assured a spin.

Ruth Kirk
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People say the Grand Canyon makes you feel humble, feel small. You’re nothing compared to so much nature. But I’ve known that for decades . . .

What I feel is exultation, not humility. All that’s needed amid the rock and the silence is to hear a canyon wren sing, surely a proclamation of more than real estate, or to fill eyes and soul with the unending colors and forms of canyon walls. It’s easy to slip into river life without clocks or parking lots or decisions beyond how far up a side canyon to hike . . .

What puzzles me is why floating this river should be so compelling. I have known awe elsewhere, sensed other shivers of reverence dance along my spine. Why now is the canyon living up to its reputation? What is its magic?

Time clearly is an ingredient here, perhaps the main one. But how greatly canyon time contrasts with the span of a human life and with the busy-ness of our days. The canyon’s clock is geological. Fine particles pressed together form the sandstone, shale, and limestone of these walls. Fine particles suspended in the river carve ever deeper. Fine particles stick to my notebook, bedding, lotion bottle, skin. And there’s a universality in this. The world over, creeks, streams, rivers, and winds carry fine particles that wear our Earth’s surface smooth yet also, when deposited, provide the material for new contours. Before Glen Canyon Dam wrought its change, the river swept five tons of suspended particles per second through the Grand Canyon. The water ran red, colorado. Now sediments settle out behind the dam and the river flows green . . .

Impatience and transience permeate today’s Western culture. The canyon offers antidote, and that — I think — is why its walls are so compelling. To float this great stone gash is to reconnect psychic landscape with physical landscape, and experience crescendo.

Barbara Earl Thomas
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My former life seems nearly unimaginable but I can’t quite shake the feeling that I’m not supposed to be here. Sheer cliffs, canyon walls, whitewater rafting —my mother would not be happy about this. This is especially true given that nine years ago she and my father lost their lives when their small boat capsized during a routine outing. I’ve been terrified for months since agreeing to do this trip. It’s not just my parents’ accident or the trip itself that has me going . . .

By the third day I’ve taken up the lead position on the raft. I want to look inside the thing that scares me. I strap a small tape player to my body to record our voices as we go through the rapids. I will listen to it later, to decipher a mystery, and it will sound like passion — or sex — captured on tape . . .

We hit the rapids. The water drops and the boat plunges. Navigating huge rocks, we bounce inexplicably from crest to crest. The waves arc, we go under. Icy water walls hit, break, and pound us — my internal organs are rearranged. Hysterical laughter seizes me with such intensity that it makes everyone laugh. Whether a gift or a curse, I am keenly aware of the role chance plays, which makes me doubly thankful when we pop up out the other side . . .

By the sixth day I’ve hiked over hill and cliff. I’ve taken on the waves and gone under the water. I’ve accepted help and forgiven myself human weakness. I’ve survived beauty and peril to see the world in canyon light, only to learn how many small but important things in my life I’ve left — out of fear — undone. I am mindful of my mother’s voice in canyon wind, whispering safekeeping. To make peace with fear, I turn it inside out. It’s the best I can do. It’s more than I believed possible.

Linda Ellerbee
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I am drawn to the woods by this challenge, and by solitude, but most of all by beauty. Every year, beauty becomes more important, some magic vitamin, a necessary tonic without which body and soul might wither. This is what the woods and, possibly, cancer have given me. But it’s been five years. Life speeds up. Flowers are passed, unsmelled. Chances go untaken. That’s partly why this trip appealed. Two hundred twenty-six miles of river. No telephone. No computer. Nothing but flowers and chances. I come to the canyon thinking of it as woods with no trees . . .

Weeks later, back in New York City, a phone rings. A woman, someone I wrote a story about, has died from breast cancer. It was the treatment that killed her. I celebrate her courage, mourn her death, and, sorry to say, am relieved it wasn’t me. The fear is always there. Although I try to live as if the cancer were never coming back, I know all the nasty little numbers; half the women who get this disease are dead in ten years. I put down the phone, tuck away the fear, and go back to work . . .

But at night, lying in bed, troubled by death and overwhelmed by life, I find I can shut my eyes and whisper. That’s all I have to do . . .

"Take me there," I whisper.

The magic begins. Gold light slides down a red canyon wall. A green river sings. I am a shining thing in a shining place, far from here.

Kathleen Jo Ryan
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On an outcropping of rock I sit snuggled in an oversized wool coat as a brisk fall wind drowns out the sounds of people and cars. I have returned once more to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon to feel the space and magnitude and to contemplate the perspective before I turn in the final elements of this book. I am overcome with a tingling sense of gratitude and blessing that I am about to complete this inspired project, a vivid dream for nine years . . .

In addition to doing all the original photography, I am the project producer and secured the funding for all project expenses prior to publication, selected writers, and organized all logistics. I did this for the "risk-reward ratio": the higher the risk the higher the opportunity for reward. For a project of this complexity, the risk is great, and my reward lies in ensuring the integrity and quality of the images and words and creating an enduring published book. I am responsible for selecting each of the women writers whose work fills these pages. My selection process was, as always, subjective. After researching each writer’s work, I considered how her writing style moved me visually. Of the sixteen writers whose work is published here, I previously knew only a few. The rest I wrote to or phoned, shared my vision with, and invited to participate . . .

I asked each contributor to share her personal journey, whether an experience of healing, exuberance, revelation, awakening, or something else. The resulting essays reflect each woman’s passage—each essay is as individual as each woman. Thus, this book is about taking risks; trusting oneself and trusting others; following instincts and intuition; and summoning courage to face fears and buried feelings, longings, or desires. And seeking answers.