River stories are kind of like college parties. You might just as soon not have your dirty laundry from it aired out in public, years later…assuming you were even wearing any at the time…for either.
While I respect the concept of discretion in telling tales out of school, so to speak, if everyone abided by that doctrine, we’d never see stories of the entertaining buffoonery, and sometimes bad behavior that we might question as hyperbole.
That truth seems to go doubly when it comes to running rivers in rafts, and other mobile delivery sources of adult beverages and other disinhibitors of common sense and good behavior.
While my chronicling over the years on these pages has been limited by a lack of writing acumen, and even less of audience, compilation of comic tales in books such as Halfway To Halfway gives you a glimpse of life in those remote canyons, away from the constraints of daily routine, and possibly good conscience.
Of course, not all of these river stories end well.
The iconic outdoor adventure writer—and well known subject of my major man-crush, Tim Cahill, wrote a story after he died while rafting the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon in 2014. (Yes, I realize I said he wrote “after” he died.)
The common theme of these trips are typically about almost indescribably beautiful scenery, amazing canyons, exhilarating rapids, good friends, if you’re lucky, fantastic food, and often those aforementioned disinhibitors.
Some people follow a minimalist example, taking only what they absolutely need, while others of us suffer from what Jimmy Buffet blamed on Lord Baden-Powell, where we take anything and everything we might possibly need should a four-day trip somehow morph into a four-month long adventure.
While I have enjoyed—and others have endured (mostly my company) adventures on numerous, so called, self-guided river trips, as of late I have become a real fan of the commercially guided trips, where someone else prepares me gourmet meals and deals with my personal crap (literally, as in the “river groover.” Google it.).
I did so a “few” years back, when I turned six decades ancient on the storied Middle Fork of the Salmon River in Idaho, and did so again last year, on the Rogue River in southwestern Oregon.
After a comfortable night at the Galice Resort, under the great guidance of Finkel, Frank, and Luscher (who may or may not be a law firm in the off season) we rafted 40 miles, spent a couple of nights in cozy tents and cushy sleeping bags, which those accommodating river guides set up for us, and finally a pampered night at the remote Marial Lodge.
For many, the real attraction of these trips is the excitement and beauty of the river runs, from Class I—”wake me when we get to camp”—to Class V+ —”holy shit, we’re all going to die.” Our trip included the running of the rapids in the rugged Mule Creek Canyon, which was a happy survival medium of thrills and spills.
Speaking of spills, sometimes getting out of the raft is easier than getting back in, which provides some upper body exercise for the guide pulling us back in the boat, and some belly laughs for those who happened to stay onboard…this time.
Although I have nothing to brag about when it comes to grace while negotiating bumpy boats, or even while walking along the shore, for that matter, given that I am about as nimble as a rock.
These trips include the the standard wilderness river practice to pee in the water (hint: dilution is the solution) and poop in a metal box (that infamous groover).
The former is often accomplished during shore breaks, with the boys going in one direction, and the girls going in the other, behind a bit of modest cover provided by the riverside rafted rafts. My method is to look straight into the water while doing my business, looking away from the women, as a sense of decency, and away from the men, for a fear of jealousy.
The need for these stops is increased dependent on the amount of liquid consumed during the trip, such when a cold one, or two, is appreciated when we camp along picturesque creeks.
Of course, that doesn’t mean you can go just anywhere.
In some cases, exposing yourself could have serious consequences.
The nice thing about the commercial trips, the company typically provides a bit of beer or a whittle of wine at camp.
For some, the difference between a good river experience, and a great one, is a matter of proof, so the guides are willing to schlep a bottle of your own personal higher octane adult libation.
And, for some, the difference is more a matter of sheer volume.
I began this tale addressing assumed hyperbolic river stories, assumed if only because of the staggering scale as they are told.
I once heard about this river outing with the cryptic caption of Manifest Grand Canyon MGC15. The “story” goes, for a group of 16 people for a 21 day float, they allegedly packed 21 gallons of Tanqueray gin, which according to the legend, I mean the trip log, was served out of some form of pony keg, or possibly something called a corny keg.
But, the real voluminous nature of the beverages was that the same group, on the same trip, allegedly packed 75 cases of beer!
I would say, color me skeptical about all this, but then again…have you ever been around a bunch of river guides when they’re around their own kind and on the river? It is what legends are made of…and books like mentioned above, which for MGC15 could have been More Than Halfway to Liver Problems.
On the commercial trips, afternoons are spent laid back, while the wonderful guides set up tents, prepare meals, and lay out the path to the groover.
River tip: a paddle across the trail means the all important metal box is ocupado.
Evenings are spent in camps along the river, often no more than a sandbar, where meals are shared among your fellow floaters, and sometimes, uninvited guests that go bzzz, bzzz, bite, bzzz, bzzz. sting.
(Note: technically, yellow jackets bite AND sting.)
Look closely. They are all over poor Emily’s (a.k.a. Reg’s) meat.
Well, this is my story and I’m sticking to it. Everything I claimed might be true. Of course, there was that funny looking plant at one of our camps.
I did look it up later and the description said something about’
“It is a powerful hallucinogen and deliriant, which is used for the intense visions it produces.”
“Datura intoxication typically produces delirium and bizarre behavior that can last several days.”
“These symptoms generally last from 24 to 48 hours, but have been reported in some cases to last as long as two weeks.”
I do remember getting kind of mesmerized and staring at the moving water for hours.
Or, it could have been weeks…
Maybe what happens on the river should stay on the river…
Sand Dollar Adventures 
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