Becoming Deano Everybody, it seems, wants to be like Mike. Michael Jordan, that is. Air Jordan. His Airness? Everybody wants to be like Mike except me. I want to be like Deano. I'm a realist—I don't have the preternatural leaping ability, the golden fall-away jump shot, or that inimitable tongue thing. I am a boatman, however, and a pretty good one. I'm not Deano, though. At least not yet. Dean, Deano, is a consummate pro river guide who works mostly in Idaho. He moonlighted a few years ago during the early Arizona boating season with Pablo and I and a couple of other local guides. Nothing, absolutely nothing, shakes this guy. He's calmer than a Buddhist monk. He'll screw up a difficult, technical run—and laugh. Snow, sleet, frost on the proverbial pumpkin—he's laughing. Mountain lions in camp or scorpions in his shoes. Hangover from hell. A flipped boat or two, some broken equipment, no shuttle. Pissy clients. None of it makes any difference to Deano. He has himself a real good time. He's my hero. Perhaps I'm a tad too intense, but I hate surprises—in camp or on the river. I'm forever in search of that perfect trip. Henry Hudson and the ghostly crew of the Half Moon may have sailed off the edge of the known world, but I bet they had a sense of humor. The mutiny on the Bounty was a small disagreement, hardly worth mentioning. The Titanic? A glorified booze cruise that ran out of everything but ice. And Ahab and the boys were simply out for a bit of sportfishing. How's that for a quick attitude adjustment? So I get invited to do a Grand Canyon trip, providing raft support for a clutch of Austin, Texas, kayakers. Cool. It's my chance to disappear. I can feel myself relaxing already. Becoming Deano. Here I come. This is going to be easy. We have a cartoon character crew: an honest-to-god, larger-than-life Texas Ranger; a stockbroker; the General; a big blocky guy wearing a hat that says SWAT; a social worker; an old hippie named Thelma; and Danny-boy, who says rather cryptically that he's "in the movie business." One of our female kayakers has the style and attitude of a little Xena, The Warrior Princess. The three lissome ladies who will be riding as raft passengers introduce themselves as the "Tube Tarts." You getting the picture? Oh yeah—one of the other support rafts has a beach umbrella hooked to a converted bug sprayer that is filled with river water and connected to A/C tubing, to provide a constant, cooling mist. I'm rowing great—a bit of bravado, a touch of finesse. I'm feeling so good I even considered taking a bite of the sacred Datura plant that bloomed all around my bedroll last night, but decided not to. Instead, I watched the meteor shower until two ringtails staged a furry Armageddon right next to my pillow, with the victor winning the exclusive right to pillage our kitchen. I am at peace. I've got the Deano business down pat. Heck, yesterday Pablo insisted we move our assembled camp 50 yards down the beach. Didn't bother me at all. Each day is filled with laughter and the positive ions generated by moving water. Lunches are spent cloistered in the ample shade provided by the cowboy hat of our personal Texas Ranger. We are becoming a tribe. A family. The storm is a seminal event. A few drops at Havasu Creek. Then chaos. The smell of ozone. An aerial artillery bombardment that eclipses the siege at Stalingrad. Waterfalls, hundreds, plummeting from both rims. It was frightening, humbling, exhilarating, like having a living window on the creation of the world, featuring more abject power than the human mind can comprehend. Maybe I short-circuited. One minute I was rowing grimly through the suffocating deluge, then suddenly I began to howl. A feral bellow, equal parts joy and reverence and pure electricity. My intrepid companions hesitated only briefly. We became a chorus. A mad, berserk symphony of tiny voices unleashed in celebration; an acknowledgment of something much more than the feeble course of human events. Liquid Epiphany. Deano would have been proud. In light of the roll I was on, my faux pas at Vulcan's Anvil didn't seem important. I fully intended to venerate tradition and leave a coin, an offering in a niche of the volcanic, mid-river pillar. Another boat got in the way. I blithely blew it off. We scouted Lava Falls from the left bank. The ominous trench-hole at the top was deeper than the mercy of God. It was a real nasty level. So, naturally, the last thing I said in the eddy above the drop was something brash about "running closer to the trench than any living man would dare." Sure. Good plan. Suffice it to say I got a teeny bit right. Just a few feet, but more than enough. I had time for a very short speech. One word, actually. I carefully chose a word that Deano would never utter, and despite my blasphemy, I had a Vision. It has been scientifically established that the simultaneous injection of ice water into every bodily orifice will produce vivid hallucinations. I beheld the beautific countenance of Saint Deano on a white and chocolate background. Then I got hammered. Tore my lifevest somehow. Got pummeled, got motivated, and arm-vaulted on top of the overturned boat at my earliest convenience. Then I floated, sublimely blissed, comforted by my vision, around the next bend in the river, with Xena and the SWAT guy in hot pursuit. These days I guess you could say I'm reformed. I understand now that different strokes really do work for different folks. The experiment in becoming Deano was a dismal farce. Zen is not my deal, apparently, and I've joined an obscure boaters group that's much like Alcoholics Anonymous—take it one day at a time. If I can get through this article without flipping, I'll have 37 dry days. Tomorrow will be 38. I've also learned to laugh at myself. Ha, Ha. There. Now get off my back. And if they ever find Deano's battered, strangled corpse, crudely covered in poison oak leaves—it wasn't me, honest. Deano is still my hero.
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