By Paul S. Cilwa

Steve

I met him in an alternative book store in Manchester, NH, where I lived. He worked there as a clerk, and was cleaning the floors in the back when I came in. It was November, and Manchester was its usual cold, gray, slushy, mess. You couldn't help but bring some of it in with you when you entered, and so most places had an employee, mop in hand, trying to keep up.

He was handsome, six feet tall with a killer smile and lively eyes, long dark hair, a short beard and moustache. When I asked his name, he told me, “Steve”. We talked for hours. He had an abusive ex-boyfriend and was depressed over the situation. I had an ex-wife, loved living alone, and was sorry to see anyone being mistreated.

I gave him my number. Three days later, he called me and we met for dinner. Then again. Then he came home with me.

In spite of our age difference—I was a little over forty and he was ten years my junior—over the next few months, I fell in love with him. He still lived with the ex-boyfriend, but they slept separately, Steve told me, that the ex hadn't spoken a word to him in over six months. I was attentive and did all the things his ex did not. We went to Key West together, and then Provincetown. He decided to move in with me. I emptied half the drawers in my dresser, and cleared out half my closet.

On the day he was supposed to arrive, he didn't. I went to see him at the store. He couldn't look me in the eye. His ex-boyfriend, realizing Steve was preparing to move out, had a change of heart. They had reconciled. Things were once again just as Steve had prayed for between them. He hoped we could still be “friends”.

A Real Witch

I was devastated. At forty-plus, I had never been in love before even though I'd been married to a woman for twenty years. I was (and am) very fond of her, but she's the wrong gender for my biology. Steve was the first time I'd been head-over-heels, stars-in-my-eyes in love with anyone. And now, I was in genuine pain.

It radiated from my gut. It felt like I'd been kicked there, but it didn't fade; not over days or weeks or months. I cried myself sick. I still had to work, of course; my job required me to stand in front of a classroom and teach Windows programming to corporate students. I lectured, then during breaks found a private spot and sobbed. I'm sure, seeing my eyes after breaks, many of the students must have thought I'd gotten stoned. But I hadn't. I just felt like it.

I was active in a UFO-related CompuServe forum at the time, and my friends on the forum were very helpful. One of them, Ann, invited me to her house in Connecticut for the weekend and gave me an impromptu birthday party. Her kids, both under six, hugged me and made it impossible for me to be sad, even though the pain continued unabated. An ex-boyfriend insisted I visit him, and made me watch comedy videos non-stop for three days. But these were band-aids. The pain was still intense enough to make me gasp.

My Mom, who had stayed with me for the summer, had left behind half a bottle of Scotch. I don't usually drink, but I poured myself a short one. The buzz hit. With horror, I realized the pain had temporarily disappeared. So that's why some people drank! I put the bottle away, refusing to drink any more alcohol until the pain had been processed on its own. I knew instinctively that it had to be handled, not masked.

Friends started trying to “fix me up”. Straight folks generally know few enough out gay people, that when they find two who are unattached, they seem to want to pair them off. I met several men in this way who had nothing whatsoever in common with me, except that they were gay.

My friend, Sharon, from the UFO forum, called one night. She had arranged a UFO convention in South Carolina, and would I like to attend? She had someone for me to meet. “He's gay,” she said, as if that were my only requirement. “He's from Atlanta,” she added. “He's a hairdresser.”

I was not generally attracted to hairdressers (though I have since met one who's very masculine, very hot, and a dear friend). But, to help Sharon out, I agreed to fly to Greensboro and attend the convention.

I got there Friday night, when I was supposed to meet my blind date, but I couldn't find him or Sharon anywhere. After attending a couple of presentations, I went to my hotel room.

Out of boredom, I was idly thumbing through the Yellow Pages. I stumbled on ads for escorts. I had never noticed this category before, but there it was. I had never, never , paid for sex before. But I was so lonely, so much in pain, that I was tempted. I called one of the establishments listed and asked if they happened to have any male escorts.

“We do have one,” the woman on the phone said in a friendly voice. “Would you like us to send him over?”

“Well, what's he like?” I asked hesitantly.

“He's about thirty,” the woman said. “He has long, dark hair, a short beard and moustache; he's six feet tall and his name is Steve.”

I slammed the handset on the receiver and cried myself to sleep.

Robin, the young man I was supposed to meet, was introduced to me Saturday morning. He was not my type, but seemed like a nice enough guy. It turned out that we did have something in common: an interest in metaphysics, which of course should be expected at a UFO convention. But Robin's interest went further than most: He was, he said, studying to be a witch. “Not a Wiccan witch,” he explained. “A real witch.”

Wicca is an ancient religion, in which the Earth as Goddess is worshipped. Some of its practitioners are called witches, in the way that some practitioners of Presbyterianism are called ministers and some practitioners of Spiritualism are called mediums. But, unless Robin was referring to the Samantha Stevens' style of witchcraft, I had no idea what he meant. “You'll see,” he said gleefully, “as soon as you meet Virginia. She's very powerful.”

Shortly afterwards, I did meet the woman and her husband, Clark. She was quite beautiful, with long, platinum blonde hair. For some reason, I barely remember Clark—I think he was tall—but that gives you an idea of how compelling she was.

She did not exhibit any Samantha-like powers, just spoke at lunch of Alistair Crowley, the famous early 20 ^th century Satanist. Ah— that's what Robin meant by “real” witch, I thought. Okay, I'll be ditching these people soon. But not immediately; I didn't want to be rude and I thought it would be interesting to learn more about them.

The keyword seemed to be “power”. That's what Robin kept saying that Virginia had, and he said it with great awe and envy. He was shorter than most men, and I began to think that maybe he had felt powerless for much of his life . This presented a way to control it, if only he could master the abilities Virginia was trying to teach him.

Robin and Virginia and Clark and I attended the various presentations together. I met Budd Hopkins, author of Missing Time and Intruders and that was an honor. We strolled among the exhibits, and when we bumped into Sharon we congratulated her on the excellent convention she had assembled.

Then, after dinner, Virginia and Clark melted away and Robin and I were left alone at last. I had made it clear that I thought Robin was a nice guy but not really my type. But he began to speak of his ex-lover, an abusive man who had literally left him with bruises—and my buttons were pushed. My own wounds were so fresh, I found my eyes misting in empathy with his pain. I saw him to his room, and then we continued talking into his room, and then we were in his bed.

Sex has always been a spiritual activity for me. And so it was now, because I was not just having sex with Robin; his soul and mine were making love. Afterwards, during the night, Robin occasionally woke me with a nightmare cry; but then, realizing I was there, he held me tightly and returned to sleep.

Steve, too, had partially awakened in the night, and found comfort in my embrace. But now, I needed someone I could embrace in the night.

In the morning, we woke together and smiled at each other; if my smile was a little sad Robin didn't seem to notice. He rose, slipped on a pair of shorts, and opened the door to the adjoining room. To my surprise, the door on the other side of it was already open; it was Virginia and Clark's room.

Virginia stepped through, smiling; but the moment she saw Robin the smile faded and was replaced by such a terrifyingly malevolent expression that I wondered what had happened. Robin's aura, which had been dim when we met, was glowing brightly. My suspicion that she was upset by that was confirmed when we couldn't find them for the breakfast we were supposed to share. And, by lunchtime, Robin was gone, too. Sharon caught up with me, somewhat puzzled. “Did you and Robin have a fight?” she asked.

