I.
We launch at Paradise. Four guides, twelve guests and enough gear
for five days on the river slip downstream away from the forest
service guard station just west of the Idaho/Montana border. I am
paddling my own kayak and the rest of the group is split between
four rafts. Idaho’s Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness lies
to the south and the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness to the north.
Together they make up over three million acres, the largest
contiguous wild acreage in the lower 48. Conifers carpet the
mountains so thick that Lewis and Clark’s journey through this
rugged country two centuries ago seems nothing short of miraculous.
On the way to the put-in, I saw my first moose ever, a baby, standing
in the river. The clouds have just broken open, brightening the forest
on either side of us and sending a glistening sheen across the current.
But what thrills me most about this trip is that my dad, who has the
heart of an explorer, but roots firmly planted in Chicago, is paddling
in the raft ahead of me. Dad took me fishing in Canada when I was
three, water skiing when I was nine and scuba diving when I was
eleven. Finally it is my turn to take him down his first western river.
As we approach the first churning white rapid, my father turns to me
and grins. Then he paddles in unison with his boat mates, into the
waves.
“What do you think?” I ask him when we make it to Archer camp
and choose a tent spot in a huge meadow.
“Really great,” he says, “I have no idea what I’m doing, but it’s fun.”
We dump nylon and poles and stakes out on the grass and take
stock. As we stumble through the process of erecting the shelter I
ask when was the last time he camped.
“Let’s see you were about ten.”
That would be thirty years ago. Luckily, this is posh camping. The
outfitters provide thick sleeping pads and prepares three meals a day
and generous snacks. A portable toilet is set up behind a private
curtain, a short walk from camp. Our only responsibility other than
packing our own belongings, is putting up our tent. Jimmy, one of the
guides, comes to help us do that.
That evening we eat Cornish hens while listening to the soft patter
come and go on the tarp. A whitetail doe and fawn make their way
through the meadow behind us. Ron from Missoula lets us know that
not every wildlife sighting is so welcome. “I hate snakes,” he says
after describing the rattler during a dessert of pineapple upside down
cake still warm from the Dutch oven.
“Didn’t know you were afraid of snakes,” says his friend Fred.
“I’m not afraid of them. I just don’t like them.” The rest of us laugh.
“No really. Bettie was married to a Green Beret before she married
me and they had a huge pet boa. They let him have the run of the
house. When the snake died, they ate him.”
Which brings me to another favorite thing: on river trips, you always
meet interesting people. Despite having reportedly eaten a pet snake
at one time, Bettie is charming and fun and an excellent hiker. In our
small group there are Jennifer and Tony from Oklahoma and their
teenage son, Dayton. Neil is a lawyer and David an accountant, both
live near Detroit. It’s David’s 21st trip down the Selway, which we
figure is a non-guide record and evidence of good taste in rivers and
maybe some addictive tendencies. Joe, a retired game warden from
North Carolina plays a Native American flute and can recite The
Cremation of Sam McGee in its entirety.
II.
Though this is my father's first western river, the stories of his
childhood are woven with boating folklore. When my dad was eleven
and asked his dad for a boat, my grandpa made the mistake of
answering, “Sure, if you get a job and pay for it.” My dad promptly
got himself hired on as a dishwasher at the Ice Palace. By the next
summer, he and his cousin Ken owned a twelve-foot Wolverine with
a 43 horsepower engine, the biggest made in its day. The engine was
powerful enough that the duo flipped the boat on three different
occasions, each time giving them an opportunity to learn how to
rebuild a boat engine. The plywood hull was light so they could boat
the upper Fox near the Wisconsin border if they took the motor off
and carried it around the dam separately. My sisters and I loved dad’
s boating stories. Dad had, not a blue ox, but a dog named Rusty
who would ride on the front of his speedboat, and take his turn going
down the water slide. He’d tell us how they’d ski in any season as
long as the river had thawed, taking off from the dock and landing on
the beach during cold weather. Once he’d left his tattered swim suit
on a splinter of the dock. My sisters and I would giggle and ask,
“Did you still ski?” And he’d answer, “Of course, I wasn’t going to
give up my turn.”
