Kerry’s worn Converse were laced tight. He stood easily on the platform in the center of the boat, sweep arm handles held loosely in his hands. I shoved the aging 23-foot boat away from shore with all my might. Beached on the massive tube, I flopped and kicked. Finally, I managed to scramble to my pre-arranged seat atop a teetering stack of yellow dry bags. Kerry angled the boat left and we swung out wide to avoid a pile of exposed rocks river center. But the river makes a sharp turn to the right. Only 50 yards from the boat ramp, and just 50 yards into my very first trip on a sweep boat, I was certain we were going to crash.

The left bank approached. I death-gripped the cowling and side-eyed Kerry. Stance wide, he made five or six short, aggressive pulls using his whole body. We pivoted. I let out the breath I’d been holding.

But as soon as the intended slot came into view, I was doubly certain of catastrophe. There was no way this honking boat was fitting through a slot so narrow. As if I was at the apex of a rollercoaster, trying not to topple over the lip, I leaned away from the drop. I leaned so far back, I was parallel with the tubes. My stomach lurched as we dropped in. With an emphatic noise, the boat scraped rocks on both sides. The contact did nothing to deter our trajectory. Instead, we gained momentum. Kerry kicked back against the cowling, launching his bodyweight forward. The boat turned responsively, but the rate at which we were gaining speed was alarming.

We jettisoned through another steep, narrow slot. We gained more speed. There were rocks everywhere. I could not see a line through the maze. I tightened my grip. We dropped again. We gained speed. Dropped, gained.

At last, we entered the pool below First Bend Rapids, going at least 65 mph. Kerry and I remained frozen for a beat as we flew across the pond. Then, a sound suspiciously like relief escaped Kerry’s lungs. We looked at each other. “Yeah,” he said. And in that single word, he affirmed both my terror and my awe. My first 90 seconds on a sweep boat felt like a lifetime.

“Um. So. You can’t slow down,” I announced. It wasn’t quite a question, more a horrifying realization. But also somehow an exhilarating one.

Stoic, Kerry gave a semi-affirmative shrug. He threw the forward arm to the platform and caught it under his foot. “No brakes,” he said and reached for his water bottle.

“So… wait. Catching an eddy? The speed… you have no lateral movement capabilities… Wait, you’re always pointed downstream? You basically can’t slow down. But then you… you… you can’t, there’s no way to… wait. You can’t propel the boat forward. Wait, is this insane?” I interrupted my own unfinished realizations with newer revelations.

“Yeah,” he said with a big grin. “A little bit.”

Anyone lucky enough to have boated the Middle Fork of the Salmon River knows that it starts with a bang. The gradient in the top 25 miles is an unrivaled 40 feet per mile. It drops nearly 3,000 feet from start to finish, creating an astonishing 100 rapids in as many miles.

This was only my second trip down the lauded river. I’d paddled it a few years before at 4.9 feet. This week, I was swamping on a sweep boat. An extra set of hands, my job was to help with eddy catches and gear schlepping. At 2.4 feet, the river was unrecognizable. What had been fun, massive and splashy waves were now technical rock gardens. Plus, our grey sweep boat was a total mystery to me, with its hidden compartments and absence of an accelerator and brake.

“Is this even a practical boat?! This is insensible! What are we even doing?” I shouted at Kerry in a rush. He tolerated my litany of rhetorical questions with a smile. “Actually, though,” I asked more calmly, “Do these boats make sense?”

I was certain our company ran the sweep for the same reason we ran dories: a reverence for tradition and an irreverence for practicality. “On this river, yes,” Kerry explained. Turns out, there’s a reason so many companies on the Middle Fork run sweeps.

Instead of oars mounted on the long edges of the boat (giving the rower the ability to accelerate, brake, and pivot), a sweep boat has arms mounted on the bow and stern. Both sweeps change the boat’s angle, while the stern sweep also acts like a rudder, keeping the angle set. The sweep driver has to set angles early, but not aggressively. If the boat becomes perpendicular to the current, all downstream momentum is lost. (I learned this the hard way about seven seconds after Kerry let me try driving for the first time). There’s no way to build speed besides harnessing the current. But that’s why they work so well on the Middle: the river’s gradient is relentless.

