PACKING FOR THE MIDDLE FORK

From the upcoming river tales sequel to Halfway to Halfway.

Words by Bob Volpert

What’s so damn hard about packing for a Middle Fork trip? It's no more than six days and five nights. What could that possibly amount to? Five clean shirts for camp, four or five tee shirts to wear on the boat, a couple pair of shorts, a baseball cap, a toothbrush, sunscreen, and maybe a cheap rain poncho. I’m only going for the first two days of our trip.  I won’t need anywhere close to all the crap that Idaho River Journeys suggests guests bring, and besides, I’ve done this enough times to pack in my sleep.  No list for me, and certainly no reason to pay attention to the admonitions from my wife, Mary. Although I pretend to listen, I give her words no merit.

Even after packing the essentials and adding a towel, a couple of packs of beef-jerky, two Snickers bars and an extra set of flashlight batteries, my stuff is impressively compact. Nothing speaks to experience and competence like packing for a river trip and filling less than half a dry-bag.

When Mary and I check in at the Mountain Village Lodge in Stanley the afternoon of our pre-trip meeting, one of the lodge managers off-handedly mentions that colder temps are in the forecast. Big deal, I think to myself. How cold can it get?

Early the next morning our guests with all of their waterproof bags and assorted gear, board an assortment of craft and enthusiastically head downstream on the Middle Fork. It’s an exhilarating day. Spectacular scenery, breathtaking whitewater, sunny skies, and a spirited group of friendly people. We get to camp around 4:30. Folks find tents and change out of wet clothing, and we spend the late afternoon visiting with each other, enjoying a glass of wine, playing cards, and relishing just being at a beautiful place. The guides serve dinner and before dessert build a campfire which nearly the entire group of guests and guides encircle.

I haven’t changed clothes since we landed at camp and I am still wearing my river attire, shorts, tee shirt, and sandals. As the sun begins to descend I feel a hint of a chill in the air. Should have brought a long pair of pants, but I didn’t. My shorts and tee shirt are a still a little damp, and the thought of slipping on a dry capilene or fleece top is appealing. But I didn’t bring one. I’ve got a cotton sweater in my bag and I fetch that. It handles the dipping sun and related descending air temperature fine – for a while. Scooting closer and closer to the campfire also helps to address my creeping discomfort. My feet are cold. I wish I could slip on a pair of warm, wool socks. But I didn’t bring those either.

Borrowing some warm gear from one of the guides, among whom is my son Skip, would offer a simple and quick solution to my thermal needs.  But I’m hesitant to do that. I’m weighing the benefit of warmth versus the embarrassment of my “experience counts when packing” rants. I endure my shivering as long as possible before I feign fatigue and slink away towards the tent I’m sharing with Skip. It’s early June and the hills are lightly illuminated. In an hour or so the cloudless sky will be star-studded. We’re camped at over 5,000 feet at the northern end of the Rocky Mountains. The setting is exquisite, but the clear sky portends steadily dropping temperatures.  

Back at the tent, I dump my waterproof bag on one of the sleeping pads and rummage through the contents. Must be more stuff in there. So I shake the bag again but nothing emerges. I know it’s here somewhere, likely under the clothing I’ve piled on the pad. But it isn’t. No sleeping bag. My personal warmth crisis has taken an ominous turn. The only sleeping bag in the tent is Skip’s. For now I use it like a shawl and drape it over myself. The warmth gives me an opportunity to think through my options. Embarrassment is becoming less important, and is being overshadowed by this new dilemma.

An option comes to mind but I reject it.  Skip isn’t going to share his sleeping bag with me, so there is little sense in pursuing that one. The next solution seems ridiculous in hindsight. Our sleeping pads are thick and provide good ground insulation. I might be able to use one as intended, and the other as a cover. I drag both of the pads from the tent and try out my idea. The pads are so firm that the top one won’t stay in place and just slides off my body. I lie on my back and realize that if someone were to see me they would mistake me for an ice-cream sandwich.

The stars are starting to pop out. I watch a satellite streak near the horizon before returning the pads to the tent. Just like in one of those crime novels where the clue that solves the mystery comes out of left field, my sitting in the tent on a pad and looking up at the top of the tent sparks a solution. I’ll take the rain-fly off the tent, spread it on the ground and wrap myself in it by lying on a far corner flap and rolling to the opposite end. I figure that the multiple rolls that it will take to get to the other side should create enough insulation to stay warm. But I’ll be wrapped like a burrito and unable to move. If I have to get up in the night, I’ll never be able to re-encapsulate myself. I’m running out of ideas when I spot a flashlight heading in my direction. Skip arrives at our abode.

“We have a problem,” I say.  I proceed to explain that it appears that I don’t have a sleeping bag. “We have a problem?” Skip responds, and mutters some comment about my packing skills. The solution we come up with isn’t as draconian as I envisioned. We unzip Skip’s bag and spread it out like a quilt. It doesn’t fully cover either of us, but for one night it will be okay.   
 