“No, I don't think so,” I replied.

“Well, they left early,” Sharon explained. “Virginia seemed angry and Robin seemed frightened.”

I didn't know what had happened. I wasn't sorry that Robin was gone; I knew we would never have a long-lasting relationship. But I did feel as if God, or the Universe, or whatever, was toying with me.

I went for a walk in the woods adjacent to the hotel. I found an opening in the trees and began crying. “I know this is all for a reason,” I cried into the air. “But that doesn't mean I have to like it. And I don't.”

I firmly believe in reincarnation. Death holds no fear for me, certainly less than does a lifetime of pain.

I had purchased expensive tickets for Steve and me to go on a two-week rafting trip in Grand Canyon in August. “I want to go to Grand Canyon with a lover,” I told whoever might be listening. “If You can't do that for me, after all I do for you…well, then. I'll go into Grand Canyon, but I won't come out.” There it was. I had threatened God. But I knew such a threat had to be serious.

I have children I love, but they're grown. I have friends and relatives who would miss me. And I would miss them. But I had decided: I was going to live life on my terms. I didn't want to be alone the rest of my life. I'd had a taste of love, and I was hooked. Jumping off a 700 foot cliff in Grand Canyon would be messy, but it would also be final; and then God would just have to find someone else to do the job I'd been doing here. Or, He could find me a boyfriend, soon.

It sounds funny. It sounds preposterous. But I was deadly serious.

Just Coincidence

By the time July rolled around, I had relented somewhat. It didn't have to be a lover, I decided, as long as I could take someone to Grand Canyon. However, no one I knew could go. For once, they all had jobs, even my kids. Even my ex-wife!

I had been talking about UFOs with a guy in the showers of the health club I attended, and the cleaning man had overheard. Later he approached me and told me he had a friend who was very interested in such things. He knew the friend would like to meet me. I shrugged, and agreed. When the friend showed up at my door with a bag full of books, I wondered what I'd gotten myself into. He loaned me a copy of The Celestine Prophecy and left.

I started reading. One of the premises of the book is that there is no such thing as random coincidence. Everything, everything, is part of a structure that helps us live the lives we were meant to live. I decided to try it out when I had a chance.

A friend in Connecticut, Ann, and her husband invited me to go on vacation with them to British Columbia, and I accepted. We had a terrific week in Port Hardy, going whale watching and enjoying the bald eagles that soared overhead. The eagle is one of the three totem animals I identify with; so I particularly enjoyed watching them.

I had gotten to the point where the pain in my gut was a solid, continuous ache. I could still function as a normal human being most of the time, but the gap in my soul where Steve had been still throbbed and demanded attention like festering wound.

Ann and her husband wanted to spend the next week touring Vancouver. In fact, they even had a plan for me. Ann handed me a copy of an alternative newspaper she had found and showed me an ad for a local gay bath, Fahrenheit 212 ° . A gay bath is sort of like a waterpark for homosexuals. They typically have one or more swimming pools, a hot tub or two, steam and sauna rooms, and, of course, showers. They provide a meeting and socializing place for gay men that's an alternative to the bar scene—especially appealing for guys who happen not to drink and may not even smoke. This bath bragged that it had a dozen showers. Ann thought I might meet someone there, and insisted I take the paper.

Instead, not being a great lover of cities, I decided to rent a car instead and drive the British Columbia countryside; and I decided to make it a Celestine Prophecy -type quest. I formulated my desire and presented it to the Universe: “I want a date to take to Grand Canyon. I will follow Your coincidences and allow them to lead me to the man I am to take.” There was no room for options. I had faith this would work.

I had no specific itinerary, except I had to be back in three days to meet Ann and Tom for dinner at a particular, fancy restaurant. As I drove, I saw a good-looking blonde guy hitchhiking and pulled over to give him a ride.

Now, I didn't expect him to be “the” guy or even to be gay. I picked him up for the same reason a straight guy would pick up an attractive woman: It's just nicer to have a good-looking person sitting next to you, than not. And he was, indeed, very handsome. “Where are you headed?” I asked.

He gave a destination a few miles ahead, and then asked where I was going. “I'm not sure,” I said. “I was thinking of maybe finding a hot springs somewhere to soak in.”

He enthusiastically recommended one near the town of Lilluet. “It's terrific!” he said. “Every weekend, there's, like, eighty or so naked people hanging out around it!” It was in the middle of the woods, he said, and I would have to ask locally for directions. But it sounded like I might find a gay guy or two there; and, if they were naked at the time, there would be fewer surprises if we were to get together later.

Later, on the road to Lilluet, I was driving along the highway laid down on the side of a great canyon, and looking into it. There was no other traffic, so I was steering rather casually when suddenly, on its own, my foot jammed hard on the brake. Startled, I looked ahead to see a bear on the road, not twenty feet ahead of me, looking indignantly back at me. The bear is the second of my three animal totems. I knew, now, that I would see a wolf before the adventure was over. The wolf is my third totem.

Totem animals are those which have a particular meaning to a person. It's sort of like astrology. Like planets, each animal species has a specific significance. When they come into your life, they bring that significance. Totem animals bring their significance into your whole life, not just your day or week. My totems, the eagle, bear and wolf are very powerful animals but they bring great challenges as well as great gifts. Being already in the midst of the challenge of a broken heart, I didn't see how the challenges could become any more severe. I was, of course, wrong.

I arrived in Lilluet about ten o'clock at night. I tried to follow the signs to a motel, but lost the trail in the dark and the confusion of miles vs. kilometers. Oh, well, I thought. This is the sort of coincidence I could expect to guide me on my way. Sure enough, when I pulled into a residential driveway to turn around, my headlights picked out a sign advertising the place as a bed and breakfast. I shrugged, got out, knocked on the door, and said hello to the teenaged boy who answered.

“Do you have any vacancies?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “My mother's in town, but that's okay. You can settle with her in the morning.” And, with that, knowing nothing of me at all, he gave me a key to the house and to a downstairs room, and invited me to make myself at home.

In the morning, when I emerged from the room, I found the boy's mother in the kitchen making breakfast. “Good morning,” she said. “You must be David.”

“David?” I said, confused. “No, I'm Paul.”

“Oh,” she said. “My son must have gotten it wrong. No matter. Eggs? Bacon?” Her son had never even asked my name. So I knew that I would encounter a David on this adventure.

While driving around trying to find the hotel the night before, I had “accidentally” found the Canadian equivalent of the Forest Service. That morning, I drove back there to get the directions to the hot springs. However, the ranger wasn't encouraging. “Oh, that's closed,” he said, flatly. “They found E. Coli in the water, so we had to close it. Boarded over and everything, eh?”

“Aw,” I responded. “Too bad.”

“If you're looking for any hot springs, though, there's another in the area I can recommend.” And he gave directions to a spring that, while not surrounded by naked people, was surrounded by trees and rocks and sounded charming. Since recommendations count as “coincidences”, I decided to go there.

However, when I reached the railroad tracks that marked the edge of town, I did a double-take. There, walking alone on the tracks towards a small shack, shirtless, was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.

