Asher on Aspen: Your brain on whitewater

There’s something beautifully reckless about stepping into a rubber raft with your family and shoving off into a fast-moving body of water known literally as the Roaring Fork. As in: not the Whispering Fork. Roaring.

It was a bluebird morning in Aspen. The kind of morning that takes you back to childhood — before alarm clocks, deadlines, and the weight of being grown. A day that practically begs you to get outside and do something that shakes you up a bit. So, we did.

We stripped down to swimsuits, handed over our phones, and boarded a raft with Elk Mountain Expeditions for a two-hour joyride down the Roaring Fork. I went with my older sister Erin, her husband Kevan, and their three wild-eyed offspring: Bridie, 11, Hattie, 9, and the smallest daredevil of them all, Jamison — four years old, towheaded, and grinning from ear to ear.

Our guide was Austin — the kind of guy you’d want with you if the plane went down or if society collapsed. Deep tan, big-brimmed sun hat, and the calm authority of someone who’s seen some things.

“We’re rich in skills, not in wealth,” he told us, cracking a grin as he tightened our life jackets. And I believed him. I’d wager that Austin could build a fire from driftwood and sheer willpower, while I still have to triple-check how to set up a tent without instructions.

We pushed off and slid into the current. The river smelled like pine needles and wet rock, crisp and earthy. The water was the color of glacial runoff because that’s exactly what it was: melted snow still in the early stages of reincarnation. It slapped against the boat with a kind of mischief, daring us to relax. And just when you did relax? Bam — a splash, a swirl, a jolt that snapped your spine awake.

The Roaring Fork’s middle section is rated Class II — mild stuff, relatively speaking. But when you’re sitting next to a four-year-old cackling like a cartoon villain, the adrenaline hits differently. This wasn’t about fear. This was about glee. Unfiltered, teeth-chattering, white-knuckled glee.

We zigged and zagged through the bends, all of us paddling in sync (mostly) while Austin shouted commands from the back like some river-bound general. “Forward four!” he’d bark, and we’d all snap to attention. Teamwork was the only currency here. Drift too long, paddle too late, and the boat might end up backward, sideways, or kissing a boulder.

At one point, we pulled off to the side at a swimming hole — a cold, clear pocket of water that dared us to jump in. The kind of cold that knocks the wind out of your lungs and makes you feel more alive than coffee ever could. One by one, the kids jumped in. Hattie screeched like she’d seen a ghost. Bridie dove in over and over like she couldn’t get enough of the shock. Even little Jamison took the plunge, squealing and flailing like a happy frog.

Back on the raft, we executed a thrilling, intentional 360 — Austin’s party trick — ricocheting off a rock and spinning through the current like a sudsy bathtub toy. Kevan held Jamison tight with one arm, the other thrown up in the air, riding the moment like a rollercoaster. The kids were howling with laughter, Erin was beaming, and I couldn’t help but feel like a kid at the fair, caught up in the thrill of the ride.

By the time we reached the final stretch, the sun was higher and our limbs were tired in the best way — the kind of fatigue you earn. Snacks appeared like magic: granola bars, chips, and La Croixs were wolfed down on the shuttle ride back to town. Everyone, including me, was buzzing with endorphins and sunshine. It felt like summer camp for grown-ups and tiny humans alike.

Elk Mountain Expeditions even gives you free photos. Free! In Aspen! That alone deserves a slow clap. None of the guides are rookies either. They come back season after season because rafting is a lifestyle, not just a summer job. These guys might not own stock portfolios or drive Teslas, but they own their time, their summers, and their peace of mind. That’s the kind of wealth I’m trying to chase.

We could’ve kept going all day. It wasn’t long enough. It never is. But that’s the beauty of a good river run — it snaps you out of the endless scroll, the back-to-back emails, and the caffeine-fueled blur of “what’s next.” For a couple hours, you’re just water, sun, wind, and muscle. You are in it. Fully alive, fully present.

And when it’s over, you step back onto dry land feeling different. Not totally changed, maybe, but just a little more awake — a gentle reminder that life is happening right here, right now. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.