My dad lived in Chicago nine months out of the year, but it is his river
stories that I associate with his childhood.
When the rain stops we gather around the fire. It’s only days before
the solstice and light lingers late into the evening. The mountains have
turned purple under the soft light, and a bald eagle soars overhead.
My father stands to watch the huge hawk as it disappears up the
canyon.
III.
Goat Creek rapid, a class III, becomes my new favorite. Some
rapids are fun in an out-of-control way. But in Goat Creek the waves
pile high around granite boulders creating calm pools on either side.
The river does all the work, but I feel graceful as I catch an eddy in
my kayak and turn and drop down through the foam and then catch
the next and turn and drop again. The upper Selway moves at a
brisk, constant grade and is wider than I imagined. We have cloudy
skies and rain much of the day, evidence of how this lush forest came
to be.
We camp at Bear Creek and my dad and I hike with some of the
others along the clear mountain stream. We see evidence of elk
scratched onto the tree. The trail becomes muddier as we climb and
we turn around after a few miles. Jim and Dave continue on through
the mud in search of spawning salmon at the headwaters.
Afterwards at camp, we are surrounded by bear grass is in bloom,
and the low notes of Joe’s flute, and the mating call of a grouse which
sounds like a hollow thump of heartbeat. While we eat lasagna I ask
Dad again, how he likes the trip, and he answers, "Good, good."
I am expecting something, I realize. Maybe it is my river evangelist
tendencies. Ever since moving to Idaho, I’ve been certain that if I
could only ply friends and family away from Palm Pilots and traffic
jams they too would know the rush of whitewater and the magic of
sleeping beneath a brilliant sky. My dad’s enjoying himself yes, but I
want to know that he gets this river thing the way I do.
I’m well aware that I idealize my father. Like many daughters, I carry
with me an internal portrait based on part mythology, part reality, all
love. I may be expecting that a week on the river with him will loosen
those threads so that they sort themselves out, help me to know him
for real. On most of our visits we are joined by two sisters, seven
grandsons, my mom and a couple son-in-laws. I love our family times
together. But what a rare luxury, to have dad all to myself. I even feel
a little guilty.
After dinner Dad and I sit close to the edge of the Selway. The
thumping of the blue grouse resonates in my chest. I open the river
map. My dad moves his chair closer and we look over the rapids we
will take on tomorrow.
V.
The next day, my kayak flips over in Rodeo, a class II rapid, and I
get my roll. Nothing increases my joy or confidence on a trip more
than spontaneously righting myself after an unexpected flip. The sun is
out, glistening across the steady current. But water has seeped into
my “dry” top, and, since it’s June, Selway water equals barely-
melted snow. Marty pulls everyone over so I can get into some dry
clothes.
We get to our third camp, Moose Creek, early. My dad walks to the
ranger station and I opt to join Neil and David on a more strenuous
climb to the fire look-out atop Shissler Peak. The trail is shaded and
muddy. We start classifying the puddles using the whitewater scale (I-
VI) based on how much we slide and splatter on our way through
them. I consider turning back, but then David entertains us by reciting
poe's Raven and Neil performs A Red, Red Rose complete with
Scottish accent. I used to know Frost’s Mending Wall and now I
wish I hadn't let my memory lapse. Poetry seems to be the thing on
this trip. I don’t know what the odds are of running into an
accountant, a game warden and a lawyer who can recite classic
poetry (some quite lengthy), but as a former high school English
teacher I'm rather impressed.
We follow hairpin turns upward and the creek becomes a fine thread
of silver below us. We are tired, but we keep going because we have
made it this far already and David has promised to share his Dove
chocolate at the top.
I wonder how my dad is doing on his hike. He has always gotten
along easily with people, and I know he will be everyone’s favorite
by the time we leave. When I was a kid, all my friends used to want
to hang out at our house in part because of how nice my dad was.
He taught the entire neighborhood how to water ski, a feat that takes
no small amount of patience.