It’s a chilly uncomfortable night.  I finally sleep soundly from around 5 to 6:30 and awaken to an empty tent and the early light of day. I wrap the sleeping bag around me and manage another half-hour of warm dozing. There is a Patagonia jacket near the tent door, left for me by my son. I put it on and head towards the camp kitchen where our crew is prepping breakfast. I expect to hear a full ration of deserved sarcasm about my packing skills, but the crew says nothing. Rachael hands me a cup of coffee. We all exchange good mornings and I join the few guests who are up, sitting near the morning fire. Everyone is talking about it being chilly. But no one so much as hints about my trip prep or bedding arrangement. I realize that they don’t know about it.

After breakfast, the guests carry their bags and tents to our gear boat and Skip secures everything to the sweep rig. I’ll be leaving the group at Indian Creek, a landing strip ten or so miles downstream. I hop on Skip’s rig for the ride. The sun is rising, the air is warm, and it’s going to be another spectacular day. We depart camp ahead of the group and make it to Indian Creek in less than three hours.  Skip never mentions my packing misadventure or our sleeping arrangements. When we get to Indian Creek, I jump off the boat as Skip unties my bag and tosses it to me. I wave goodbye and head to the waiting plane for the short flight back to Stanley.

As many dads will tell you, there is a never-ending game of one-upmanship between father and son. My youngest has kept quiet about my packing fiasco but he has silently stored the details for future retrieval. In the past day a chip has changed hands. I know that my leaving the group at Indian Creek will not be the end of the story.

Guides - have a campfire story, river anecdote, ode to a river friend or tall tale to share? Submit your story to bobvolpert [at] gmail [dot] com. Upon selection authors will be awarded $100 and a place in river libraries for decades to come.

GUIDE OF THE MONTH: MAT MCGRATH, ZOOTOWN SURFERS

Interviewed by Emerald LaFortune

Name: Mat McGrath

Hometown: Missoula, MT

Job Title at Zootown Surfers: Lead Guide

Job Title during NOT Lochsa Season: Bicycle mechanic and nordic ski technician at Open Road Bicycle and Nordic Equipment

What got you started on the Lochsa?

I first fell in love with the Lochsa in 2005 when a good friend offered up a cheap trip to a crew of mutual friends.  I remember hearing the "safety talk" on the side of the river and thinking to myself "what have I gotten myself into".  Of course our raft along with a couple others quickly turned over in the falls and the yard sale started.  As I crawled out onto shore with 3 paddles in hand all I could think about was how much fun it was and I couldn't wait to try it again.  I continued to show up and paddle for small group trips whenever they needed the bodies.  I was hooked.  I showed up every weekend with high hopes of getting on the water, I slowly learned the names of all the rapids and all the lines, by the time I was asked to officially work the spring of 2008 I knew I was hooked on the Lochsa and would never miss a day.

What was your first commercial run on the Lochsa?

I had a pretty memorable first run.  We were up top at White Pine for the 30 mile epic trip and I was super nervous. It was a high water day and I knew it was gonna be a big day.  We were doing great having a blast knocking off the river miles when it was time to tighten the PFD straps and run Castle Rock and Triple Hole. As we successfully made our way around the giant rock at the bottom the crew started to celebrate, the boat hit the eddy line and rocked sharply to the left.  A young lady was smashed out of the boat and into the "champagne" water by her boyfriend sitting opposite her. I quickly reached out to pull her in and when she looked up she had gotten her front tooth broken out. We pulled the trip over and began patching her up best we could.  She was an allstar and never complained once, rafted 20 more miles, ate lunch as best as she could and continued to show back up for 3 or so years with a bigger and bigger crew. Her name was Wendy and I'll never forget that trip.

Do you guide on other rivers besides the Lochsa?

I do some guiding on the Alberton Gorge after the Lochsa has tapered off but mostly look forward to some private trips with my wife and friends. After a good Lochsa season I'm usually ready to hang up the drysuit for some board shorts and single day whitewater trips turn into long multi days and sandy beaches. 

How is the Lochsa different to guide than other rivers?

I think the Lochsa is so special to me because of the "fun" factor that can't be found on other rivers. Big waves and crushing holes followed by good swims and large pools to pick things up in. You get the beauty of the Selway Wilderness on one side with pristine clear creeks running in and the safety of the road on the other side. While the wild side of the river can attract the person looking to go big and swim it also provides a scenic side that is great for the family. There isn't a bad level on the Lochsa either, from 3000 CFS in the preseason in April, to the 20,000 CFS in May/ June and everything in between. There is always a good run to be had out there.

Who inspires you as a guide?

I have had many inspirations as a guide over the years from my good friend and former boss Justin Walsh, who taught me many life lessons on and off the river. Jason Shreder from Zootown surfers and his passion to be out on the water and share his love for it with anyone and everyone. So many names come to mind of people I have met along the way that have shared the same love of rivers and passion for adventure. 

Favorite Lochsa Falls memory?

One of my favorite Lochsa falls memory happened a while back. It was another high water day out there and we had 4 or 5 rafts on the water. As we worked our way down the river we had begun to collect quite the road crew following us and watching the show from the road. As we approached the falls we began to come up on another large group but they were working towards the left side "sneak" and the road crew was letting them know there disapproval with loud boos and screams. The Zootown Crew not missing a beat, lined up and began dropping into the "meat" of the falls one by one knowing we all had each others backs. As we passed by the other group the road crowd erupted into cheers hooting and hollering with approval. It was a moment of great pride for every guide working that day!

