This story was written for Outside Bozeman Magazine.
The song of river rats
We belong in 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. 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. The first t-shirt weather of spring signals us to look forward. 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 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 on 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 have gone 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 an email. Then, just like that, the faucet cranks.
Our schedules fill up immediately. We’re booked because we leave our calendars open, never ruling out the possibility to make a last-minute trip to wherever the water flows paramount. We paddle Yankee Jim, run Bear Trap Canyon, and hit the Gallatin four days a week after work. We make an annual pilgrimage (or three) to the Lochsa and rally north to 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.
For months straight, we live in dry gear and sandals. The kayak never leaves the roof, and the raft remains ready on the trailer. Conversation revolves 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 highwater.
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. Every day, high summer, fall, and winter creep a little bit closer.
There’s never enough time, and we feel it as soon as it runs out. The meat of the season is gone as quick 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.
When low flows and cold temps finally close the door on another season, we raise a glass and drink deep, and we pour 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 handclap and footstomp 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 sun burns and absolutely nothing but water on our minds. We are river runners. So come on and join us. The water is fine.