Dave and Neil and I arrive at the abandoned lookout, two-and-a-
half hours after we started. Soft piles of wildflowers blanket the
ground and the view is breathtaking. This part of Idaho is wetter,
making the forest a lush green and the mountains in the distance are a
shade of violet rather than the dusty brown or the pale granite on the
peaks closer to my home. I can see 360 degrees from where I sit on
a boulder eating my chocolate square. I realize how easy it would’ve
been to miss this. In a world of multitasking and high-speed
connections, you could go through and entire life without learning a
poem by heart, or floating a wilderness river or spending a week in
the wilderness with your father.
VI.
When people talk of the Selway being an exceptional river they
basically mean two things. First, in order to maintain pristine
conditions, the forest service allows only one group of 16 or fewer to
launch each day making it the most protected river in the lower 48.
The result is a sense of extreme solitude on the river. The second
reason has to do with day four when we run a section of seven rapids
in a row known as the Moose Juice.
Truth be told, my passion for kayaking outpaces my skill level. On
occasion, when knocked over, I’ve been known to swim out of my
boat rather than rolling up, the preferred option. I’m afraid if I go
over in Double Drop I’ll end up swimming through Ladle, Little
Niagara, Puzzle Creek and No Slouch. The guides strap my kayak
to an oar boat and I climb in the paddle raft with my father.
After a clean ride through Double Drop, we paddle ashore so the
guides can scout Ladle, a legendary class IV. Despite their years of
experience, none of them take the Selway for granted—not the
power of the water or its beauty. Mike, the youngest guide who
normally wears a boyish grin, returns from the scout looking serious
and barking commands like an old army sergeant. “Together! It’s
important you all paddle together. We’re going to try to make that
chute,” he points to a very narrow opening between two rocks in the
midst of the rumbling mess. When we climb back in, I am relieved to
see Dad is smiling. My own heart rate seems to be keeping pace with
the increasing rumble the current.
I watch David’s paddle in front of me and dive the blade into green
water, which quickly turns to white foam. The bottom of the boat
drops down as we enter the rapid. I keep marking time with David
until suddenly he disappears and the front corner of the boat seems
to be swallowed right up to my knees. I think he might be in the river.
Mike shouts a command above the roar and I soon realize that David
has not fallen out, but was thrown onto the floor of the raft to avoid
the rushing water.
“Get up and paddle,” I yell in an adrenalin-spiked outburst as though
he had a choice in his position. The rest of us back paddle, the boat
turns and finally releases from the hole. When the waves mellow, we
all raise our yellow blades and slap them high above us and then relax.
David, having returned to his post says, “Has anyone ever mentioned
you’re kind of critical?”
“Twenty-one Selway trips and you stop paddling in Ladle,” I rib
back. We are all laughing though. Then Mike calls “Forward
paddle,” and we do, remembering Little Niagara and four more
rapids lie just ahead.
VII.
On the fourth day we hike the Selway trail towards Wolf Creek
Rapid. I want to scout the course to decide whether I’ll run it in my
boat or on a raft. One way to see a river is while floating it. But it is
entirely new experience to hike though lush forest and up atop a ridge
and watch the current curve around each bend. From up high the
rapids look smaller against the vastness of mountains and trees. My
father walks ahead of me, head down. Joe and I stop to snap
pictures.
“I’m going to just keep going,” he says.
I’m frustrated that he doesn't seem to notice the incredible beauty
around us. “How much farther do you think it is?” he asks. This
confuses me. My dad plays tennis at least three times a week. He is
an extremely young 67. We have hiked only a mile, but sweat crawls
down his neck.
“Not sure,” I answer, "Another couple miles?"
My dad sits down right on the edge of the trail. “I’ll wait here for
when you come back,” he says. I worry. Is he having a stroke or a
heart attack and is afraid to tell me?
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m just not fascinated with heights.”
Then I remember the vertigo my dad experienced while driving up to
Haleakala Crater on Maui a few years back. And also how once,
after coming home from the City Works tour with his grandsons, he
was looking a little pale and we all teased him because he had agreed
to take a ride in the cherry picker out of love for his grandsons.
I look at the silver ribbon of river glistening far below us and his
focused gaze on the trail in front of him makes perfect sense.
