The first ten minutes
The wetsuit goes on over your swimsuit at the base and feels absurd until you are in the water, at which point it stops being absurd. Helmet, life jacket, paddle. Then the briefing, which is short and not theatrical: how to hold the paddle, the handful of commands you will hear, and what to do if you or somebody else goes in.
Then you carry the raft down, get in, and the cold arrives all at once. That first minute is the worst of the day and everyone gets it at the same time, which is half the reason boats end up laughing.
What the river actually asks of you
- Paddle when the guide says paddle. Stop when the guide says stop. That is genuinely the whole job.
- Stay where you were seated. The arrangement is about balance, not preference.
- Keep the helmet and jacket on the whole way, including the flat stretches where it feels unnecessary.
- Get in at the swim stops if you want to. Nobody is pushed, and plenty of people stay in the boat.
What we will not dramatise
We do not publish how many people sit in a raft, because that is the base's arrangement on the day and nothing in our records fixes it. Nor will we tell you the run is terrifying or that it is a gentle float — it is neither, and the honest version is that it alternates.
The long calm sections are a real part of it. If you are picturing continuous white water for fourteen kilometres, adjust: there are rapids, and there are glassy stretches where the canyon closes in and everyone stops talking.
After the water
You change into dry clothes and eat, properly, at a shaded riverside restaurant. Most people are hungrier than they expected and quieter than they were on the way up.
Then the drive home, which is when a bus full of adults tends to fall asleep. Plan the evening loosely.