Does conflict ever arise between you and your coworkers? If so, about what? How do you approach/mitigate it?

I think conflict is going to arise all the time out on river trips. You have to be flexible out there and realize its not always gonna go the way you wanted it to. We at Zootown strive to always maintain the good attitude on the river and just kind of deal with whatever happens to arise at the time. Once back at the headquarters as we slosh gear through the wash cycle we can break down what happened out on the water and talk through the days problems in a way that is productive and understanding. We aren't trying to finger point or be little any person we just try and get everyone back on the same line and work towards being even better on the next trip out. I think that amount of time where everyone can talk face to face and no one is a boss or underneath anyone in the totem pole really gives us an opportunity to learn from our own and others mistakes.

What advice would you give to someone who wanted to become a Lochsa guide?

My best words of advice to a new guide is to show up ready to do anything. Always stay busy and never ask if there is something to do. There is ALWAYS something to do.  Other than that having a team attitude and a good set of rain gear always helps.

Have you ever thought of moving on from guiding? Why did/didn’t you?

I think at some point everyone has to move on from the guiding lifestyle.  I think the lifestyle can add strain to relationships and you miss out on a lot of other river opportunities being committed to a single river during prime runoff. The body can take a serious beating and sometimes its hard to make it through a season staying healthy and injury free.  I don't think I will ever lose my love for the Lochsa itself but when you lose the passion to share it I think its time to move on. 

Why Idaho?

Idaho...the whitewater state, beautiful hot springs, amazing trail access and pristine wilderness. What's not to love?

Anything else I should know about your work, guiding, Idaho, etc? 

Our mission is simple at ZooTown Surfers:  We want to share our passion for spending time on the rivers by creating experiences and opportunities that will bring out the best in you.  Any day on the water is a good day.

Thanks Mat and have a great season!

SHOW THE WAY, MAKE A DECISION: A KEYNOTE ADDRESS ON GUIDING AND CONSERVATION IN IDAHO BY RICK JOHNSON

Rick Johnson, the Executive Director of the Idaho Conservation League, addressed a group of over 30 guides and Idaho river professionals during the 4th Annual Idaho River Rendezvous in Stanley Idaho last weekend. Rick has been a tireless conservation professional in Idaho for over twenty years. Rick has helped grow the size, impact, and credibility of the Idaho Conservation League and has helped reshape the practice of conservation in Idaho and beyond.  He is a recognized leader in conservation strategy and organizational development and has worked across party lines to help pass Idaho's last two wilderness bills in the Boulder White Clouds and Owyhees. You can contact Rick or the Idaho Conservation League here.

Rick's political standing is his own. Here at Redside we resonated with his ability to communicate the way guides can care for their backcountry "offices" and engage with Idaho as a state.

Rick's keynote address is reprinted below.I thought I’d start with something from a book I keep in my drybox. It’s the beginning of a poem by Jim Harrison, from "Theory and Practice of Rivers".

The rivers of my life: moving looms of light, anchored beneath the log at night I can see the moon up through the water

as shattered milk, the nudge
of fishes, belly and back
in turn grating against log
and bottom; and letting go, the current lifts me up and out

into the dark, gathering morning, drifting into an eddy
with a sideways swirl,
the sandbar cooler than the air: to speak it clearly,

how the water goes
is how the earth is shaped.

I often get introduced as representing Idaho’s leading voice for conservation. There is truth to that. But as a look around the room, I think of who you are.

You are staff for one of the most important conservation voices in the nation.

You are interpreters, bringing sense to the language of the river.
You are ambassadors of the wilderness for the United Nations.
You’re a magician, able to take piles of gear and inflated rubber, and make that into a tight, safe and sound boat.
You are a shaman: you bring life to the scenery.
You bring intimacy to the great expanse.
You bring comfort and warmth.
You are a chef, firing up the stove and making sense of the coolers.
You are a storyteller, around a fire, on sites occupied by people for millennia.
You are a weaver, threading a line over Velvet, over and through Ladle, over Salmon Falls.
You are a coach and help bring competence to people visiting the outdoors.

You are a guide. You are a guide. Think about the word.

As a noun, guide has two definitions: You show the way. And you help someone make a decision.

The first one is easy. Of course you show the way. But in doing all the things you do as part of that process, you also inform a thought process, and guide an experience to a logical conclusion.

A conclusion that wild rivers matter.
That clean water matters.
That public land matters. That this is what makes Idaho, Idaho. This is what makes America, America
Under a blanket of stars, fire sparks rising up into the infinity, with the soundtrack of the flowing river, you help lead people to a conclusion that all this matters.
That wilderness matters. That Idaho matters.

The Idaho Conservation League was founded on that theme over 40 years ago. To keep Idaho, Idaho.

I’ve been a guide too. I’m confident in the wilderness. It is that confidence and competence in the wildest parts of Idaho that got me into this work. I love the Idaho Wilderness.

But where I’ve been a guide is in the scariest wilderness of all: Washington, DC.

But before I was a guide, perhaps like you, I was in water over my head. I was swimming through rapids. I was energized by the idealism of the naïve and the energy of the clueless. Kind of like some private trips I’ve passed by...

Back then I was a volunteer. I carried a stack of large photographs and I was trying to talk to Congress about Idaho wilderness. I was in my early 20s.

