It was launch day at Lee's Ferry, mile 0 of a 280-mile trip. Marble Canyon, the eye-drying prelude to the Grand Canyon itself, had everyone humbled.

Some say beauty is only skin deep. I would learn otherwise on this trip.

Fourteen people had cashed in vacation days at work; driven hundreds or flown thousands of miles; borrowed equipment and gear; invested in 21 days' supplies for the privilege of floating the Grand Canyon.

And the permit holder, or "PH," was nowhere in sight. It was past lunchtime, we should be hours downstream. But our six rafts, heavily loaded with kitchen equipment, gas tanks, tents, sleeping bags, requisite "groovers" and accompanying toilet supplies waited just downstream of the busy commercial launch area at the rocky edge customarily occupied by private boaters the day before launch.

I watched a semi truck deposit an impossibly large "bologna boat" in the water for a commercial run. The passengers would be bussed in later. The giant tubes would motor rows of people through rapids without messing their hair. Our boats ranged from 14 to 20 feet in length and each would host two or three people, including the rower.

The Greatest Whitewater in America. The Trip of a Lifetime. The divorce-causing, love-finding reality show of all reality shows...a private trip down the Grand Canyon spawns many cliches. This trip already seemed unlike any I'd ever been on. We'd spent years preparing for a 2003 run, my husband the permit holder, our friends aboard. This year I'd received a call Thursday and was on a plane Saturday. I knew three others.

"Things were looking serious. Without the Permit Holder, according to the national park service, our launch would be a 'no go.'"

Using a binder clip, I sectioned off last year's trip in my journal to begin anew. For last year's trip, I had produced laminated kitchen duty charts and had engaged an outfitting company to buy groceries organized meal by meal and packed with cookbooks and supplies. Also, we had detailed organizational diagrams which cooler contained what in order to reduce open-cooler time, hoping the ice would last two weeks. This trip would be different.

Where was our permit holder? WHO was our permit holder? She was Helga Brujadera (to protect the guilty, some names have been changed.) No one had any more answers.

I hastily listed what was loaded on each boat and put the list in the kitchen box. We were crowding tomorrow's launch, a group of friendly Wyoming river rats who laughed sympathetically at our predicament as they wrapped duct tape around whiskey bottles and tugged camstraps.

Things were looking serious. Without the PH, according to the national park service, our launch would be a "no go." Two of our "repeaters" or river gurus--people who make a life of running the Colorado at least once a year--were looking sideways at the ranger's truck and speaking in low voices.