The song of the river rats.
We belong to the water. Rivers fill us with liquid courage, and we drink it straight from the source. If we could grow fins we would, but paddles and oars do just fine. And when the calling sounds, we’re delighted to answer.
For most of us it starts in April. Others chase the bug all year, while the rest wait to scratch the itch until it’s warm enough to not wear a drysuit. Regardless, the first t-shirt weather of spring signals us to look toward the rivers. Ski season isn’t yet over, but our attention turns to what lies ahead. The sun beats down, dripping water from a melting snowpack, off rooftops, and down mountainsides into the riverbed below. The collective fire burns.
We belong to the water. Rivers fill us with liquid courage, and we drink it straight from the source.
We uncover the boats—dust off the plastic, check the rubber for leaks, and secure any odds and ends. Pretty soon, it’s time to launch, so into the current we go. It’s low water, but not for long. There’s rain predicted, followed by sunshine for the weekend.
It always takes a couple outings to get back into it, to remember the rhythm of the river. So, we pay attention, waking up those skills and senses that went dormant for the winter. We’ll need them soon. We savor the early runs, but never stop thinking about the change of seasons. How big will it go this year? We check hydrographs and forecasts as much as we do our email—some of us don’t even have email. Then, just like that, the faucet cranks.
Our schedules fill up immediately. We’re booked because we leave our calendars open, always ready to make a last-minute trip to wherever the water flows paramount. We paddle Yankee Jim, run Bear Trap, and hit the Gallatin four days a week after work. We make an annual pilgrimage (or two, or three) to the Lochsa and then rally north to the Big Fork Whitewater Fest on the Swan. Some of us make a date with danger and test our skills on high-consequence creeks in the Crazies or waterfalls on the Henry’s Fork.
We seek out big waves and high-volume hydraulics—swirling eddy lines, recirculating holes, and sneaky whirlpools. Our hearts beat as fast as the current moves. We like this feeling, but sometimes we take swims we wish we hadn’t. We look out for one another, though, and we’re grateful for our fellow friends and mentors who have our backs in scary situations.
The air is replete with urgency because we never know how long it will last. Every day, a few more grains of sand fall through the hourglass, the end of runoff creeping ever closer.
For months straight, we live in dry gear and sandals. The kayak never leaves the roof, the raft remains ready on the trailer. Conversations revolve around cubic feet per second, and how much time we can get off work. We curse any and all plans that get in the way of us and the put-in. Don’t you dare have a wedding during high water.
The air is replete with urgency because we never know how long it will last. Every day, a few more grains of sand fall through the hourglass, the end of runoff creeping ever closer.
There’s never enough time, and we feel it as soon as it runs out. The meat of the season is gone as quickly as it arrives, but even so, there is still so much in store. Some of us have permits to far-away gems like the Salmon, Snake, or the Colorado down the mighty Grand Canyon. Others pencil out time for canoe trips, fishing floats, and long afternoons surfing standing waves. We’ll paddleboard, paddle-raft, and paddle any damn thing that stays afloat for as long as we possibly can.
Then, when low flows and cold temps finally close the door on another season, we raise a glass and drink deep, pouring some out for the ones who aren’t with us. We can’t wait for next year, but we really are gratified. We have memories and plans, and we feel happy to be part of this wild, bestial tribe.
We are a soaking-wet feral bunch, and we prefer it that way.
We are a soaking-wet feral bunch, and we prefer it that way. We hand-clap and foot-stomp and slurp beer from our boots to appease the water gods. We dance around bonfires and howl at the moon after everyone else has gone to bed. We have sand under our fingernails and dirt in our hair. It feels good. So do the calluses that grow on our palms and the wrinkles that form on our skin. We have chapped lips and sunburns and absolutely nothing but water on our minds. We are river runners. So come on and join us. The water is fine.