We all have our epiphanies, these moments of life where you say to yourself: this is it. Sometimes you know it in the moment, a little god light comes down from the sky. Chamber music. Or maybe some Bob Marley. But in those singular moments, you know you are in the right place and that this moment, this very moment, is going to matter forever.

It was on one of those first trips to DC, not unlike seeing my first grizzly or my first wild salmon, that I had my epiphany.

It was after a week in Washington, DC, where after 5 days wearing my feet raw, I sat in a conference room in the Sierra Club’s old office on Pennsylvania Ave. I was in the Alaska Room. Tim Mahoney threw me a beer. Tim ran the Sierra Club’s public lands program.

Do you remember that first beer given to you by a professional you admire? Nothing tastes better.

I was in the very room that three short years before, amazing things had happened. This was the room where the coalition met to create and pass the Alaska Lands Act. Idaho’s own Cecil Andrus steered much of this process, as Secretary of the Interior, and Tim told me stories of those meetings, just a couple years before.

This was also the room, in far-off DC, where the conservation community gathered to pass the bill to protect the Middle Fork and Main Salmon, where the River of No Return bill was strategized, organized and then passed. Frank Church steered that process, and again, one of Idaho’s own.

Those two bills both passed in the same year. 1980. Amazing accomplishments, and led by Idaho leaders, Idaho conservationists who loved the rivers where you all work, who helped save the rivers you all work.

Hearing those stories, being in that room, drinking what became more beers... That’s when I really learned that conservation could be a vocation, a job, a career. That was my epiphany. I knew right then my life was changed. I had found my work.

In the last summer of the 1970s, I took my first walk in the White Cloud Mountains. Into the 80’s I spent countless nights in the Boulder and White Cloud Mountain Ranges. I was part of a 10-day ski traverse in 1985. The pictures of that trip are funny today. Leather boots, Rottefella bindings with a Volee plate and rag wool socks.

Back then all across Idaho the talk was about wilderness. There were wilderness bills all across the West. In 1984 there were bills in every Western state. But nothing passed in Idaho. Nothing passed for two reasons: Frank Church was gone, and our team had gotten too extreme, certainly too extreme for the conservative politics that came forward in the Reagan era.

After that epiphany in Washington DC, I managed to work my way into a job with the Idaho Conservation League. But not long after, I got another job, with the Sierra Club. It was then, as a professional, that I became skilled at what I do. I learned to read the water rather than focus on the rocks, how to ship my oars when things got tight and how to bring along others.

Conservation is an art. Just like what you do, what I do is a craft, practiced over time. You learn this work, like any other, by learning from others, by watching, and by getting wet.

21 years ago I came back to Idaho. Wilderness work had, for all practical purposes, died out. Politics had become more extreme and polarized—on both sides—and this was particularly true in Idaho. And it was my job to start making conservation progress again.

When you’re on a river, you don’t get to look at a wave train or set of boulders and wish it was different. You have to deal with it. That’s the same for me. In politics, you can hope it was better, or you deal with what you’ve got.

I wanted to protect the White Clouds and to do so we began working with Rep. Mike Simpson, a conservative Republican from Idaho. We met many times. I took him on a flight right out of here, in Stanley, over those mountains. I introduced him to places and to people.

We began to craft a path forward. This was 15 years ago. It was a path based on compromise. Everyone had to give a little. This wasn’t easy in an era where no one speaks of compromise any more. Simpson said many times, if we succeeded at this the two of us would so anger our bases that we’d both need new jobs.

So I’m trying to save wilderness and I’m working with a Republican. Some thought this crazy. I knew I had to meet Bethine Church, Frank Church’s widow. She was both an inspirational conservationist, she was also a powerful Democrat. I was sure she’d be mad. We talked a long time, first over iced tea, and then with something stronger.

“I have only one thing to say to you,” she said, leaning forward with those steady warm eyes. “I’m disappointed it took so long to figure this out.”

We created a compromise based on collaboration. We bridged the divide between the right and the left, and as a wilderness movement we met in the center. But we’d entered one of the most dysfunctional and polarized periods in Congressional history. The center, there was no one else there.

Simpson introduced 10 versions of his bill over 15 years. First, we were stopped by the left. Then, we were stopped by the right. Over and over we tried, one legislative strategy after another.

A couple years ago I got a call from Cecil Andrus. Cecil was elected governor four times. He was Secretary of Interior for Jimmy Carter, and was the architect for the Alaska Lands Act, which protected over 100 million acres of Alaska parks and wilderness, the greatest wilderness bill of all time. Andrus had helped many times in our work with Simpson. He’d provided advice and opened a few doors. But this time he said, Congress has failed. We’ve tried everything, and while we both have the highest respect for Simpson, it’s time to use the tool we used in Alaska. It’s time to use the Antiquities Act.

And so we moved away from Congress and created a National Monument campaign. This was very controversial. A monument can be created by presidential proclamation, and this president is not too popular in Idaho.

For two years we built that campaign. How a bunch of Idaho folks created one of the most high-profile monument campaigns in the nation is it’s own story. We did a very good job. We’d created a very serious national effort.

Obama has designated 22 monuments so far. I think he’ll soon do another in Maine. President Barack Obama has now created more national monuments than any president in American history.

