Riely looked at me through the veil of water droplets seeping through our rain tarp. He said, with a slow shake of his head, “We should just always bring our dry suits.”

We were camped out at Tango Bar on the Selway River, a spot we’d flagged for a layover day. The volleyball potential was high on that giant sandy beach. It was supposed to be sunny and warm. I had visions of heat-induced sprints to the river, floating in the eddy while drinking sparkling water, maybe even a shady nap. It was July, after all.

Instead, it was dumping rain. And it had been for hours. It was misty, cold, and we were collectively short on layers. Turns out when it’s cold on the water, you layer up. When it rains, those layers get soaked. And if you’re me, and you flip a boat, well, your layers get totally soaked. Hence huddling under the tarp, trying in vain to evade the drips.

“That is a really good idea,” I replied, my sigh tinged with regret.

That was the first and only time I have flipped a boat, but it certainly wasn’t the first or only time the weather has unexpectedly turned on me. That’s why I purchased a dry suit. I bought it two months prior to that Selway trip in 2019. Owning a dry suit should have been a turning point for me. Riely’s lament should have been the last time I would have to learn my lesson. Unfortunately, I am a rather slow study.

My very first commercial trip on the Main Salmon was a late June float. I forgot my tent (also, unfortunately, not a first). Too embarrassed to ask a senior guide to share a tent when the downpour started, I stole the lunch umbrellas instead. I tilted two on their sides and inchwormed my way into the fetal position around the poles. It was about as effective as you’d imagine. I’d say, “I woke up drenched,” but that would imply I slept a single wink. Every layer I brought was soaked before the torrential hailstorm started. That was 2016.

Suffice it to say, being slightly underprepared a quarter of the time isn’t new for me. Sort of my stasis, if I’m honest. Call it stubbornness if you like. My parents do.

An introduction like that to commercial boating should have been enough to make me invest in some proper river gear. If not a dry suit, then a dry top, or at least a semi-functional rain jacket. But I loved the red 1990s L.L. Bean jacket I inherited from my mom. So much so that in 2019, I threw it into my dry bag as insurance before I left for that fateful rainy Selway trip. My dry suit, still pristinely rolled, remained on top of the dryer in the garage.

I did wonder about bringing it while packing for the Selway. I ran through a lengthy list of pros and cons, which, if I’m honest, functioned more as justification for my desire to pack one less item than an objective exploration of the best course forward. It’s so bulky. It’s supposed to be sunny and warm. Plus, it’s probably bad for the zippers to keep it stuffed in a dry bag anyway. I hemmed and hawed. I mean, what if I didn’t need it and I brought it all that way? This is my downfall, but that particular argument settled it. For me, truly nothing is worse than setting up a tent and it not raining. Packing a dry suit and never wearing it? No, thank you!

But on Tango Bar in 2019, as a water droplet from our tarp caught me sharply in the back of the neck, I thought it might actually be the moment I learned to bring the gear, whether I needed it or not. Then I imagined swimming the runout of Wapootz and not dragging my wet baselayers, fleece, and rain gear with me. I imagined being dry. I imagined being warm. Suddenly, I was committed. “Yes,” I told Riely with new vigor. “It should just be our policy. Take the decision-making out of it. Just pack it. Then you always have it if you need it.” It seemed so simple.

But stubborn doesn’t really do simple. And if you recall, I am stubborn. Five weeks later, I stood in the garage packing for an August Lower Salmon. I mean, it’s a hundred and ten degrees right now, I reasoned. My undervalued (and underutilized) pragmatic voice responded, But you wrote a policy. You’re really going to renege on your first chance at implementation? I couldn’t fathom getting into a dry suit; there were heat waves radiating off the driveway. Plus, what if I lugged it all that way and it just sat at the bottom of my drybag?! This policy obviously needs a caveat for August.

I didn’t need the dry suit that trip, which did nothing to enforce the usefulness of my policy. My stubbornness needed more convincing to adopt the policy, apparently.

In March of 2020, we ran the Lower Owyhee. The sun shone as we peeled out of town, spring break on our minds. By the time we reached the Oregon border, snowflakes rushed our windshield. Snow should have put a hard stop to any wiffle-waffling on the dry suit decision, but the sun came back out as I rigged on the ramp. My skin tingled with warmth. Why would I be thinking of the future when the now was perfect?

I thought fleetingly of my dry suit, in the front seat of the car, which had been moved off the ramp while I rigged. Eagerness to shove off after surviving a teacher’s slog to break beat out pragmatism. Around the first bend, a tickle of remorse started low in my stomach. Around the third, it began to sleet. Out came mom’s red L.L. Bean rain jacket. In came the wet. In came the cold. You should just always bring it! I whispered to myself, both righteously and ironically.

Fast-forward to August of 2021. I’d just gotten home from my final prep day before the school year started. It was 3:35 pm. The idea struck us suddenly: an end-of-summer Payette run. In a rush, we threw kayaks on the car and gear in the back. Casey started the engine, and we paused to double-check our packing list. “Should we bring dry gear?” Casey asked. I peeked at the thermometer on the dash. “102? I mean…” I responded (typical). He grabbed his, I did not (also typical). Two and a half hours later, in the eddy above AMF, I chastised myself with the familiar refrain. The corridor gets shaded in the late afternoon. I know this. Still, I shivered in the dropping temperatures, cursing my inability to implement my own policy.

Like I said, I’m a pretty slow study. A stubborn fool, if you will. And I will.

But in December 2023, I lived in my dry suit. A dry suit feels obvious in December. Turns out those are the conditions under which I thrive at making sound decisions (i.e. obvious ones). I wore my dry suit for 30 days straight on the Grand Canyon. Sometimes with just a base layer, sometimes with a fleece onesie, sometimes with my down pants, but I was always dry. And goodness, did it feel nice.

“This is such a useful piece of gear!” I announced proudly, as if discovering something no one else knew. Casey (who has never minded setting up a tent even when it doesn’t rain) rolled his eyes at me.

Nearly five years had passed since Riely learned his lesson. I spent the night at his place on my drive home from the Canyon. “I’m just always going to pack my dry suit from now on,” I told him like a child repeating a lesson their mother has tried unceasingly to impart. He graciously did not point out the sheer number of years it took me to internalize the obvious.

Five months later, we dropped into the Lower Owyhee. You’re not gonna get me this time, I told no one in particular, as I smuggly tucked my dry suit into the dry box at the last minute. Of course it snowed, of course it hailed, of course it was freezing. Shockingly, I had come prepared.

“I really think I’m becoming an adult,” I told Casey, who has watched me make unsound packing decisions for over a decade. And if you believed me, dear reader, you haven’t been paying attention. Just last week, a first-year guide asked me if I thought he should pack a dry suit for a June Hells Canyon. “It’s always a good idea to pack a dry suit,” I said sagely minutes before vainly trying to convince myself to heed my own advice.

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