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As the Oarlock Turns Part 1: The Madness Begins

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Fumes of acetone, Hypalon rubber and freshly lacquered oars sift through the warehouse. Empty PBR cans tipped on their sides and random tools riddle the workshop’s table. Randy the Handy must be working on the sweep boat floor again. Damn that rock in the left line at Pistol Creek! Aluminum dry boxes are spread across the floor in a strange crop-circle-like cataloging system, and the commissary drama-queen is cursing my name for eating too much cereal the season before: “Now we have to order more!”

A method to the madness.

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Hoods on trucks are popped.  Grease, fluids and guttural expletives spew from all directions. Randy has moved into auto-mechanic mode. Thank God there are no small children within earshot of the trailer-lights housing.

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As snowmelt moves from the mountains into the canyons and valleys, half-rusted rigs doubling as sleeping accommodations stream into Stanley, a quiet town tucked into Idaho’s snowcapped Sawtooth Mountains. The annual migration pattern of the river guide has come full circle. Our family is back together for another season on the Middle Fork Salmon—100 miles of pristine wilderness, save a bush plane or two ripping overhead.

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Raft frames are ripped from the walls and strapped onto the truck. Rubber is inflated to maximum pressure. In the spirit of pre-season handy work and mechanic-ing, tank tops are mandatory. PBRs are cracked, stories from the winter are shared, and laughter spreads. The crew looks healthy, though maybe a little soft after a winter of seasonal IPAs—perhaps “rested” is a better word.

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The air buzzes with pent-up stir-craziness from months spent inside during blizzards. Newly exposed shoulders burn. Muscles are fresh. Skin is tender from hunkering down in ski boots and insulated gloves—pathetic by whitewater-cowboy standards.  There are no cracks between my phalanges from running thousands of feet of strap through them—yet—but the epidermal fissures will grow with each double-spring cam I thread and each gear bag I cinch.MiddleForkSalmon_JBoling_4326

Each fully loaded cooler tossed onto the flatbed moves us one step closer to chronic lumbar issues.  The truck’s cage fills like a Tetris screen. We winch the giant 22-foot sweep boat, with all its fresh low-water patches, onto the trailer. Clyde, the hard-working Ford Diesel F-650 (Clyde is short for Clydesdale) is back in business.

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Soon, our hands will be made of leather. No woman or man would crave the touch of a guide after three months of living on the river. Feet will be perma-wrinkled and cracked, due to prolonged hot-spring-cocktail sessions and miles of hiking in Chaco flips (not recommended by nine out of ten podiatrists).  Fingers will be fishing-knot-nimble after assisting far too many guests in re-tying tangled flies. Patience with guests’ dietary restrictions will wear thin and, yes, I may “accidentally” cook a veggie burger on the same greasy grill as a Montana grass-fed lean beef patty.

Let the madness begin.

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