“I feel like heading back, you want to join me?” Joe says.
Ron and Bettie and I continued on to scout the rapid, so I can tend
to my own fears.
VIII.
On our last morning, we linger at camp. We know the drill, after
breakfast it’s time to pack our river bags while the guides break
down camp. But the sun is out and the scent of sticky buns wafts
through the air. Dayton and Neil have caught (and released) more
trout than they can count. Even the guides are slow to take down
their tents. Dad and I sit and stare at the water.
Last year my dad sold the boat I learned to ski behind. It was over a
quarter century old and still ran well, though the speedometer, on a
good day, would only reach 40. He traded it in on a 21 foot Sea Ray
with a wider hull that would withstand the waves in Lake Geneva and
Lake Michigan. “The Mark Twain was a river boat, you know,” my
dad says.
The Fox River is too crowded for skiing now. In my father’s day it
was quiet enough and clear enough to swim across. Before he and
Ken bought their boat, they would swim out to the middle then float
down stream a couple miles to the picnic area, where they’d meet
their school friends who arrived on the train for the afternoon. If it
was late in the season and the current slow enough, they’d swim
back. Otherwise they’d walk through town, stopping for ice cream.
Now here we are on the Selway more wild than any river either of us
has ever run. I've wanted to paddle this river ever since I took up
kayaking five years ago, and now here I am here, on the edge of
pristine waters and endless forest with my father, a quiet man who
loves to tell a good story. A kind man who does not hold people’s
weaknesses against them. A man who is not fascinated with heights,
and who is brave in water, in fatherhood, in life. I look to this man,
lounging in his camp chair, brown eyes fixed on the current, and
know that I have always known him.
“I’ve gotten used to this." We’ve completely sunk into what guides
call river time an ironic term referring to the phenomenon where time
slips away and Life becomes wherever a river takes you—through
corridors of lush trees, into big waves and then calm. Then he says,
“My tennis buddies would love this,” and I recognize signs of another
river evangelist in the family.
What is it we love? Certainly it is the motion of the river and the
intense sensory experience of beauty everywhere. But also, a wild
river takes us through a swath of earth where our perspective
changes. Where the boldest headlines are only flimsy paper next to
the stars in the sky and the ancient cedars growing on the beach.
When we finally push offshore it is almost noon. We have one big
rapid, Wolf Creek, and then an easy float to the take-out. My dad
climbs in the paddle raft and I in my kayak. I take long strokes out
into the middle of the river, watching rocks slip beneath me. Even in
deep water, the Selway is so clear I can imagine reaching down and
running my fingers along the rounded stones. I follow my father’s
boat. We let the current pull us the only direction the river goes,
towards home.
© 2007 Laura Stavoe
A version of this story first appeared in Western Journey, a AAA
magazine.
Back to River Writer
We launch at Paradise. Four guides, twelve guests and enough gear
for five days on the river slip downstream away from the forest
service guard station just west of the Idaho/Montana border. I am
paddling my own kayak and the rest of the group is split between
four rafts. Idaho’s Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness lies
to the south and the Selway-Bitterroot Wilderness to the north.
Together they make up over three million acres, the largest
contiguous wild acreage in the lower 48. Conifers carpet the
mountains so thick that Lewis and Clark’s journey through this
rugged country two centuries ago seems nothing short of miraculous.
On the way to the put-in, I saw my first moose ever, a baby, standing
in the river. The clouds have just broken open, brightening the forest
on either side of us and sending a glistening sheen across the current.
But what thrills me most about this trip is that my dad, who has the
heart of an explorer, but roots firmly planted in Chicago, is paddling
in the raft ahead of me. Dad took me fishing in Canada when I was
three, water skiing when I was nine and scuba diving when I was
eleven. Finally it is my turn to take him down his first western river.
As we approach the first churning white rapid, my father turns to me
and grins. Then he paddles in unison with his boat mates, into the
waves.
“What do you think?” I ask him when we make it to Archer camp
and choose a tent spot in a huge meadow.
“Really great,” he says, “I have no idea what I’m doing, but it’s fun.”
