I suppose it was good manners, or my lack thereof, that made Byron punch me in the face. I don’t mean to say he was justified in striking me—far from it—that’s just what must have been going through his mind. I imagine like most males he had harbored a secret desire to hit someone square in the face, just to see what it was like. And who better to practice on that someone whom he outweighed by a solid eighty pounds. I was thirteen at the time, and Byron, though he was only eighteen months older than me, overmatched my paltry five foot eight by a good seven inches. We were on the Colorado river, on a trip through Ruby-Horsethief Canyon, then down through Westwater Canyon, which was the most dangerous and exciting part of the trip. The Phelpsclan, Byron’s family of eight, was the author of this experience, and I joined them as Byron’s friend. The first inkling of the disaster I would later experience happened at the outset of the trip,