“They track really well,” Kerry explained. “Especially when they’re weighted down.” The large tubes mean they sit pretty high in the water, which helps the boat glide over rocks. Kerry shared how learning to drive the sweep helped him become a more efficient rower. I found myself visualizing the angles I would take in my raft, comparing them to the angles Kerry set. They were not always the same.

Sweep boats aren’t new. A version of the craft has been on the Salmon River system since the 1870s. The historic boats acted as a supply line into the canyon during the Idaho Gold Rush. Big, wooden flat-bottom boats transported mining supplies to remote claims. The river was too steep to get the boats back upstream, hence “The River of No Return.” Instead, the boats were often disassembled and used for lumber. More efficient than horses, and with their rudimentary design, they could be built in just a few days. The sweep blades were 12’-14’ and sometimes attached to a whole tree trunk. Boat captains would occasionally counterbalance the trees with rocks tied to the handles. At 32’ long, they often required two people to drive.

Several well-known characters drove sweeps on the Salmon River. John McKay is believed to have been the first to navigate all the way from Salmon to Lewiston safely. He first retreated to the wilderness in 1872 after the tragic loss of his wife. He would build a small scow in the spring and fish, hunt, and mine his way toward winter. He’d build a hut with the lumber from his boat. When he was ready, he’d reassemble his boat and float to Lewiston where he’d sell his lumber. Then he’d repeat. Heartbroken and withdrawn, he did this 20 times.

Captain Harry Guleke was perhaps the most famous sweep boat captain. In the 1890s, Guleke started to run the river regularly. He started his tenure delivering supplies to ranches and mining claims. Soon after, he began operating passenger trips, effectively pioneering commercial whitewater rafting trips on the Salmon. He charged up to $1,000 a person (around $10,000 in today’s money!). Widely considered the best boatman around, he made 200 trips downstream in 40 years.

The trips could be dangerous. Guleke and other sweep drivers left early in the spring, sometimes when ice still floated in the river. The sweep arms can easily get ripped from the driver’s hands and knock an unsuspecting passenger overboard. No one was wearing PFDs. It is rugged country, and the expeditions were long.

In the modern commercial world, driving sweep isn’t quite as menacing. But it’s still hard.

Sweep drivers typically navigate the river solo, or with one swamper. The massive boats can get stuck, especially as the river drops out and rocks become more prolific. The behemoths are not easy to move. The swamper helps with that, too. We got so wedged in the new Velvet that we needed a Z-drag to get unstuck. (So did the boat behind us. And behind them.) Then, once the sweep arrives at camp, all the group gear has to be unloaded. Steep banks have to be climbed over and over again.

But also, sweep drivers navigate the river solo. A particularly special situation for a commercial guide. The boats float fast, which means there’s plenty of time to enjoy the scenery. When camp tasks are completed there is time to explore (and if you’re Kerry, snorkel). We had time every day to nap in the shade. Luxurious and rare, I reveled in every solo hike and shady nap. Plus, there’s a wonderful sense of solidarity among the sweep drivers. They share tips and cheer each other’s good lines. They leave secret beer stashes and have dance parties at designated locations. There’s camaraderie and culture.

Sure, at times I felt like my mom in the passenger seat of the car while I was learning to drive. I barely suppressed the impulse to stomp imaginary brakes as Kerry nimbly drove us through rock mazes and past sheer cliff walls. I biffed my single job of catching the boat and tying us off more than I’d like to admit. Most of the time, though, I marveled as we seemed to dance downstream, rocks ripping by at shocking speeds. I adored standing below Mist Falls, alone. How lucky were we? Engaging with a river in this wild way was thrilling.

To drive sweep is to know the river intimately. I was grateful to Kerry for narrating his decision-making in complex rapids. I diligently took notes when he shared how the lines change at different water levels. He answered my hundreds of questions. His genuine love of the place and deep knowledge of the craft was palpable.

My week on the sweep was truly unparalleled. I felt spoiled and terrified and thrilled, relaxed and invigorated all at once. Yes, these boats are a little bit insane. And from John McKay to Harry Guleke to the modern drivers, you might have to be a little bit insane to drive one. But you can count on those who drive to have a profound connection to the river. You can count on them to love this river, to support each other, and to have fun doing it. And if that’s not more important than practicality, I don’t know what is.