He was blonde, muscular, fit and trim, with a frank, freckled face and a hair-covered chest. I couldn't have ordered a better-looking guy from a catalog. I had to talk to him. Besides, seeing someone unexpectedly that perfect a fit to my physical ideal, counts as a Celestine type of coincidence. The whole idea is, if it attracts your attention, it's something your subconscious recognizes as significant. So I parked the rental car and walked to the shack, behind which the man had gone.

And, yes, I was nervous. But Lilluet is a small town, and I just couldn't imagine any profit in a mugger's waiting behind a railroad shack for a potential victim. Besides, in this town bed and breakfasts give guests the key to the house without even asking for identification, much less money up front. So what I was doing wouldn't really be very dangerous.

On the track side of the shack I found my blonde talking to three other men, one of whom was also shirtless. All four were in their mid-thirties and stunningly handsome. I hadn't actually planned what I would say, but the first thing that popped into my head was to ask directions to the same hot springs I'd just gotten directions for. My blonde stood absently running his hand through the fuzzy blonde coating on his chest as he gave me instructions. Then, he added, “You do have bug repellant, eh?”

“Uh, no,” I replied.

“Well, you'll need it. The mosquitoes are as thick as mud out there.”

I nodded at a supermarket that was within walking distance. “Thanks for the warning,” I said. “I'll pick some up before I go.”

“It has to be—” and he named a particular brand, Muskol, one I'd never heard of. “That's the only one that stinks enough to actually repel our mosquitoes.”

“I think 'Off' actually attracts 'em, eh?” one of the other men offered, and they all laughed.

I thanked them, and did buy the Muskol before heading out for the hot springs.

When I got there, I found it to be deserted. The Indians who own the land it's on (,) had put fiberglass and steel tubs here and there, and run pipes from the spring into them. There are actually two springs about 100 feet apart; one supplies water of about 120 ° ; the other, cold water. The tubs were each supplied from both springs, and had faucets, so you could actually adjust the temperature to your liking.

I stripped and sank into the largest tub. Instantly I felt the charge of energetic water. The water in most hot springs is charged with Earth energy. I don't know what composes this energy, or how to measure it, but I know when it's there. Many other people can sense it too. The energy raises your “frequency”, whatever that is. What I know is that, in the water, the pain in my gut diminished; and I also knew my prayers would have special potency.

“Please, God,” I prayed. “Let this pain go away. Let me forgive Steve and get on with my life. Let me find someone, the right person this time, so I won't have to be alone.”

Suddenly, I heard footsteps. The tub I was in was under a lean-to roof that didn't quite come to the ground. Beneath the edge of the roof, I saw tennis shoes and the bottom few inches of blue jeans and, occasionally, a hand or two.

When the person came around the lean-to and saw me in the tub, he gave me a cheery wave; but I just stared. On his T-shirt was a beautiful painting of a wolf, my third totem. I instantly knew this was my wolf, and I had to pay special attention to anything he had to say.

“Are you the maintenance guy, here?” I asked, seeing that his hands were filled with minor trash: an empty pop bottle, a few bottle caps, an empty cigarette pack.

“Naw,” he replied. “I'm a visitor, just like you. I just like to leave the place a little cleaner than I found it. How about you? Where are you from?”

“I'm from the States,” I said. “But I have friends in Vancouver I have to meet for dinner later tonight.”

“Tonight?” he said, raising an eyebrow just as I do when hearing something unlikely. “You'll have to hustle, eh? It's quite a drive.”

“Well, I figured I'd just take…” and I described my proposed route to him.

He shook his head. “Full of construction,” he said. “You'll never make it on time. You'd better take this shortcut.” And he proposed an alternate route, which I memorized. When Wolf gives directions, it's wise to listen. “You'd still better hurry, though,” he added. So, regretfully, I left the pool, slipped back into my clothes, got into the rental car and left.

The road to the springs was primitive. It was composed of sharp gravel. I suppose I'm lucky the car lasted as long as it did. In any case, the moment I hit the main road, one of the tires blew.

As soon as I got out of the car to check, I was surrounded by a swarm of vicious, biting mosquitoes. I hastily pulled the can of Muskol from the car and sprayed it liberally on myself. The mosquitoes backed off a healthy distance. “Wow!” I thought. “Good stuff!” And good thing I'd had it—though there had been no mosquitoes at the hot springs.

But the stuff did smell, and it was sticky. Every time a car went by, the road grit thrown up by its passing settled on my skin, hair and clothes and stuck firm. I could see why this Muskol wasn't sold in the United States, where we are less concerned whether a product works, than we are in its attractive aroma and ability to protect the skin from UV rays.

At least, I wasn't stressed over the flat tire. I knew that this kind of occurrence is part of the Divine Guidance of the Universe, and that it was all part of the plan.

Still, by the time I got the tire replaced and had driven to the outskirts of Vancouver, it was clear I was going to be late for the fancy dinner with Ann and Tom. Worse, I simply couldn't go as I was, covered in road grit and reeking of Muskol. I had to get clean and changed, first. But where?

The original plan was for me to meet Ann and Tom at their motel and change there. But, when I tried calling their room, I found they had already left for the restaurant. No surprise; they had made the hard-to-get reservations days in advance and wouldn't risk losing them. That meant I couldn't wash and change there. And I didn't have enough cash to get a room of my own.

However…there was the ad for the gay men's bath, Fahrenheit 212 ° . Why not take advantage of it? It was only $12 Canadian, and with a dozen showers, I should have no problem getting the Muskol off me.

So I located the bath, got a day pass membership, and entered. I got a locker and put my gym bag (containing clean clothes) and my Muskol-drenched dirty clothes in it. I then wrapped a towel around myself and set out to find the showers.

They were near the lockers and deserted, so I had my choice and gratefully set to work lathering myself up and removing the grit and grime from my body. As I finished, a good looking young man entered and began showering. As he did so, he kept sneaking glances at me and, finally, said, “Do I know you?”

I shook my head, “I don't think so. I'm not from Vancouver. My name is Paul; what's yours?”

“David,” he said, and we shook hands. David. The loop of coincidences was closing. I wouldn't even be here now if I hadn't had a flat tire, that made me put on the bug repellent recommended by the good-looking man I saw after visiting the forest ranger place I found while looking for a hotel but instead located a bed-and-breakfast where I had been mis-called “David”.

So, David and I started talking. We found each other attractive, in spite of the great difference in our ages. David, he said, was 23—only a year older than my son. But he seemed mature for his age, and liked the same kind of music as me…and, by the time I had dried off and gotten dressed, David, who was “between jobs” and was therefore available, had agreed to be my guest on the rafting trip in Grand Canyon.

The chain of coincidences had brought me my date to take rafting. I thought I had won. I didn't ponder too carefully the consequences of challenging God. God always wins.

Grand Canyon

I picked David up, as arranged, at Las Vegas' McCarran Airport. He kissed me at the gate, which I thought was sweet and also indicated that he was proudly “out”—a good sign. We got into the car I had rented and headed for Flagstaff, where the Grand Canyon rafters gather prior to the trip.

I told David about my previous three Grand Canyon rafting trips and how much I was looking forward to this one. I explained that my first trip, with my daughter, had only been the three day “Canyon Sampler”, in which you fly into the Canyon by helicopter and “do” the last three days of the rafting trip. “Seeing the Canyon by helicopter is really special,” I told him. “That's the only bad part about rafting the whole Canyon; you don't get to take the helicopter ride.”