We dump nylon and poles and stakes out on the grass and take
stock. As we stumble through the process of erecting the shelter I
ask when was the last time he camped.
“Let’s see you were about ten.”
That would be thirty years ago. Luckily, this is posh camping. The
outfitters provide thick sleeping pads and prepares three meals a day
and generous snacks. A portable toilet is set up behind a private
curtain, a short walk from camp. Our only responsibility other than
packing our own belongings, is putting up our tent. Jimmy, one of the
guides, comes to help us do that.
That evening we eat Cornish hens while listening to the soft patter
come and go on the tarp. A whitetail doe and fawn make their way
through the meadow behind us. Ron from Missoula lets us know that
not every wildlife sighting is so welcome. “I hate snakes,” he says
after describing the rattler during a dessert of pineapple upside down
cake still warm from the Dutch oven.
“Didn’t know you were afraid of snakes,” says his friend Fred.
“I’m not afraid of them. I just don’t like them.” The rest of us laugh.
“No really. Bettie was married to a Green Beret before she married
me and they had a huge pet boa. They let him have the run of the
house. When the snake died, they ate him.”
Which brings me to another favorite thing: on river trips, you always
meet interesting people. Despite having reportedly eaten a pet snake
at one time, Bettie is charming and fun and an excellent hiker. In our
small group there are Jennifer and Tony from Oklahoma and their
teenage son, Dayton. Neil is a lawyer and David an accountant, both
live near Detroit. It’s David’s 21st trip down the Selway, which we
figure is a non-guide record and evidence of good taste in rivers and
maybe some addictive tendencies. Joe, a retired game warden from
North Carolina plays a Native American flute and can recite The
Cremation of Sam McGee in its entirety.
II.
Though this is my father's first western river, the stories of his
childhood are woven with boating folklore. When my dad was eleven
and asked his dad for a boat, my grandpa made the mistake of
answering, “Sure, if you get a job and pay for it.” My dad promptly
got himself hired on as a dishwasher at the Ice Palace. By the next
summer, he and his cousin Ken owned a twelve-foot Wolverine with
a 43 horsepower engine, the biggest made in its day. The engine was
powerful enough that the duo flipped the boat on three different
occasions, each time giving them an opportunity to learn how to
rebuild a boat engine. The plywood hull was light so they could boat
the upper Fox near the Wisconsin border if they took the motor off
and carried it around the dam separately. My sisters and I loved dad’
s boating stories. Dad had, not a blue ox, but a dog named Rusty
who would ride on the front of his speedboat, and take his turn going
down the water slide. He’d tell us how they’d ski in any season as
long as the river had thawed, taking off from the dock and landing on
the beach during cold weather. Once he’d left his tattered swim suit
on a splinter of the dock. My sisters and I would giggle and ask,
“Did you still ski?” And he’d answer, “Of course, I wasn’t going to
give up my turn.”
My dad lived in Chicago nine months out of the year, but it is his river
stories that I associate with his childhood.
When the rain stops we gather around the fire. It’s only days before
the solstice and light lingers late into the evening. The mountains have
turned purple under the soft light, and a bald eagle soars overhead.
My father stands to watch the huge hawk as it disappears up the
canyon.
III.
Goat Creek rapid, a class III, becomes my new favorite. Some
rapids are fun in an out-of-control way. But in Goat Creek the waves
pile high around granite boulders creating calm pools on either side.
The river does all the work, but I feel graceful as I catch an eddy in
my kayak and turn and drop down through the foam and then catch
the next and turn and drop again. The upper Selway moves at a
brisk, constant grade and is wider than I imagined. We have cloudy
skies and rain much of the day, evidence of how this lush forest came
to be.
We camp at Bear Creek and my dad and I hike with some of the
others along the clear mountain stream. We see evidence of elk
scratched onto the tree. The trail becomes muddier as we climb and
we turn around after a few miles. Jim and Dave continue on through
the mud in search of spawning salmon at the headwaters.
Afterwards at camp, we are surrounded by bear grass is in bloom,
and the low notes of Joe’s flute, and the mating call of a grouse which
sounds like a hollow thump of heartbeat. While we eat lasagna I ask
Dad again, how he likes the trip, and he answers, "Good, good."
