In late July of 2023, I found myself anxiously walking through a forest of charred trees and arrowroot a quarter mile downstream of the put-in on the Middle Fork of the Salmon. I’d gone in search of a better view, fretting about the rapids I’d be dealing with in the first three minutes of a seven-day trip.

My jittery nerves aren’t new. Years ago, while plotting one of our first big floats, my good friend Duward suggested I take on the title “Captain of Planning and Worry.”

For this particular trip, my worries went deep. Duward, who was responsible for bringing me in, knew most of the members and had been racking up big water credentials with many of them in places that made me sheepish to consider. I was a second-degree invitee, and while I’d run Class IV rapids, I’d be floating this with a group whose expertise was measured in decades, not years. I was a newbie, on this river at least, and a stranger amongst them. 

The odds of securing a Middle Fork permit aren’t good, but worse than never getting to go would be accepting an invitation only to end up being the weak link. I spent the night before launch lying in the back of my pickup, mentally rearranging gear and visualizing my morning routine. For the life of me, however, I couldn’t shake the words of another member of the group who I’d only just met.

After meeting him, Mark pointedly asked me about my rafting experience. I gave him my whitewater resume: Desolation on the Green, Hell’s Canyon, Lower Rogue, two sections of the Lower Salmon, and the Clark Fork’s Alberton Gorge.

Mark’s response did not cool my anxiety. “So, this is going to be your first really big water, isn’t it?”

I ended up really liking Mark, and had he made that statement five days later, I probably would have laughed it off. But I was the new kid and wasn’t going to do or say anything that might jinx me. Besides, he was scrutinizing my Verdito.

Verdito, or ‘little green’, is my 12’5″ fishing raft with a galvanized steel pipe frame. It has swiveling seats both front and back. The tubes are small, but it’s nimble.

I’d removed the front seat but left the rear in place since removing it is a knuckle-bruising affair that would likely result in breakage anyway. I was going to run this river as an R1 (with oars). Just me, my meager provisions, and a stowaway cooler I’d agreed to carry for someone else. I’d never gone so light and figured it was a bombproof approach for low, bony water.

Mark didn’t seem to see it that way.  “Is this a fishing setup?” He asked, adding, “So you do a lot of fishing?”

I think he found it amusing. He even made a comment about how the river would give me “quite a ride.” I began to envision myself flailing through one rapid after another, the whole group bottled up on my account.

Truthfully, I’m far more anxious about whitewater when I’m on the shore. Once the sticks are in my hands and I’ve got no choice but to go with the flow, I become pretty Zen. Ultimately, I do believe that’s why I keep coming back to the river: to surrender myself to its rhythm.

It’s fair to say that everyone on the trip was a top-notch boater. They were sparing on the oars and pros at letting the river do its job. I reveled in their customized setups and routines and enjoyed their comradery on shore. On the water, I often found myself following Bill from Arizona. He was easy to spot on account of his bright yellow raft, and I watched his route because I could tell he was cool-headed and in control. His raft was only slightly larger than my own, so whenever Bill disappeared over some watery horizon, I figured I’d survive by going the same way.

Wayne and Lucy were right at home on the Middle Fork. Each morning, I could hear Wayne playing a wooden flute by the water’s edge. The notes seemed to have been lifted directly from the musical chords of the river itself. The song began early, and while it never woke me, hearing the warm notes gave me a gentle reminder that people were stirring, the river was flowing, and it was time to move on.

Lucy’s mother was in her 90s, a fact that was occupying a great deal of Lucy’s time and thoughts as she tried to make the most of what felt like precious time together. That knowledge made it all the more poignant one evening as I was fiddling with gear when Wayne came by and asked if I would come down to the water’s edge. “We just heard over the satellite phone that Lucy’s mom died,” he said. “We’d like it if you came down.”

Even though I’d spent days with the group, I can honestly say that most of them were still more or less strangers to me. But those minutes we all spent alongside the banks of the Middle Fork illustrated a bond between humans that doesn’t require familiarity. Wayne played his flute and those who knew Lucy best sat beside her, supportive hands on her shoulders. It was a ceremony of spontaneity and honesty; a gentle reminder that, regardless of all planning and worry, the world around us will continue to flow.

