Jen kicks it in the sand, taking in life on the river below Lava Falls in the Grand Canyon.

The art of outdoor living
Stairway Canyon at the Colorado River,
Nov. 4, day #70

Before embarking on this journey, I was convinced that living outdoors full time would be one of the more challenge aspects of these three months. Much to my surprise, I have found it the most natural transition of the trip. It's been 70 days on the river now and I feel entirely merged with the out of doors. More than once, I have declared that I am never going inside again.

What started as subtle behavior changes are now solidly engrained habits. Perhaps it began when I noticed that I can generally tell time by the location of sun. Though I must admit, when you live on river time, the exact hour doesn't really matter. We wake when the stars begin to fade and turn in not long after darkness sets in, even though that means we're often in our sleeping bags before 8 p.m. Those who know me will recognize this as a drastic change from my previous routine of staying up until 2 a.m. and sleeping until 10 in the morning.

We've long since lost track of the days of the week and often the date. And most of the time, we don't want to know. I remember a discussion between Josh and I in Labyrinth Canyon about what day of the week it was. He thought it was the weekend; I was guessing it was a Tuesday. In the end, we decided it didn't matter and created a new day of the week, which we named Triday. We rowed up to Marilyn and Howie and announced our invention.

"It's Wednesday," Howie said flatly.

I routinely pass up a solar shower, even a warm one, opting instead to jump in the river for a brisk bath – and this water below the dam hovers around 50 degrees. As we prepared to launch on the Grand Canyon section at Lee's Ferry, my feet ached every time I waded into the water that flows cold and clear from the bottom of Glen Canyon Dam. Today I can stand in river for several minutes, even in the morning, without running for the warmth of dry land.

After weeks of using the bathroom outdoors, indoor restrooms -- be it a Park Service outhouse or a marina structure complete with running water and a flush toilet -- seem royal treatment. I've developed a new affliction upon reaching such places in which I uncontrollably exclaim aloud, "Ooooo, an inside bathroom!" This has elicited more than a few strange looks from other women but my big smile and wide eyes seem to convince them that I am sincere.

I have started following footprints in the sand when I am looking for the scout route or the location of the groover. I can identify Mike's prints by the brand name of his shoe imprinted on the sole. When Josh's Chacos blew out and someone gave him a new pair of sandals to finish the trip, I actually made a point of looking at the tread so that I could tell which impressions in the sand were his. The new shoes leave a distinct print of circles, making him much easier to track.

I can squat on the balls of my feet for several minutes at a time, a skill honed no doubt by weeks of peeing in the river from shore and off the side of the boat. I go days without combing my hair and usually about a week between shampoos. But I did break down and buy deodorant in Page after catching a whiff of my armpit while grocery shopping.

And it's not just me who has fully adapted to living outdoors. Every time Josh encounters a large rock shelter or overhang while we are hiking he enthusiastically announces, "We could live here!" He's also taken a new interest in arrowheads and spears. One afternoon in Stillwater Canyon we stood in the middle of a chipping site while Colorado Riverkeeper John Weisheit told us of how the natives used deer antlers to wear notches into jasper stone in a quest create the perfect point, discarding hundreds of unsuccessful attempts that still lie on the ground today. Downstream Josh later found a chunk of jasper the size of his fist that he plans to use in an attempt to make his own ancient tools.

Back in Missoula, the breakfast hour might have found Mike, Josh and I discussing the latest stories from the newspaper or arguing about politics around a table at The Shack. Recently, we spend the morning debating whether the small black duck swimming in the eddy near camp was a grebe or a coot. Instead of drinks at Charlie's, we barge up during long afternoons on the water and share beers as we float. As the primary beer tosser, my PBR fast pitch could win me a spot on a minor league team while Roselle's catching ability has steadily improved. We have yet to lose an unopened beer to the river.

Soon, though, our trip will come to end and these well-honed skills will become less useful back in a world where clocks tell time, water comes from the tap and home consists of much more than a paco pad and a sleeping bag. Nevertheless, I will not be surprised to find myself brushing my teeth out in the yard tracking the constellations, or shaking my clothes each morning to ensure there are no scorpions or bats hiding inside of them.

I suspect re-entry will be more difficult than withdrawal.

Waiting for Roselle during the slow stretches of the
Unita Basin provides the perfect opportunity for a
much-needed bath.