The sandstone and quartz above us in sun-bleached hues of peach and gray were dotted with the deep greens of Douglas fir and sagebrush. Bighorn-sheep families grazed nearby, with no apparent fear of the river invaders.

We were on a four-day, guided white-water river-rafting trip. Josh and I had long talked of taking such a trip. Josh’s younger brother, Zach–a landlubber through and through–never shared our enthusiasm. Our group of 18 included several children besides 13-year-old Josh, but 10-year-old Zach was not among them.

Sadly, Zach had died two months earlier, after battling cancer for more than three years. As Josh and I struggled separately to deal with the void left in our lives, I decided the time was right for our river trip. I hoped it would be an opportunity for bonding, and also just plain fun.

Almost immediately, I found myself enjoying being anonymous. These strangers knew nothing about us; there was no deep sighing as we approached. It was a relief to live completely in the moment. Our all-consuming concerns were reduced to which rapids we would conquer, where we would hike and what we would eat.

Learning the names of the rapids was almost as much fun as forging through them. There was Hell’s Half Mile, Schoolboy, Moonshine, SOB (Save Our Boat) and, of course, Disaster Falls. One of Powell’s men named the route we were traveling Lodore Canyon, after the English cascades described by poet Robert Southey: “Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,/Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling, and boiling…” Couldn’t have said it better myself.

Nick, one of our hip, high-spirited guides, derived great pleasure from tossing the giggling kids into the relatively safe flat water of the river. Josh, who unwisely took to taunting him, held the record of 25 overboard tosses.

The composition of each of the four-oar boats changed daily, carrying fresh and unpredictable conversation. One day I found myself on an all-female self-styled “estrogen boat,” led by Sandy, our carefree guide with a pierced navel. Among other fascinating tidbits of girl talk, I learned that nude sky diving can lead to frostbitten nipples.

For city folk like us, the wildlife was ideal–no bears, coyotes or snakes. The full count, recorded by 11-year-old budding veterinarian Megan, was 68 bighorn sheep, 2 great blue herons, 11 ducks and 1 golden eagle. There were too many yellow jackets and flies to count.

Despite the insects, river camping was pure pleasure. Though our campsites each night were pristine and wild, I had been dreading this part of the trip. I was sure I would be plagued by sleeplessness and the accompanying dark thoughts.

Our tent felt claustrophobic, so Josh and I slept out by the water each night. The air was delicious, and the sky was littered with stars and lit by an immense beckoning moon. My one bout of insomnia allowed me to take in a shooting-star show that sprang up in the quiet of the black night as if meant for my eyes alone. Alone with Josh on that dark shore, I felt Zach had somehow orchestrated the stellar performance from the heavens.

The close of the trip came all too soon, as the ends of dream vacations always do. Josh and I had enjoyed an easy camaraderie. Zach would have liked the trip, we agreed as we drove back, but he might have objected to being thrown into the river so much. It was strange and sad not to have the boys bickering in the back seat, or to be able to relive the new sights and experiences with both my sons.

I knew it would be just one of many difficult firsts as I learned to live without my beloved younger son. It dawned on me that our river adventure was really a metaphor for our new life. I was setting the course for Josh, showing him that you can still feel excited about what lies beyond the next bend, even after your world has been shattered by terrible loss. Josh and I would keep our shared memories of this Green River trip, to be tucked away and drawn upon like a talisman of hope in the dark days ahead.