Last year we knew one of two things would happen. Either we’d successfully create a national monument, or we’d create sufficient new pressure here in Idaho to get interest groups who’d opposed Simpson to regroup, and help us pass Simpson’s wilderness bill.

Few believed either would work. I knew one would and so did Mike Simpson. Simpson knew the time was now, and we had to throw everything at it. He wanted to pass his wilderness bill, to be sure, but he supported our effort to create leverage and if he failed, to create the monument. And it worked.

On a Thursday in late July, after 15 years, Rep. Simpson’s bill passed the US House without a single objection.

On the following Tuesday, it passed the US Senate.

And then on Wednesday, I got a call from the White House inviting me to the bill signing.I flew to Washington, DC, on Thursday, one week after it had passed the House, and Friday, with Mike Simpson was in the West Wing of the White House. As we prepared to walk into the Oval Office, I asked Mike Simpson what he thought. So much work, suddenly drawing to close.

“You know, it’s not real yet,” he told me, “It’s all happened so fast.”

A few moments later President Barack Obama opened the door to the Oval Office and invited the group in. And Simpson told me, “It’s getting more real now.”

Next weekend, a short way from here at Redfish Lake, we’ll have our annual conference. Rep. Simpson will be there. I hear he’s bringing champagne.

Let’s bring this back around. Back to you. Back to the river. Back to you being a guide.

Make sure to tell the stories. Wilderness is protected by real people who busted their ass to get these things done. Regular Idaho people. The Selway was designated in 1964, and people like Doris Milner and Mort Brigham made it so. Frank Church carried that bill, as part of the original wilderness act in 1964. Imagine the original wilderness act, which created the strongest level of protection our nation has, was carried through the Senate by a politician from Idaho.

In 1968, Frank Church carried the National Wild and Scenic Rivers Act through Congress.

In 1980, he passed the bill to protect the Middle Fork and Main. Frank Church’s name is on this wilderness because he carried that one over the line. Cecil Andrus was in on that one too as Sec of Interior. But it was saved because of citizens, regular people, like Ernie Day, Ted Trueblood, Nelle Tobias, and so many more.

These are special places. Sacred places. Special people saved them. And today, many of them are gone. Now you carry their spirit, you and now are the guides. You kindle the fire, rekindle the fire, it’s up to you to know and share the spirit.

Howard Zahniser helped write the original Wilderness Act. He wrote it in iambic pentameter to ensure it flowed as it should, not like a law, but like literature.

“We are engaged in an effort,” he wrote, “that may well be expected to continue until its right consummation, by our successors if it need be. Working to preserve in perpetuity is a great inspiration. We are not fighting progress we are making it. We are not fighting a rear guard action, we are facing a frontier. We are not slowing down a force that inevitably will destroy all wilderness there is. We are generating another force, never to be wholly spent, that, renewed generation after generation, will always be effective in preserving wilderness. We are not fighting progress. We are making it. We are not dealing with a vanishing wilderness. We are working for a wilderness forever.”

There is a mine proposed up Big Creek above the Middle Fork. There are others upstream from the Main Salmon. Even more crazy, there are serious proposals in Idaho for our public lands, lands held in trust for all Americans, to be handed over to the state, much of which would be sold.

Climate Change. A leading climate thinker says that climate will impact the next generation--that would be yours--more than the internet has impacted mine. In the face of climate change, our wilderness is some of the most resilient habitat on planet earth. Scientists call it a ‘climate shield.’ We have some of the highest elevation salmon habitat on the planet, the most resilient.

And about those salmon in the river. What more amazing story is that? Salmon, born in Idaho, who travel all the way to the ocean, life a full life, and then swim all the way back. All the way back to Idaho. To spawn and to die. Those big trees, ever wonder how those big ponderosas grow so tall on the Middle Fork? Growing so tall from sand? The nutrients brought in from the sea by the life cycle of salmon.

You may be guiding the last American citizens who could see wild salmon in the Salmon River. These are all stories to tell.

You are a guide. You are a guide, not just showing the way, but helping guide your people to conclusions. That wilderness matters. That people can do great things.

Frank Church took President Jimmy Carter down the Middle Fork. You don’t know who is on your trips. It may be a kid who’ll row rivers. It may be someone who saves them. Make the most of it. Step up. Be an evangelist for wilderness and for the spirit that draws you to the river, and to me to helping save those rivers.

Wallace Stegner, a great writer, called where we are, the American West, the “native home of hope.” He also said we’d know we’d succeeded when we “create a society to match the scenery.”

Together we love these places.
Together we will float the wild rivers.
Guides interpret the songs of the river, the language of pines.
Anybody can go there. It takes special people to keep us there.
To keep us there.
To keep the rivers alive.
To keep what’s out there in here, in our hearts. This is the work of guides. You and me.

I always walk into a room and look around, trying to sense what matters to the group. Today, I read something on one of your arms, a tattoo. It said, “20 years from now you’ll be more disappointed by what you didn’t do than by what you did.”

Go big. Reach our into the wild heart of Idaho and share it. Interpret it. Love it, shape it, and give that to your guests. Change their lives. It’s how we make our lives worth living.

DREAMING OF SUMMER ON THE SALMON RIVER

by Seth Dahl, Big Cedar Media

Originally posted on Go Idaho.