It's a bit of a long drive; when I got sleepy, I asked David if he would mind driving. He said he wouldn't mind at all; so we swapped seats and I leaned back and closed my eyes. I was just starting to doze off when a severe bumping jolted me awake. My eyes flew open and I saw that we were off the left side of the road, heading for the ditch! David was staring, terrified, both his hands off the wheel and in the air as if he had already given up and was waiting for God to take him. I grabbed the wheel with my left hand and wrestled the car back onto the blacktop. When we were safe again, I said, “Would you like me to drive for awhile?” David was so shaken I had to instruct him to remove his foot from the accelerator so the car would slow down and I, still steering, could guide it to the right hand shoulder.

With me driving again, and quite wide awake, thank you!—I asked David if he were all right, and what had happened? He told me he must have dozed for a moment. After all he had just flown from Vancouver, and hadn't really gotten enough sleep the night before, blah, blah. I said, “David, when I asked if you minded driving, why didn't you just say you were too tired?” He didn't have an answer. Mentally, I scratched off one point from the potential future boyfriend scorecard.

At Flagstaff, we checked into the Days Inn where the rafters meet just in time for the pre-trip briefing. This was my fourth Grand Canyon rafting trip with the same company (O.A.R.S.) and I was hoping that one of my old friends would be giving the briefing; but it was given by a boatman I hadn't yet met. It was the usual talk about what to expect on the river, which I could have given but, of course, was all new to David and he paid rapt attention. We were given our rubber dry bags and our metal ammo cases (for cameras, not for ammunition) and told to meet again at six in the morning.

Back in our room, I was ready, after a long day, to hit the sack. David kissed me goodnight, and then kissed me again. Before I could say anything, he stated that he insisted on safer sex. I mentally gave him back a point for that. He had told me, when we first met in Vancouver, that he was HIV-, as I am; but it's a good idea to always play safe.

In the morning we brought our loaded dry bags and ammo cases down to the waiting vans parked in front of the Days Inn. We checked our luggage at the hotel, to wait for our return two-and-a-half weeks later.

The vans made their way along the five hour drive from Flagstaff to Lee's Ferry, the put-in point for the rafting trip. I dozed most of the way, but David was gregarious and chatted with the other passengers. I did note with curiosity that, when asked, he told them he was 22 years old. He had told me 23 in Vancouver. But, I thought, he probably had a birthday coming up soon and had given me the age he was soon to be. Or something like that.

At Lee's Ferry we found the rafts inflated and waiting on the shore of the Colorado River. We deposited our bags, and , as directed, located life vests that fit from a pile near the rafts. I greeted Robby, the lead boatman and my friend from my first three trips. I had telephoned him the previous winter and told him I was gay. That was when I had made the reservations for the trip and expected Steve to come with me. “You don't think it makes any difference to me, I hope?” he said.

No, I responded. I just wanted him to know it in advance for when I showed up that summer with a boyfriend.

Now, here I was with a boyfriend candidate I desperately hoped would fill the void in my aching heart.

As the other boatmen secured our dry bags to the baggage boat, Robby gathered the passengers around in a little clearing amidst the tamarisk trees and gave us a final talk. He explained how the potty system worked; what to do if we needed to “go” during the day when it wasn't set up; how important it was to not discard any trash in the Canyon, and so on. Finally, he said, “If any of you has a medical condition, please let me know about it.” No one responded, and he added, “You can tell me in private later, if you like, but it's important I know. For example, if you are allergic to bee stings, we carry epinephrine kits but if you don't tell me I won't know to use it. If you are prone to epileptic seizures, let me know so if you have one, we'll know how to handle it.”

People asked the usual questions: What if someone became seriously ill on the trip? What if someone died? Robby explained that seriously ill people could be flown out of the Canyon by helicopter from many places on the river. If anyone died, their bodies would be put in a body bag brought for the purpose (!) and they'd be lashed to the side of the baggage boat until the end of the trip. “Is that to keep them from decomposing, by keeping them cold?” someone asked. In fact, it is; the river water is a fairly constant 45 ° . But Robby answered, “That's to make sure they go the whole way, so there'll be no talk of refunds by the victim's family,” which made everyone laugh and got us back to lighter topics.

By now the rafts were ready; I steered David to Robby's raft for the first day. It's customary to ride with a different guide each day; but I wanted to start with Robby even though I knew I mustn't monopolize him.

We pushed off, four passengers and one boatman per boat, and the current caught us up and began moving us down the river. The majestic, impossibly high and brightly colored walls of Marble Canyon slowly glided past us, as Robby broke the ice by asking each of his passengers what he or she did for a living. The other two passengers in our raft were a father and his son. The father was a doctor, and had flown to Flagstaff in his own, private plane. The son was too young to work, but told about his high school, where he was a freshman, and how his dad was teaching him to fly. I mentioned my work as an instructor of computer programming. And then it was David's turn. “I'm a drag queen,” he announced. “I specialize in doing Diana Ross.”

My jaw dropped. He had told me he was unemployed. He was also a muscular six foot three, and wore a neatly trimmed beard. “How does the beard work with that?” I asked, stunned.

“Well, I haven't actually done it in about six months,” he admitted. “I shave the beard when I'm performing, eh?”

And then, of course, Robby and the doctor and his son insisted on a demonstration, and as I tried to find a hole in the bottom of the raft I could crawl into, he began to belt out “Baby Love” at the top of his lungs, complete with sweeping gestures and nods in the direction of a set of invisible Supremes.

The worst of it was, he was actually pretty good at it.

“How's Cathy?” I asked Robby, to change the subject. Cathy was a boatman I had met on a previous trip; she and Robby were a “couple”.

However, Robby surprised me by saying, “It's over.”

“What? You were so cute together!”

“It wasn't going anywhere,” Robby said. “So, I ended it.”

I was stunned. I really liked Cathy, and I loved that she and Robby were in love. Now it was over. Like Steve and me. It sucked.

Facing Your Fears

We had our first lunch on the river after going just a few miles, in the shadow of Navajo Bridge, one of the very few signs of human achievement we would see for the next couple of weeks. River lunches always consist of very heavy, seed-and-grain laden breads and a wide variety of sandwich fillings: cheeses, meats, sprouts, tomatoes, and so on. The idea is to avoid the tendency most people have towards constipation when they go on an extended vacation or have to deal with unfamiliar bathroom appliances. Here, both situations were in effect. The high-fiber lunches made it a non-problem.

A few hours later and a few hours further down the river, we stopped for a short hike. David was eager, at first; but the trail wound its way onto a minor cliff, about five feet above a dry stream bed. Walking in the bed itself would not be a good idea, partly because it was rocky and uneven, and partly because, in the case of rain up on the rim, a flash flood could well fill that stream bed up. But David was very nervous about the height. Now, I used to be afraid of heights and am still nervous about standing on insecure surfaces. But David was so nervous he was nearly immobilized. He couldn't go forward or backward. “I'm afraid,” he whimpered.

“Grand Canyon is about facing your fears,” I told him matter-of-factly. I gently talked him into moving, telling him to close his eyes and keep his hands on my shoulders as I led the way. He couldn't complete the hike; we had to return early, to my disappointment. David had just lost more points.