Mark never got a chance to see me fail in a rapid. With the river as low as it was, Verdito and I were able to thread a path downstream with relative ease. My only close call was on Weber Rapid at mile 82, where the mandatory move was to ride a pour-over into a hole. It wasn’t a huge hydraulic, and the heavier/longer rafts seemed to stall only briefly before moving on. Despite gathering a good head of steam, however, Verdito and I were simply too short to land beyond the boil line, and for a few tense moments, we danced atop the circulating mass. A sudden—and unintended—180 not only gave me a front-row view of where I didn’t want to go but allowed me to brace against the stowaway cooler and pull myself back into the current.

However, I did give Mark and several others a show of sorts. I’m not exaggerating when I say that he literally shook my hand multiple times and thanked me profusely for providing him with what he called maybe the “funniest thing he’d ever seen in (his) life.”

By our third night, we were well below some of the rapids that I’d been concerned about. Velvet Falls, Powerhouse and Pistol Creek had already become memories, and I felt more than confident about my choice of watercraft and my ability to maneuver it. On this particular evening, after the scramble of building camp had calmed, I found myself inside Verdito, tidying up odd ends and enjoying a few nips from a lukewarm steel flask.

Mark had come to the water’s edge to dig into his cooler for cold beer and offered me one in exchange for a nip. By this time, I’d grown to appreciate his direct nature and lack of filter. I’d realized that his statements before launch had been made with no malice, and I was frankly enjoying a mutual admiration. Under the last direct rays of the sun, we visited and drank, he in his raft, me reclining heavily on the rear fishing seat of my own.

He was curious about Verdito’s anchor system, which can be deployed by simply releasing a rope from a pair of cam cleats. I described its usefulness whenever one of my boys snags a fish while flowing mid-stream. “So, you’re usually on the oars?” He asked.

“You know what, Mark?” I responded, “I’ve actually never fished from this seat!”

I think part of me was still anxious to dispel the image of a bumbling fisherman. I’m an oarsman, damn it, hadn’t he seen as much? I laughed out loud. “The only time I get to sit here is when I’m on shore!”

At this point, Mark may or may not have complimented my old stern-mount fishing seat, leaning jauntily over Verdito’s rear tube. What I do know for sure is that my next statement would seal my doom. Rocking ever so slightly to test its strength, I admitted, “The only thing I don’t like about it is that I always feel like it’s gonna break.”

Four loud snaps announced the failing bolts as they ripped themselves free of the plastic seat. Beer in hand, I watched in disbelief as my feet rose above my head and I dropped backwards into the water. Humiliated, I took my time to surface. I caught the lame seat, which was shamefully trying to drift away, leaving me to face the music alone. Before I could toss it back into my raft, Mark was belly-down across his tubes with laughter.

Only days after our group had said our goodbyes, the watershed that feeds the Middle Fork was hammered with rain, loosening soils in previously burned areas. The resulting debris flow choked the river, jamming it completely and ruining the trip for countless would-be floaters. All the planning in the world wouldn’t have prevented it, and worrying wouldn’t have cleared it away.

Every time I come off an extended trip on a river, I try and carry its lessons with me. Let the river do its job. There is little use in trying to walk when you should swim, to paddle when you should drift, or to fret about things that can’t be changed. Things can go wrong. Gear can fail. Tragedy can strike at home. I’ll continue to take my role as Captain of Planning and Worry seriously, but I’m trying to remember not to fight life quite so much. I need to remind myself that people are still stirring, the river is still flowing, and it is time to move on.

***

Guest contributor Nathan Boddy is a freelance writer/ journalist from Montana’s Bitterroot Valley.  His work has appeared in Montana Free Press, Bugle Magazine, and Backpacking light.  Nathan has spent the last decade raising and homeschooling he and his wife’s two boys, and hopes that love of water, snow, trails and travel have all trickled down.