During the grey and cold days of winter, I find myself sitting in my apartment daydreaming about a place and a people I’ve grown to love. This deep admiration started ten years ago when I first experienced a six-day river trip down Idaho’s Middle Fork of the Salmon River. I soon traveled from Montana seasonally to work this stunning stretch of water and for eight years now I have accumulated many fond memories.

The Middle Fork flows wild and free for 100 miles through the heart of the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness. It drops almost 3,000 feet during its trip, crashing through numerous rapids with names like “Pistol Creek” and “Devil’s Tooth.” Its scenery changes from high alpine forest to mountain desert and finishes with a bang as it cuts through a steep rocky gorge named the “Impassable Canyon.” It is a unique trip and a natural treasure.

I often think about those warm sweep boat days bathed in golden light. The sun drops low in the sky and the craft is pulled by a free current. The flying insects are illuminated amongst the tall grass and the pine and fir trees cast shadows across the river. The birds sing with the sounds of the river and water laps the floor of the sweep. Together, their voices became harmony to my ears and in that moment I feel truly alive!

I think about the guides around me. They seem to complete this place with their smiling faces and wild eyes. They are strong, genuine, and friendly. Their lives, in many ways, reflect the wild and scenic river they work. As the season turns to spring they emulate the Chinook salmon and make their way back to the river, year after year.

These men and women come from many backgrounds and range in age and experience. They are the river’s ambassadors sharing its history and stories. Some are artists and musicians and others study the plants and animals of the area. These people are backcountry medics and Dutch oven masters. As river guides they are skilled boatman and they are a crafty and resilient bunch. They are Idahoans.

I think about the coming river season. Soon we will move downriver and gather around a campfire. There will be stories and good food. At night I will sleep under the stars and be filled with gratitude, forever thankful, for a community, and a wild river that has carved its course through my life.

9 WAYS A GUIDE COULD SPEND THEIR TAX RETURN

Written by Emerald LaFortune

Luckily, tax return season and April (often a lean time of year for those who work a summer season) overlap. The IRS did that on purpose, right? If a chunk of change is coming your way this spring, consider investing it in your summer season in these nine ways.

1. A storage unit. Likely, you’ve just rounded up all your gear, kitchen utensils and books from various friend’s basements and Mom’s garage. You’ll never see that favorite flannel shirt again and your dry top gaskets look suspiciously stretched out by wrists not your own. You’ve got a blender but no lid and that cardboard box of books smells suspiciously like cat pee. What if there was a system where you could just rent a garage and not a full house? It could be a big metal box with a sliding door and no stairs…oh wait - this exists. A storage unit can be your only house rather than your overflow house. A storage unit is a worthy summer investment for those who’d prefer not to store their life in Rubbermaid bins behind their car at the guide house.

2. An oil change. For many guides, our wheels are home sweet home. Often the rural places we guide from aren’t known for their superb auto mechanic resources. Give your rig TLC now to avoid the “stranded between McCall and Stanley with a busted head gasket the night before a six day trip” event we’ve all come close to.

3. A PO box. Did you laugh when your friend complained about filing their taxes? And you explained that you’ve worked for 5 different companies in 4 different states AND contracted out as a small business? A PO box can go a long way to helping you keep bank statements, birthday cards from Grandma and all those W-2s in one place.

4. Gear repair. Re-strapping your Chacos, pressure testing your dry suit, 303ing dry bags, oiling your hiking boots, checking over your safety gear… spring is the time for a thorough gear assessment. Dealing with gear issues now lets you take advantage of sweet pro deals and warranties rather than making panicked visits to the expensive gear store twenty minutes before put in.

5. Doctors appointments. Ughhhhhhhh. I know, I know. This one. Long days physically and emotionally as a guide mean extra wear and tear on both your body and your brain. As a guide you have to take care of yourself to take care of others. Go to the dentist, get that STI screening, have the mole on the back of your hand looked at, check in with a mental health professional. We know that the cost of doctor appointment can quickly outstrip tax return income. If the idea of deciphering insurance or being in town long enough to schedule an appointment is too overwhelming, stop by the Redside sponsored health fair at this year's Idaho River Rendezvous.

6. A gift for your significant other. Being in the field all season can be hard on relationships. Whether or not your loved one is a guide, a thoughtful gift or handwritten letter saying “thanks for putting up with my crazy job” can go a long way. If your significant other is a dog, this still applies.

7. Dinner with that guide that has their sh&@* together. We have a lot of career guides in Idaho - the type that have a mortgage, take their kids to soccer practice, and return home after a trip to a shower not infested with weird foot fungus. Spend some of your tax return on a bottle of wine and make a dinner date with them and their family. It’s important to remember that guiding doesn’t necessarily need to be synonymous with complete life upheaval once a year. Continue to explore all the different ways “guide life” can manifest.

8. A fall investment. Whether it’s a class, a deposit on an apartment, a plane ticket to see friends or an hour-long massage, scheduling something to look forward to in the fall can help alleviate the post-season blues. You’ll be too exhausted come August to make the effort then. Schedule it in now - you’ll be glad you did.

