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< March April 2004
	Different Strokes
Peace, Love, Community…Rafting Want happy feet and friends? Rafts are the answer Matt Hansen

Come with me, for I am your friend. With my cushy raft beneath us, the river’s shoulders will carry us in comfort to sights you never knew existed. We’ll recline and let our weary eyes trace the canyon walls. Bring your fly rod, because the trout may be hungry, and you can fish while you float. The river is ours to share, as are the contents of this cooler—full as it is of ice-cold beverages, marinated New York steaks, fajita mix and Doritos. Throw in some melons if you wish, for this raft of mine has room. And bring some friends, but tell them to leave their kayaks (and egos) at home if they really want to enjoy the river. At camp, we’ll pull out sleeping bags, pads and camp chairs. Then we’ll dance around the warm fire pan on rested, rather than kayak-mangled, feet. Or we’ll take your grandmother. She’s never been on a river and wants to see a bald eagle. And that’s OK, because my raft can take her, too.

If you want, I’ll teach you how to row, a skill that will turn canyons of big water into your highways. We’ll float beyond the neighborhood, man-made playhole, where kayakers show off like children at recess, confined as they are to the Jungle Gym. We’ll travel hundreds of miles in comfort. Kayakers will whine that they, too, can travel big distances, but this is possible only if they’re lucky to have a tolerant, unselfish friend with a raft. People will seek us, and our raft, out for their Grand Canyon permit. They know we’ll take one—or two or 10—for the team. If you’re a kayaker, getting asked to go on a river trip

usually necessitates mammaries.

At the helm of a raft, we’ll get to know the river, for the skill of safely guiding a 700-pound raft requires you to read the water one, two, sometimes three bends ahead. On mellow stretches, we’ll see the trees and learn the songs of birds, because this raft encourages its passengers to look around. We’ll appreciate more than holes, waves and froth, which together make up a mere fraction of a river experience. While kayakers find fulfillment only in whitewater, rafters appreciate the quiet sections. Ever tried floating a whitewater kayak through miles of flatwater? It’s like having half your body stuffed into a ski boot on the bunny slope. That’s why on calm stretches kayakers will climb aboard. And we’ll be happy to have them, because my raft likes humans, and so do I. Having company doesn’t feel like work; it feels like community.

If adrenaline is what you seek, wait till this raft is barreling into haystacks flanked by boulders. We’ll punch holes that munch all but the best kayakers. If we hit a rock, we’ll just bounce off, a highly preferred alternative to getting pinned inside a plastic coffin. And if we flip, we’ll gather our bobbing gear and put it back. We’ll accept the river as it is and go with the current, because fighting it is like trying to ride an ornery bison. If we fight it, we will lose. It sounds hard because it is. But once you control a raft against such adversity, you’ll be addicted. Though kayakers claim an unparalleled closeness with the water, there’s nothing more intimate than using the current as your own, with control coming in slight oar adjustments, an art form in and of itself.

If you’d rather have some action with a paddle, we’ll just lift the frame out for a perfectly good paddle raft. We’ll crush the rapids together—as a team. Rafting may not place us atop some contrived social strata invented simply to reaffirm huge egos, but that’s not why we go to the river.

In a kayak, you’ll notice the water is cold. But perched atop the safe pontoons of my raft, we won’t need suffocating dry tops, the kind whose rubber neck gaskets make a kayaker’s eyes pop out of his skull. If it’s sunny, we’ll wear swim suits beneath our comfortable, user-friendly PFDs, and our feet will be happy in our Tevas. The kayakers, meanwhile, will be squirming from what feels like millions of ants crawling on their numb, half-dead feet.

Don’t forget the sunscreen, because while lounging on this raft you’ll want to lube up with the smell of coconuts. We’ll watch the olfactory-deficient, slave-to-their-nose-plugs kayakers like a mom or dad watches their 6-year-old son cheerfully play with hunks from the litter box, hoping it’s only a phase and that one day he’ll understand there are better games to play.

It’s true that rigging this raft even for a day trip takes more time than outfitting a kayak. But it also takes longer to roast beef tenderloin than it does to cook Ramen. And I’m sure we’d all rather have the beef.

In the end, it’s a matter of comfort, both on your seat and in your choice of craft. Just because we don’t kayak doesn’t mean we can’t. It simply means we choose freedom. Now, my friend, give me a hand with this cooler.

—As a guide, Matt Hansen is preferred by eight out of 10 grandmothers who go rafting.