Then I overheard him speaking to the doctor's son. The boy, apparently, had asked David how old he was, not having ridden in the same van with us to Lee's Ferry. I was a distance away and David didn't know I could overhear him, or maybe he didn't care. But the answer he gave was “21”. At this rate, David's age would be a negative number before the trip was over.

I had come to realize how very important honesty is to me. And so, I had to hear from David how old he really was. I didn't care what the answer was, but I wanted the truth. That night, as we lay on our sleeping bags in front of our tent, I brought the conversation around to the concept of honesty, and why it meant so much to me, and how a man must be trustworthy if he intends to call himself a man. I also allowed as to how, sometimes, people make mistakes and that I was willing to accept the mistakes of others as long as they own up to them, as I hope others will accept mine. He listened, he agreed enthusiastically, and he seemed to have not one shred of an idea of what I was talking about.

The next day we had another hike, and David insisted on going. He apparently had set his mind to overcoming his fear of heights, and, to my amazement, ran along a trail that was far scarier than the one from the day before. Okay, I thought to myself. He's capable of working to overcome his weaknesses. That gained him a point.

The next few days went similarly. The other passengers, somewhat to my surprise and certainly to my relief, were perfectly comfortable with having a gay couple on the trip. One woman in particular, Celeste, who was there with her boyfriend-candidate, found in me a kindred spirit and we chatted a lot about what we wanted in boyfriends, which flaws were terminal, and which we could overlook. Her river date, Eric, was very much in love with her but she was planning to dump him. “We aren't better together than we are separately,” she said. “So, what's the point?” I felt terrible on behalf of the extraordinarily handsome Eric, who, if he'd been gay or bi, I would have taken in place of David in a heartbeat.

On the seventh day, we came to Bright Angel Creek, location of Phantom Ranch. This is the only civilization along the river, and we enjoyed the novelty of buying T-shirts, postcards, and calling our families. David called his “Mum” in Newfoundland. “This is the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me,” he told her. “It's changed my life.”

Liar

That night, I discovered something else that had changed David's life. It was Robby's turn to cook dinner and I had offered to help. Robby seemed to have something on his mind. Finally, he spilled it: “Doesn't it bother you,” he blurted, “having a boyfriend who's HIV positive?”

I was taken aback. “I don't know,” I said finally. “I've never had one.”

Robby stopped stirring and looked at me. “I guess I shouldn't have said anything,” he said. “I thought you knew.” When I looked at him blankly, he explained, “The first day, when I asked the passengers to tell me about their medical conditions, David came up to me and told me he was HIV+. I thought you knew,” he repeated.

Thank God, I thought. Thank God we had never done anything that could transmit the virus into my system. Thank God I've always insisted on safe sex…and no wonder he did.

He had lied to me. He had told me he was negative.

Later, while eating dinner, I confronted him. “I haven't gotten the tests results, yet,” he told me, but I didn't believe him. “I told Robby I might be positive.” But Robby is a more accurate listener than that. David had now lost all his points. I had asked for a date to bring to Grand Canyon and I had gotten one. But God—the Universe—wasn't about to let me off so easily. The date I had been guided to find, was one I wasn't in love with and wasn't at all suitable.

Or was I being tested? Maybe David was the perfect man for me; maybe my standards were too high. I decided to withhold judgment. We still had a week and a half to go.

That night was the last one for the one-week passengers. Not everyone can take two weeks off for a vacation, so some passengers hike up Bright Angel Trail and are replaced by others who hike down. We traditionally have a party that night, a farewell party for the folks who are leaving us. Scotty, one of the other boatmen, took out a small Walkman and speakers and played Sixties music while we danced. David and I danced as a couple; and then people started mixing and matching. Celeste decided to teach us all to ballroom dance, and Eric danced with me while she danced with David. Eric seemed perfectly relaxed about it and no one else had a problem; in fact, one of the other straight guys cut in before the dance was over. It was the way things should be, and I had never suspected were.

It was David's and my last night together.

The next day, having taken on a new set of passengers, saying goodbye to Eric and (but) surprised to find that Celeste had spontaneously decided to extend her trip another week, we approached one of the larger rapids.

Hance Rapid is big and nasty. You can hear it from half a mile away, thundering. Its standing waves make it visible as soon as you turn the canyon corridor in which it is located. David and I were riding with Gray, a new boatman on his first licensed trip in the Canyon. David and I, in the front of the raft, hung on properly to the lines as did the two passengers in back. We watched as Robby, as lead boatman, took the rapid first. His raft was tossed up and down like a leaf in a hurricane, before being spit out into an eddy, where Robby and his passengers waited for the other rafts.

One by one, the rafts made the same trip through the gauntlet: To the right here, to the left, around that hole, dodge that standing wave. Then it was our turn. Gray entered the rapid perfectly. He made all the same moves the other boatmen had. When we got to the standing wave, however, the wave suddenly doubled in height, folding our raft in half like a taco shell, before releasing it and spitting us out.

At the ocean shore, the water stays still and the waves move. In a rapid, the water moves and the waves stand still; hence, they are called standing waves. They might vary by inches a little in height, but only by inches; they are permanent parts of the rapid and, as long as the flow of water is constant, the standing waves stand.

It was not normal for a standing wave to suddenly grow like that . It had taken Gray by surprise but he had recovered beautifully, not letting it tip or flip us. I grinned at David. “How was that?! ” I yelled, giddy with the thrill. But David wasn't smiling. He was grimacing in pain. When the raft folded, it had crushed his leg between the air tube and the metal oar frame. Now he couldn't move it.

We pulled into the eddy and explained the problem to Robby. Gray felt like he'd done something wrong, but Robby assured him otherwise. “I never saw a standing wave do that before,” he said. “It's like it had David's name on it.” Even though David wasn't bleeding, Robby subtly gestured to Gray to put on surgical gloves before examining him. I winced. Robby may not have had a problem with gay people per se , but he sure didn't know much about HIV transmission. He was exhibiting the unreasoning terror of the disease that I thought people had pretty much gotten past.

David's leg continued to swell, and he still couldn't move it. The doctor and his son were still with us, but without X-ray equipment the physician couldn't guess how much damage had been done. The safest course, he said, was to airlift David out of the Canyon, to receive proper medical care. “The alternative,” he said, “is to risk losing the leg.”

Robby had to make a command decision. David wanted to stay, but he was in pain and frightened and willing to take the advice of others. Robby may also have feared that, somehow, David would infect someone with HIV just by being injured. And, of course his reduced movement would require someone—me—to tend to him, bringing him his meals, getting him to the bathroom, and so on.

Robby decided to radio for a helicopter.

It arrived within the hour. Robby warned the paramedics to wear gloves, but once they realized David wasn't bleeding, they removed them. They strapped him to a stretcher. I laughed shakily. “Looks like you're going to see the Canyon by helicopter, after all.” We kissed goodbye, the paramedics loaded him into the chopper, it rose into the air, and then he was gone.

Gone. As if he'd never been there. I was alone again.

Crisis of Faith

Eyes blurring, I stumbled to a side canyon and sat heavily on a cliff some two hundred feet above a dry wash. I sobbed and sobbed. It was so weird. I wasn't in love with David. I would never have fallen in love with David. But this wasn't about David. It was about God and me. I had challenged God, and God had basically told me to fuck myself.

I now had to fulfill my end of the challenge.