9. An adventure. You spend all summer helping others have the adventure of a life time. You do work that helps connect families, inspires people to protect wild landscapes and teaches guests to trust their own abilities. Whether it’s a day on the water with friends, a climbing trip to the desert, or skiing the last spring corn of spring, take some time to give yourself an adventure too. Connect to your family, inspire yourself in the wild landscape you love and remember the extent of your abilities. It’s sure to be tax return well invested into a busy upcoming season.

How do you spend your tax return before guiding season? Leave us a comment!

GUIDE OF THE MONTH: SARA LUNDY, SAWTOOTH MOUNTAIN GUIDES

hotography by Tanner Haskins & Scott Knickerbocker

Interviewed by Emerald LaFortune

Name:  Sara Lundy
Hometown:  New Meadows, Idaho
Current Location:  Stanley, Idaho
Job Title at Sawtooth Mountain Guides (SMG): Co-Owner and Guide
Years Guiding: 15 years

How did you become an SMG guide?

After attending the College of Idaho, I had been working in Stanley during the summers and decided to try a winter season.  I lived at Papa Brunees and made pizza a couple of nights a week. I met Kirk Bachman, the founder of SMG, and started to help haul loads up to the Williams Peak Hut. I became the hut keeper, hut cook, and assistant guide. By 2003 I had enough experience and training to get my first ski guides license.

You have been a river guide as well?  

I got my first Idaho guides license in 2001 as a river guide for Sawtooth Adventure Company on the day stretch of the Salmon near Stanley.  I had only ever done a few private trips (mostly with Telly!) but Jared Hopkinson took a chance and put me on the stick. I ended up working 4 years on the day stretch and 9 years full time on the Middle Fork. I still run a few Middle Fork trips every year with Jared at Rocky Mountain River Tours.

What’s the most rewarding part of your work?

Introducing people to wilderness experiences that they wouldn't have had otherwise. I love the mountains and rivers and wilderness! Time spent in the wild fixes most things - it's meditative and rejuvenating, it untangles my brain and refills my reserves.  And at the same time it's challenging in all the right ways - physically, mentally and often emotionally. The wilderness experience is a core necessity for me so it's extremely satisfying to share that with others. It's really rewarding to help a first time camper set up a tent and witness them enjoy the simplest camp stove dinner like it's a 3-star michelin experience. And it's just as rewarding to belay a long-time skier into the 50 degree couloir she'd been eyeing for years but needed a little technical help to enter.

The most frustrating?  

As with any profession, the frustrations change over time. I remember early on trying to piece together enough work to survive and now as a business owner there's not enough time for the work.

Have you ever thought of moving on from guiding? Why did/didn’t you?  

My husband Chris and I had worked on the Middle Fork for an incredible family for many years.  When they decided to sell we thought it might be a good time for us to move on. We didn't want to be the old guides saying, "That's not how we do it around here."  But even before the next season we realized that we weren't ready to be done. It was a good reminder to not get burned out, stay flexible and open to new ideas, reevaluate often.  Also, before we decided to build a little house in Stanley and buy into SMG we did some serious soul searching and exploratory traveling. One hard thing about guiding is that we realize we might not be able to do it forever.  My body will get tired and I won't want to be out on big physical days, day after day.  I feel lucky to now be a part of the business side of guiding. But what about our guides? I don't know the answer but I'm excited that the Redside Foundation is around to be a part of those kinds of discussions.

Photo: Tanner Haskins

Who inspires you as a guide?  

Kirk Bachman, who founded SMG in 1985 and whose dedication and character provide a solid, timeless inspiration. All of SMG's guides, past and present, who work so hard, are constantly striving to be even better guides and who go above and beyond for every client. Kurt and Gayle Selisch, who always believed in me and loved me, and make me want to be the best guide I can be and inspire that in others.

What inspires you as a guide?  

The mountains and rivers and sunsets and sunrises.

How do you support your fellow guides and how do they support you?  

As a business owner we have the responsibility of providing certain support for our guides.  We believe it's our responsibility to pay well, have a fair hierarchy for scheduling, have a pay scale based on experience and training (increase in pay for every additional training), provide training, morning and evening meetings to check in on the day of guiding and also guide concerns, try to keep everything as transparent as possible and support our guides doing what they need to do to make the guiding profession work.  And our guides in return work so hard and make sacrifices in their lives to support SMG and provide the best service for our clients.  Our guides are amazing!  On a more personal level, I think most all guides are watching out for each other.

How do you take care of yourself during the guiding season?  

Usually not well enough!  The seasonal work means that when the season is on it's gogogo.  Eat as much as you can, sleep as much as you can, find a day to go ski for fun if you can. I actually tore my meniscus this season and had repair surgery that has put me out for the rest of the ski season. One thing that I'm realizing is that we go a little too hard!  This forced downtime reminds me that an occasional break is so important. I really respect the guides who take a week off midseason. I see how important it is now for so many reasons...physically, mentally, for friendships and in order to be the best you can be and come back strong and healthy.

What advice would you give an aspiring backcountry skiing/climbing guide?  

Figure out how to get as much personal experience as you can. Ski and climb and explore and love it. Then get training. The American Mountain Guide Association offers training that is becoming the standard.  And then get guiding experience. Sounds so easy, huh!?  I know it's not, but it's possible if it's what you really want and you're willing to get creative, be patient and humble and not give up on it.

Why Idaho?  

