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As the Oarlock Turns Part 6: Luxuries of a Dead Head

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The shade of the cool warehouse encompasses the pre-trip briefing, a circle of plastic lawn chairs, guest rosters and guides. The cold cement is a nice reprieve from the July sun beating down outside, terminating snowpack as we speak. The river level is dropping. Days on the water are growing longer and longer, as the downstream current diminishes bit by bit. My shoulders can feel it. Oarlocks are working overtime, pushing to make camp in a timely fashion. Each grunting backstroke tests the craftsmanship of our oars; dodging new rocks where waves, holes and hydraulics once resided. All a direct correlation to the falling digits on the gauge.

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Each week, our truck zig-zags and switchbacks toward the put in. The only thing that changes in this haze of bumpy roads and déjà vu are the numbers on the flow gauge representing the volume in the drainage. The gauge, adjusted daily by Forest Service rangers, is the first thing that our eyesight searches for upon arrival—that and how many cat-boaters are going to be in our way before we can get in the queue. It’s as if the rangers decide in some deity-like fashion, how many cubic feet shall flow from the peaks of surrounding mountains. I’m sure it’s all covered somewhere in the labyrinth of the USFS handbook.

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We’re approaching a portion of the summer that guides look forward to with all the giddiness of a child on zombie-jesus day, low water. At the meeting, the circle of river guides sit, fingers crossed in hopes that the outfitter will make the announcement. Scrappy, crunchy, abrasive low water. It can mean only one thing, dead heads. We hold our breath. The dead head represents an ideal, a dream, a coveted happenstance where the universe shines down upon the guiding community. The dead head occurs somewhere on the sliding scale of diminished returns. Outfitters have guides float the upper 25 mile section of de-watered, boat thrashing river from the Boundary Creek put-in with as little weight as possible rather than send guests smashing about as guides loosen oars from their locks and send expletives flying with each wreck.

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After two days sans clients, the rafts meet downstream at Indian Creek Airstrip to welcome passengers to the Frank Church Wilderness of No Return. Simply put: we get paid to raft solely with our friends down one of the most pristine rivers in the nation for two days. It’s one of the most tempting attributes of guiding on this river. This is why my 401K looks so heinous. Fingers crossed.

The meeting concludes. Nothing out of the usual. I can feel the disappointment in the air. As drybags and personal gear are thrown into the truck, the outfitter blurts out “Oh yeah. I forgot to mention, we’re deadheading next week.” YES!

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This is the commencement.

Now is the race to get on the river, unload, inflate, re-rig every craft and float the two miles of technical whitewater to camp before the sun sets. One can quickly find themselves sleeping on a raft in the middle of the river during dead head season if they don’t quickly learn all the tricks, spins and necessary sticks. Rocks jump out of nowhere and the lines are fine. Dew covers everything within 40 yards of the shore. “The coldest place in the nation” according to some guides.

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We are sure to never fly fish or stop at hot springs along the way in the name of efficiency… Never.

The end of day two approaches as the final raft arrives by dusk at Indian Creek. By now, Mark has a buzz and is cooking up a fiesta. Jess relentlessly pumps inflatable kayaks. Parker fills water jugs. Seth tries to dry his SLR camera out after forgetting to take it off before doing a backflip into the river earlier that day. The rest of the crews, buzzing about, are cooking up cocktails and laughter as we all intersperse. The youngsters mingle with the old timers, listening intently to the stories of old. Inevitably, all of our guests will arrive far too early tomorrow morning, but tonight is just for our river family. I love dead-head season.

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