I looked below. Two hundred feet isn't all that far, but it would probably do the trick. The rocks below were hard and jagged. I would fall 32 feet the first second, 64 the next, and hit during the third. Three seconds. It wouldn't last all that long.

Life is a game, I thought. But I'm not having any fun playing it. And it was true. Once Steve dumped me, every day had been a pain-filled wait for the next one. I was enduring, but I wasn't living. I wanted out.

On the other hand, I mused, I had paid for two-and-a-half weeks for two people. With David gone, I was already screwed out of one of those weeks. There were lots of other cliffs, some higher. I could wait a few more days. After all, I did love Grand Canyon; and while I was still suffering from heartbreak, it wasn't quite as bad in Grand Canyon as it would be back in New Hampshire.

So, I walked back to camp, red-eyed and miserable. The other passengers each took turns coming up to me, and expressing their sadness at David's unexpected departure. Even the doctor's son was sorry to see him go. “It was like having Diana Ross right here! ” he told me.

About half the passengers were new, having hiked down Bright Angel trail. Among them were an older man and his son-in-law. Gerry, owned a toy company and Barry, his son-in-law, managed it. The two were best friends and had happily left their wives behind to take care of the company while the men rafted Grand Canyon.

Barry was a cool guy. Gerry was another matter. How they got along at all amazed me since they were so different. Gerry was a fundamentalist Christian, the kind that has to preach to people who'd prefer he didn't. Gerry's method was clever. He'd ask a loaded question, presumably to obtain an answer. But it didn't matter what the answer was; he would then reply, “Interesting. But here's what the Bible has to say about that…” and then he'd be off and running, and his victim, who had just offered their opinion—because they'd been asked—would be forced to listen, just to give equal time.

For example, approaching Celeste, a very liberated lady who owned her own restaurant and had just sent her boyfriend, Eric, packing, he asked, “So…Celeste…what do you think of abortion?” To which she replied, “If you don't want one, don't have one.”

“Interesting,” Gerry replied, the irony of her reply completely lost on him. “But here's what the Bible has to say about that…”

As he hit person after person, asking each a loaded question custom-tailored to that person's lifestyle or beliefs or job or whatever he could find, it appeared inevitable that he was going to go to town on me. I just didn't know what angle he'd pick. Would he rehash that old saw about the “sin of Sodom” being homosexuality? (It wasn't; it was lack of hospitality.) Would he bring up the “abomination” of lying with another man? (It's also an “abomination” to eat shrimp or wear mixed-fiber cloth, like cotton/polyester blends; but the fundamentalists conveniently ignore that part.)

So, one day, when I heard him hiking behind me, and he said, “So…Paul…what do you think about gay marriage?” I knew it was my turn. I answered, “I think any couple that loves each other should be able to marry if they wish to do so.”

“Interesting. Now, here's what the Bible says about that. According to the Bible, marriage is intended for procreation only . It's a sin to marry if you don't intend to have children.”

I hadn't, of course, known what question he would ask, or how he would use the Bible to justify his opinion. Fortunately, my angel was standing by and put the right words in my mouth: “Oh. So, you're saying Mary and Joseph committed a sin when they married.”

“What?” he spluttered.

“Well, Mary was pregnant by the Holy Spirit, according to the story. And most Christians believe she remained a virgin all her life. So, obviously, she and Joseph didn't intend to have children by each other. According to your interpretation of the Bible, then, that marriage was a sin.”

Gerry didn't ask another loaded question of anyone the rest of the trip.

Flash Flood

Another couple who joined us at Bright Angel were Keith and Janet, a pair of lawyers who were nice enough but had, as near as I could determine, absolutely no sense of humor. They also lacked physical coordination, evidenced by an inability to clamber over even small rocks. They slipped even getting into a raft.

A highlight of the week was Elves' Chasm. This is a spot in a side canyon that features a twelve foot waterfall, with a grotto behind it. You can swim around the fall, then climb on the mossy rocks behind it to a sort of platform where you can stick your hand in the rushing water, then push off into it. After a drop of about six feet, the waterfall hurls your around and spits you to the side. You can do it again and again.

Robby, knowing how I love water things, had thoughtfully added this to our itinerary to help me get my mind off David. I dropped with the waterfall over and over, long after the other passengers had given up and were laying themselves out in the sun to dry. Robby himself showed up after about forty minutes with Keith and Janet, who had had trouble navigating the boulders that made up the “path” to Elves' Chasm. Robby asked me to please show Keith and Janet the grotto behind the falls.

Swimming, I led them to it and then waited for them to climb ahead of me. I could see why it had taken them so long to get here; they were as uncoordinated as an armload of marbles and I had to steady them as they slipped and slid over the mossy rocks.

As they climbed, there was a sudden change in light. Puzzled, I looked outside the grotto. The sky, which had been a brilliant blue, was now black. A storm was moving in.

Storms are dangerous when you're in any canyon. The most dangerous kinds are the ones you can't see. It can be raining on the rim of the Canyon, many miles away, or have rained hours ago and stopped. The rainwater gathers and flows, unimpeded, down side canyons towards he river. In fact, that's what created most of the side canyons. The result is a flash flood, which carries with it anything it encounters, trees, rocks, boulders, or…people.

The fact that a storm cloud was overhead suggested strongly that a flash flood was possible. Robby knew it too, of course. I had heard his flash flood speech before and knew what he was telling the passengers outside: “Everyone, pick up your things quickly and let's get back to the boats. When you get there, get in the nearest boat. Don't worry about getting in the same boat you were in earlier. We'll sort out your things, later.”

Of course, Keith and Janet didn't hear him at all; they weren't aware of any danger other than their slipping on the moss. Robby waded as close to the waterfall as he could, and called, “Paul, we're leaving now. Get Keith and Janet and let's go.”

I knew that panicking clumsy Keith and Janet was to be avoided at all costs, so I said, “Okay, we'll be out in a moment.”

“ Now, ” Robby hissed urgently.

“I do understand,” I called, hoping he understood me . We'll be out in a moment.” I jammed my arms up to the elbow in the lawyers' butts, trying to lift them onto the platform. They sat with their legs dangling over the edge, touching the falling water with their hands.

“How nice,” Janet said agreeably. “How do we get down?”

“Well, you just drop into the fall and let it take you,” I explained.

Keith and Janet exchanged looks. “We couldn't possibly,” said Keith. “We don't like falling.”

“We don't like falling,” Janet confirmed. “We're afraid of falling.”

“Well,” I said, reaching out, “Grand Canyon is about learning to face your fears!” and I pushed them into the falling water, which was already starting to include streaks of brown. I followed immediately after them.

They were quite indignant when they emerged from the water spluttering and splashing; but Robby gathered them up ahead of him and practically ran them to the boats. There was only one raft left when we got there, and I jumped in with them. They were still shouting angrily at me—how dare I push them! Did I know who I was dealing with?—while I helped Robby untie the raft and push it off.

The other rafts were upstream; this was the only one that had been tied to the downstream side of Elves' Creek. Robby rowed frantically. Suddenly there was a roar that out-shouted the river itself, as a wall of black water, punctuated with trees and boulders, slammed out of that little side canyon and into the river, creating a swell that carried us with it until we were well out of sight of the others. Robby brought us into an eddy and we waited in the rain for the flood to subside and so the other rafts could join us.