After college I traveled around quite a bit, spending a chunk of time in Bend, Missoula, and even NYC for a few months.  I was always drawn back to Idaho and Stanley in particular maybe because it has the perfect amount of wild for me. I figured that where my dog was happiest, so was I. She preferred Stanley.

You knew Telly Evans (the guide and friend that the Redside Foundation was started in memorial of) - any favorite memories of your times with him?  

So many!  And they all include his big laugh and crinkly-eyed smile. One early-season private trip on the Main Salmon I was running my own boat for the first time. I came around the corner at Big Mallard and see Telly on the right bank dancing around and pointing left, left, left! The Big Mallard rock was out and Telly, being the strong, amazing boater that he was, thought he'd try going right. He ended up plastered on the rock and swears the only reason they didn't flip was he had two big farm boys wedged under the table up front. They peeled off and he made it to shore in time to point everybody following him to the left.  He was an incredible leader for many reasons but one big one was his ability to make mistakes, share them and make you feel fine about making your own mistakes. I think of him every time I sneak between those big Big Mallard rocks. And lots of other times too.  

What’s your favorite yurt meal?

Mexi! Pork carnitas, rice and beans, slaw, and Yurtaritas

Scott Knickerbocker

Thanks Sara, we'll see you on the slopes and on the water!

THE PRIDE OF BEING A GUIDE

 by Emerald LaFortune

A serious nine-year-old boy is perched on the front of my boat. In one hand he grips a spinning rod, his other hand is clenched on a blue cam strap. We’ve just passed the confluence of the Snake River and the Salmon River. It feels like a symbolic spot, Idaho’s wildest river and it's most domesticated meeting to shake hands. I almost speak up, ask this kid what he thinks these two rivers are trying to tell us. Then I remember he is nine and keep quiet. As the surging rapids of the confluence turn to glassy flat water, he turns to look me in the eye.

“What’s your favorite animal, Emerald?” he questions.

“Probably a river otter?” I reply, caught off guard.

He studies me for a second.

“That is a water animal. What is your favorite land animal?”

“Um. Elephant.” I say. It’s the end of a long day and it’s the first that comes to mind.

He turns around and sends his lure splashing into the eddy line on our left.

“What’s your favorite water animal?” I ask, liking the way kids don’t expect much continuity in their conversations.

“Salmon,” he states without hesitation, slowly reeling his lure back into the boat.

“Good one,” I reply. Want to know something cool about salmon?”

He nods, gaze on his line skittering through the deep, green water.

So as the wooden oars and my tired back muscles propel us through the still water, I tell him about the itty bitty creeks that salmon are born in. I turn the raft around and row backward, explaining how the salmon are flushed to the ocean, just like we are now, facing upstream. We talk about how the salmon grow big and strong in the ocean, just like he is growing big and strong right now. We imagine how much work it must take to jump up fish ladders and the rapids we have just boated through. We speculate on how totally cool it would be to catch a salmon on his spinning rod.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, the conversation has moved on to trail mix and if it’s time to swim yet.

When I decided to work as a whitewater guide again post-university graduation, I felt a bit sheepish. Four years of college education and a degree to land a job I was qualified for without it? When I told family and friends my post-grad plan I would explain how “it was a break year” and how I’d land a “real job” soon.

But as the boy swims alongside my boat, practicing his salmon technique (lots of flopping), I think about what it means to be a guide. The West is covered in us – from mountaineering guides to fishing guides to hiking guides to rafting guides to climbing guides. The community is stereotyped, occasionally accurately, as a collection of young adults dirtbagging around, making ends meet from season to season, living out of vehicles, thriving on adrenaline and PBR, and otherwise avoiding the real world with it’s bank accounts and office desks. Many of us started guiding not because we love managing stranger’s vacations, but because we love the places we guide in. When the place you love is a permitted river, or 10,000 ft peak, or boat-only access fishing hole, you get creative.

When I applied for my summer job in February of 2013, it was for the sole purpose of spending as much time as I possibly could on the rivers in Idaho. Yet as the summer progressed, I found myself enjoying the people as much as the place. Not just the vibrant, laughing river guides, but the guests as well.

As I haul the boy back into the boat by the lapels of his personal flotation device (even salmon have to get out of the water and eat trail mix on occasion), I think about my undergraduate degree. Environmental Studies students are taught to translate and communicate complicated policy and science in ways that is worthwhile and meaningful. I wonder, if a picture is worth 1,000 words, what is an experience? I think of the Floridian investment banker who sat in awe in a dory, as guides laughed and played music around him, the Idaho sky exploding in stars. “I haven’t seen the stars like this in sixteen years,” he said quietly. “This trip is changing my life.”A guide may not have the traditionally well-built resume of a campaign organizer, policy changer, or non-profit employee. But helping people to care about a place or issue enough to take action is as much about affecting their heart as it is about appealing to their logic or wallet. And when a guest watches their child open in joy after a big rapid, or eats dinner while the sun set over a pastel pink river, or sleeps out on a sand beach with their loved one, it touches a heart place . When a guest sees how their guide loves their place like they love a limb attached to their body, it touches a heart place too.

Many young adults won’t be guides forever – but most take that heart work and apply it into being some of the most passionate organizers, teachers, office workers, business people, parents, and friends I know.

So now, I say it with strength instead of sheepishness.

I am a guide.