Come morning, amid the usual curses and banging and clanks, breakfast is served, camp is broken, the canoes are reloaded, and the post-dawn air is greeted by Canoe Handling 101, Day 2: "For crying out loud, you doofus, that's no way to get into a canoe. You're gonna sink us, you imbecile. And remember, you dumb nerd, paddle left, left, not right, damnit, left. When I say left I mean left, you cretin." Somehow, all four canoes make it back into the river and begin floating through a stretch of rocks called Labyrinth Canyon. The scenery is so overpowering, there comes a strange silence. Overwhelmed by the towering canyon walls and the blaze of sandstone formations, the group forgets its trivialities for a while and just stares at millions and millions of years of geologic history. Desert varnish in Desolation Canyon The only sound, far off, is the faint beating of wings as a pair of gray herons take flight. The sky is stunning blue, and there is a blessed small breeze in the air. It is about as elemental as it gets. But the group is nothing if not motive, so the moment passes and soon, growling and snapping begins anew. (It must be said, however, that by the time they all get to the Mineral Bottom pullout, four days later, most of the major league dissension is gone and the canoe teams are just that -- teams. It's tough to squabble when the world is so gorgeous.) All that, of course, is days in the future. In the meantime, just to start things off, the old married couple promptly run full face into the nearest stand of tamarisk. The young married couple, fast learners and knowing a good deal when they see it, immediately run backward into the bank, nearly tipping the canoe and scaring the beaks off a couple of birds nesting in the shore bushes. The brothers -- well, they're still at it, nag, nag, nag -- and the former strangers in back, still showing zero signs of divisive tendencies, are discussing Zen, the healing aspects of wheat germ and the ERA. It's going to be a great day.