Keith and Janet, silenced by the flood, looked at me. “Did you know that was going to happen?” Keith asked.

“Uh,” I hesitated, “what answer won't get me sued?”

“You saved our lives,” Janet said in a surprised tone. I don't think she ever thought she'd be in a situation where that would be possible.

Acrophobia

Janet and Keith's telling the other passengers how I had “saved their lives” didn't stop Gerry from making occasional, thinly veiled comments about my supposed undeveloped manhood. They were usually made when I was in earshot but not part of the conversation. The person he was speaking with invariably became embarrassed, sometimes coming to my defense but usually standing aghast that anyone could be so openly bigoted at the end of the 20 ^th century.

It continued till the day we hiked Deer Creek. This was the very cliff I had decided, in advance, I would jump off. It was 700 feet above the creek itself, a sheer cliff on which the path was no more than a foot wide in most places, and less here and there. I figured it would look like an accident. That way, my family and friends would be spared the pain of knowing I had killed myself.

Walking away from the rafts, the path doesn't look so terrifying. The view from that angle includes a wider section of the path beyond a curve. Still, there were people who needed assistance from the boatmen who always come along to lead these hikes. Gerry was not one of them. Chatting with Barry, and, having the view of the path and walls beyond, I don't think he really knew he was so far above the creek. We hiked the whole five miles and, as usual on these hikes, straggled back one by one by two by one.

I timed it so that I was far ahead or behind anyone when I got to the cliff. Gerry was the only person in sight, and he was far enough ahead of me that I thought he'd be well around the corner when it was time for me to step off the edge.

My breath was shallow and bitter. “Okay, God,” I thought with annoyance. “You may be powerful enough to make my life miserable, but You can't force me to live it.” I felt a grim exultation in the victory that would soon be mine. I wasn't despondent, just miserable and hurting and tired. 32 feet the first second, 64 the next, 96 the next…a falling body on Earth gains 32 feet per second for each second of fall. It would take a little over six seconds to hit, but I'd be dead for sure when I smashed against the bottom. Not much mess, maybe not much even to bring home There'd be no problems like lifelong paralysis or plastic surgery to contend with. This would be it . And then, eventually, I would get another life. Say, Gerry, I thought, wryly, Do you know in how many places the Bible talks about reincarnation?

Except, Gerry was still ahead of me, not moving. He was standing on the cliff, with his back to the wall, eyes wide and terrified.

He was whimpering.

I ran up to him. “Gerry, what is it? Are you all right?”

He couldn't speak. I'd seen that look before, on David, the day we took our first hike. Gerry was having an attack of acrophobia. I touched his shoulders, which only made him shrink more tightly into the wall.

Below the trail, was another, even more narrow lip on the cliff edge, maybe three inches wide—wide enough for the toes of my Tevas. I stepped lightly onto the lip, immediately in front of Gerry, my heels hovering 700 feet above the creek. “Look,” I said. “You can't fall. I'm in front of you and the cliff wall is behind you. Isn't that right?” He nodded weakly. “Okay, I'm going to walk with you. You can keep your hands on the wall, and I'm right with you, right in front of you. You can't fall, right? C'mon, one step. One sideways step, okay? You can do it!” And step by tortuous step, we edged back toward the river and the safety of the rafts.

When we had finally gotten past the narrow portion of the cliff, Gerry collapsed onto the ground, sitting huddled, arms around his knees. He shook with muffled sobs. I put my arm around his shoulders and waited for him to calm down.

“I don't know what came over me,” he said. “I've never been afraid of heights before.”

“Grand Canyon is about facing your fears,” I said. “You've probably never been on a 700 foot cliff before. At least, not before today.” And, now that we were past the cliff my chance to jump off it was blown. I knew exactly why Gerry had been hit by a sudden and unexpected attack of acrophobia. But I would still have my way. The Universe wasn't going to stop me that easily.

At least Gerry stopped making references to my masculinity. He seemed more embarrassed than anything else, but I kept his secret and I think he appreciated that, in his own way.

The Green Room

Now that I had come so far, I decided to live another day, because I had a chance— finally!—to do something I'd wanted to do for years.

Before I made the first trip to Grand Canyon, I read up on it and found that there is a thing called “The Green Room”, a special, sacred place that few people see because of the difficulty reaching it. On the first day of the trip, Robby tells the passengers: “You could raft Grand Canyon a hundred times and not see everything. I haven't seen everything. So, if there's anything special you want to see, let me know and I'll try to include it.” On my first trip, the one that started with a helicopter landing at Whitmore Wash, I responded, “I want to go to the Green Room.”

He shook his head. “We've already passed it,” he said.

So, on my next trip, I made sure I was rafting the whole Canyon and told him, again, “The Green Room.”

“Sure,” he responded this time. So I looked forward eagerly to the day we got there. Except, we never did. On the last day, when we were deflating the rafts, I asked, “What happened to the Green Room?”

“Oh,” he said innocently, “You didn't go? We were there…!”

As I spoke with other boatmen, I discovered that, for some reason, they all fear the Green Room. I mean, they are terrified of it. One boatman told me he'd heard the travertine walls of the tunnel leading to it had thickened through the years, making the tunnel so small a person would get stuck and drown. Another told me it was against company policy to go, or even tell a passenger of its existence.

When my third trip ended without my getting to the Green Room, I knew something was up. Robby, so cooperative in everything else, had a technique. He'd agree to go, then just not do it. I didn't know the Canyon well enough to know exactly where the Green Room was; I relied on him to tell me and he wouldn't.

So, in preparation for this year's trip, I had re-read the book I originally studied. I knew the Green Room was in Beaver Falls, the river-most waterfall on Havasu Creek.

“Tomorrow is Havasu Creek,” I reminded Robby the night before. “Now, I want to see the Green Room. I know you're afraid of it for some reason, and you don't want the other passengers to go. Fine. I won't say a word about it to anyone. But, Robby, I'm going. ”

Robby grinned. “Good for you,” he said. “Enjoy it. Beaver Falls. Five mile hike.”

The next day, Robby gave his usual speech regarding Havasu Creek and the day's hike. “Today we're hiking one of the most exquisite parts of the Canyon,” he said. “Havasu Creek is a very special place. We're going to hike all the way to Beaver Falls, which is a twenty-foot waterfall about five miles up-creek. If you hike all that way, what will you see? You'll see your feet.” Everyone laughed. “Look up every now and then,” he advised earnestly. “And, if you see a spot that speaks to you, stop there. The whole creek is beautiful, but there's no spot that's more beautiful than another, so you won't be missing anything. This is a hike for you to find yourself, to connect with the Canyon. When you find a glade that is right for you, stop. Hang out. Eat your bag lunch. We'll come and get you on the way back. No one will be left behind.”

He then assigned two boatmen, Sam and Gray, to lead and trail the hikers, respectively.

I clung to Sam, determined to get to Beaver Falls as soon as possible. But I did glance around every now and then. Travertine is a mineral composed primarily of calcium, and the water of Havasu Creek is laden with it. That's why the water has an unearthly bluish-green color. In fact, havasu is an Indian word meaning “blue-green water”. In ages past, the water ran higher than it does now. And so, Havasu Canyon, forming by the erosion of the creek, has walls of ancient travertine. Though no longer white due to age, they still look like they were made from melted Styrofoam. The floor of the creek itself is pure white, with hundreds of minor cascades formed from the travertine's depositing itself on and around every rock and branch and bit of debris that happens to be in the water.

