As the oarlock turns: a journey into the gritty and glorious grind of the itinerant river guide’s season on the water. In remembrance of our best series of 2015, we’ve combined segments from each of the eight parts to offer The Mini-Series.
Our family is back together for another season on the Middle Fork Salmon. Raft frames are ripped from the walls and strapped onto the truck. Rubber is inflated to maximum pressure. In the spirit of pre-season handy work and mechanic-ing, tank tops are mandatory. PBRs are cracked, stories from the winter are shared, and laughter spreads. The crew looks healthy, though maybe a little soft after a winter of seasonal IPAs—perhaps “rested” is a better word.
The guides fly from Clyde, the big Ford F-650, like honey bees—each on a mission, the boat ramp buzzing. Mike signs up for camps, mingling with the Forest Service rangers. Seth fires the generator. Jess fills water jugs and pumps boats. McCale turns up the music and dances while flinging gear sporadically, reminding us that there is always time to dance. Shake the rust off. We pause intermittently as more of our river-family compatriots from other parts of the Gem State roll in. We haven’t seen these people for over eight months, and it shows. Hugs and laughter.
Freshly greased with 303, the inflated rafts—loaded with partially strapped down bags, pads, coolers, chairs, stoves, propane tanks and the like—break away down the newly lacquered wooden ramp, angled at 45-degrees downhill for maximum velocity. Our adventure-seeking guests have arrived. Shake the rust off. We push out of the eddy. There is no turning back now.
Spring has returned to the North. But “spring” is a relative term in Idaho, and no amount of off-season rowing could have prepared me for the mixture of howling wind, snow, high water and bitter rain freezing my eyelids shut as we— one overweight, diabetic grandfather, his darling daughter, and her two lovely children and I—round the corner to the infamous “Murph’s Hole.”
We pull into camp a few hours later. Not soon enough. It’s been hailing for 30 minutes now. Who’s going to break the news that there’s no central heating in this joint? The thing about guiding is that, yeah, guides are good at being outdoors. Maybe that’s just because they’ve done it more than others. Yet, our guests are truly outside their comfort zone. But, in the end, we’re all sharing the same adventure. Some of us are just more used to it than others.
My common sense and goose-bumped skin is screaming to stay tucked away in the shelter and warmth of my down sleeping bag. Yet, I lost the ro-sham-bo match last night. It’s my turn to prep the coffee. I crank the handle on the “bomb.” The copper fitting turns a little roughly, unnoticeable to some, but I’ve turned this knob a 1,000 times before. A jet of flame shoots from the knob which my fingers are lightly rested upon. My synthetic down jacket ignites, burning colorful flames all the way through to my favorite vest beneath. One broken sandal, two destroyed jackets, air reeking of singed belly-button hair and still, two pots of cold coffee water. All of this before 6 o’freakin’clock.
Coffee: the lubricant that keeps the gears grinding and glow plugs fired up. That magical brown, aromatic sludge. By the dregs of cup two, the natural diuretic is lubricating ALL gears. I jump the makeshift booby-trap McCale pre-set last night. The trail to the groover is long. We’re dogging it. We grab the “key” at the exact same time. The key: a paddle that’s used to show bathroom vacancy depending on its placement. It flexes under both our grasps. We know there’s only one way to solve this conflict: rock, paper, scissors. I knew I should have thrown paper. I lose. Shamefully, I walk away in defeat only to hear squeals of disgust from behind me.
We’re approaching a portion of the summer that guides look forward to with all the giddiness of a child on zombie-jesus day. Scrappy, crunchy, abrasive low water, it can mean only one thing, dead heads. We hold our breath. The dead head represents an ideal, a dream, a coveted happenstance where the universe shines down upon the guiding community. Simply put: we get paid to raft solely with our friends down one of the most pristine rivers in the nation for two days. We are sure to never fly fish or stop at hot springs along the way in the name of efficiency…never. Inevitably, all of our guests will arrive far too early tomorrow morning, but tonight is just for our river family.
Just when you rest your head on your pad, your muscles start to relax…metal bangs, guests scream bear, and it’s up-and-at-em before a single snore can escape. At the root of these thuggish acts, stood an aggressive, sleep-disturbing deer. The horror. There is a fine balance between nature and nature lovers. As enthusiasts of the outdoors, sometimes, we interact more personally with nature than we would prefer on multiple occasions throughout a season of “living in the wild.”
The final burned cup of coffee for the season never tasted so good. The 20-year-old thinly worn tubes massage the concrete at the takeout. Clyde is packed up. Agatha, the sweep boat, is winched onto the trailer one last time. The five-hour drive back to that place where it all began, Stanley, Idaho, where the headwaters gather, where nomadic guides congregate as snow melts in June, is a mixed bag of emotions. With a total of 1100 miles of Middle Fork that breaks down to 11 rigs, de-rigs, repacks, re-pumps, dead-heads, redemption runs, river patch jobs; and 11 times five equals 55 games of roshambo resulting in 55 sloshing groover dumps.
Now, it’s back to the warehouse, where Randy the Handy awaits with a six pack of tall boys and a mess of gumption for cleaning up and closing down shop for the winter. With the help of the guide team, every boat will be inflated, cleaned, 303’ed, tubes filled with talc, and stacked to the ceiling for storage. Every oar will be re-lacquered, each hole will be patched and each frame fracture will be welded. Spa day for river equipment. Jingling keys are stored on the wall until next year. A solid thud sounds as the warehouse door slams shut against the cold concrete. Group hugs, always. Snow has begun to dust the jagged Sawtooth Mountains. Thank you, Idaho.