I saw the glade I had planted myself in on my previous trip, taking Robby at his word, not realizing that this was the location of the Green Room. Someone else claimed this glade. Others dropped out as we continued, content to relax in the sunshine and commune with their very own bit of Grand Canyon, in private reverie.

Finally, of the passengers only Celeste and Barry and I remained. Gray caught up with us, joining Sam and I explained that I intended to go to the Green Room, and would Sam and Gray please point the way to me?

Sam and Gray looked at each other and then at me. “I've never been there,” Sam admitted. “Me, neither,” echoed Gray. Damn Robby! He had intentionally sent me to Beaver Falls with, probably, the only two boatmen on the trip who had never been to the Green Room! If I was going to find it, I would have to find it on my own.

I told Celeste and Barry what the Green Room was, and why I wanted to see it. Celeste wasn't interested (she was having an affair with Gray, begun the day after she sent Eric up Bright Angel Trail without her) and Barry thought it might be cool but I should try it first.

The first hurdle was to get behind the waterfall. There were travertine curtains on either side of the water, so the only way to get behind the water was to punch through it. But I couldn't see what was on the other side. It might be pointy rocks. The wall might be close behind the water, or far behind it. The water was falling hard enough that I couldn't get through tentatively. I would have to push through with all my might.

It was very scary. But finally, reminding myself that I intended to kill myself, anyway, I climbed partway up a travertine curtain and hurled myself at the wall of water.

The first try, the water spit me out immediately. The second try wasn't more successful. Finally, with perhaps a little more strength born of frustration, I punched through.

There was plenty of room, and there were no jagged rocks. The water was calm, though the roar of the falling water was almost overwhelming.

The next step was to find the tunnel opening, which was five feet underwater, on the wall behind the falls. I dove underwater, taking care to not get caught in the current and be kicked out into the open water again. The opening was easy to see; it was about five feet in diameter and ominously black. I returned to the surface for air.

Swimming into the tunnel would definitely be the scariest part. I couldn't remember how far one had to swim before getting to the Green Room, though I knew it was a distance I could easily cover. But, how far? I finally decided I would swim for a count of fifteen; and, if I wasn't at the end yet, I would turn around. That would commit me to only thirty seconds, and I can hold my breath for more than sixty.

I hyperventilated, then dove again and swam into that great yawn of a mouth in the wall. One…two…three… I had not yet reached eight, when the tunnel abruptly arched upward. I knew to rise slowly, with my hands protecting the top of my head. There is a stalactite poised directly over the opening that will nail any unwary visitor who emerges from the water too quickly.

All the while, underwater, the roar of the waterfall was constant companion. But, the moment my ears cleared the water—there was sudden, and absolute, silence.

The Green Room is a little grotto, a gap in the travertine behind the waterfall. It gets its name from the color of daylight filtered through the blue-green water, faintly illuminating it. Ferns grow in there, and there is a special, eerie, sacred feel to the space. It's like being in a tiny cathedral all your own. It's like being in a womb.

I floated there, suspended in a blue green twilight, weightless, hovering in time as well as space. I still ached from losing Steve; I still was pissed at losing David. But I was also triumphant at finally getting to the Green Room and sad that I couldn't just remain here forever.

There was a stir in the water below me and then a body slid in front of mine. It was Barry. I quickly inserted a hand between his scalp and the stalactite. He bobbed directly in front of me. There was so little space that our bodies rubbed together from chest to legs. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “This is amazing! No wonder you wanted to see it!” He seemed oblivious to what the proximity of his well-toned body was doing to mine. It was another taunt, I thought. God hurling yet another impossible-to-have man at me. Barry was straight and married. I sighed, “Enjoy,” and ducked below him, following the underwater tunnel out and letting the current of the waterfall shove me out into the pond below the falls. Barry joined me shortly, and we tried to sell Sam and Gray on visiting the Green Room, but they would have none of it.

When we got back to the river, I stared at Robby for a quarter hour while he rowed. Finally, I said, “I can't believe you sent me to Beaver Falls with the only two boatmen on the river who've never been to the Green Room.”

“You found it, didn't you?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Some things, you have to find by yourself,” Robby said, calmly guiding the boat with the current.

I chewed on that awhile, then said, “Sam and Gray are terrified of the Green Room. I couldn't even convince them to check it out after Barry and I were in it.”

“It's a scary place.”

“It was a lot scarier before I went in,” I said. “Once I was there, it's nothing. A piece of cake. But I couldn't convince either one of them to try it.”

“Maybe they're not afraid of it enough to bother,” Robby said.

“What do you mean?”

“'Grand Canyon is about facing your fears.' Isn't that what you're always saying?” I was amazed. I didn't know he'd ever heard me. “But maybe it's only the big fears we have to face.”

“I wasn't particularly afraid of the Green Room,” I said.

“What are you afraid of?” The question was unexpected, and so was the answer I blurted out.

“Being alone.” A sob escaped my chest. My eyes welled with tears. Robby let go of one oar and quietly put his hand on my shoulder. The other two passengers, oblivious to this moment between Robby and me, were dozing in the back of the raft. Suddenly I knew that Robby ached as much for his Cathy as I did for Steve. Even though Robby had said he had been the one to end it. Cathy wasn't right for him, as David wasn't right for me. But it still hurt.

And that, I realized, was my greatest fear: The fear of being alone, of not having anyone to share my heart with. Not having anyone to share the world with. To go to sleep alone every night, to wake up alone every morning.

So, how did I plan to face my fear? By not facing it…by killing myself so I wouldn't have to.

Except, as a person who understands the principles of reincarnation, I knew that any unfaced fears would simply have to be faced in another lifetime. Or another…or another. If I didn't face this now, in this lifetime, I would live a life alone…and another…and another, until I finally dealt with it.

A life alone. Endless years. Bleak, sad, lonely years. Maybe. Maybe, once I dealt with it, the issue itself would go away and Mr. Right would come along. I realized that, as long as I needed that to happen, I would not yet have dealt with it.

Mr. Right could only come along when I could take him or leave him.

Celeste was wrong. She thought she had to be better in a couple than she was alone. But I now realized that a healthy couple is exactly as good together as they are separately. Neither is a partial person. Each is complete. Being together doesn't satisfy a need; it's just fun.

“When we row through a rapid,” Robby observed softly, “We don't fight the current. You can't. No one could fight this river and win.”

I looked over the water, calm at this section but also inexorably flowing.

“We can see where the current is going, though,” he continued. “We can influence, somewhat, our path. We are going downstream, for sure—but we can move a little to the left, a little to the right. If we change our path early enough, we can avoid getting trapped in a hole or capsizing. But we can never go backwards, and we can't change our minds about going through the rapids, after all. Once you're on this river, you're committed to it.”

The river rolled on and so did Robby and I. Each of us was alone, together, and there was no end in sight. There was nothing to do but flow with the current. To allow what happens, to happen, without censoring or fighting or regretting. To trust that the Universe had some plan for me, even though I didn't know what it was. To allow that plan to unfold in its own time, in its own way.

And, with that realization, I felt the ache in my heart begin to heal.