I am expecting something, I realize. Maybe it is my river evangelist
tendencies. Ever since moving to Idaho, I’ve been certain that if I
could only ply friends and family away from Palm Pilots and traffic
jams they too would know the rush of whitewater and the magic of
sleeping beneath a brilliant sky. My dad’s enjoying himself yes, but I
want to know that he gets this river thing the way I do.
I’m well aware that I idealize my father. Like many daughters, I carry
with me an internal portrait based on part mythology, part reality, all
love. I may be expecting that a week on the river with him will loosen
those threads so that they sort themselves out, help me to know him
for real. On most of our visits we are joined by two sisters, seven
grandsons, my mom and a couple son-in-laws. I love our family times
together. But what a rare luxury, to have dad all to myself. I even feel
a little guilty.
After dinner Dad and I sit close to the edge of the Selway. The
thumping of the blue grouse resonates in my chest. I open the river
map. My dad moves his chair closer and we look over the rapids we
will take on tomorrow.
V.
The next day, my kayak flips over in Rodeo, a class II rapid, and I
get my roll. Nothing increases my joy or confidence on a trip more
than spontaneously righting myself after an unexpected flip. The sun is
out, glistening across the steady current. But water has seeped into
my “dry” top, and, since it’s June, Selway water equals barely-
melted snow. Marty pulls everyone over so I can get into some dry
clothes.
We get to our third camp, Moose Creek, early. My dad walks to the
ranger station and I opt to join Neil and David on a more strenuous
climb to the fire look-out atop Shissler Peak. The trail is shaded and
muddy. We start classifying the puddles using the whitewater scale (I-
VI) based on how much we slide and splatter on our way through
them. I consider turning back, but then David entertains us by reciting
poe's Raven and Neil performs A Red, Red Rose complete with
Scottish accent. I used to know Frost’s Mending Wall and now I
wish I hadn't let my memory lapse. Poetry seems to be the thing on
this trip. I don’t know what the odds are of running into an
accountant, a game warden and a lawyer who can recite classic
poetry (some quite lengthy), but as a former high school English
teacher I'm rather impressed.
We follow hairpin turns upward and the creek becomes a fine thread
of silver below us. We are tired, but we keep going because we have
made it this far already and David has promised to share his Dove
chocolate at the top.
I wonder how my dad is doing on his hike. He has always gotten
along easily with people, and I know he will be everyone’s favorite
by the time we leave. When I was a kid, all my friends used to want
to hang out at our house in part because of how nice my dad was.
He taught the entire neighborhood how to water ski, a feat that takes
no small amount of patience.
Dave and Neil and I arrive at the abandoned lookout, two-and-a-
half hours after we started. Soft piles of wildflowers blanket the
ground and the view is breathtaking. This part of Idaho is wetter,
making the forest a lush green and the mountains in the distance are a
shade of violet rather than the dusty brown or the pale granite on the
peaks closer to my home. I can see 360 degrees from where I sit on
a boulder eating my chocolate square. I realize how easy it would’ve
been to miss this. In a world of multitasking and high-speed
connections, you could go through and entire life without learning a
poem by heart, or floating a wilderness river or spending a week in
the wilderness with your father.
VI.
When people talk of the Selway being an exceptional river they
basically mean two things. First, in order to maintain pristine
conditions, the forest service allows only one group of 16 or fewer to
launch each day making it the most protected river in the lower 48.
The result is a sense of extreme solitude on the river. The second
reason has to do with day four when we run a section of seven rapids
in a row known as the Moose Juice.
Truth be told, my passion for kayaking outpaces my skill level. On
occasion, when knocked over, I’ve been known to swim out of my
boat rather than rolling up, the preferred option. I’m afraid if I go
over in Double Drop I’ll end up swimming through Ladle, Little
Niagara, Puzzle Creek and No Slouch. The guides strap my kayak
to an oar boat and I climb in the paddle raft with my father.
After a clean ride through Double Drop, we paddle ashore so the
guides can scout Ladle, a legendary class IV. Despite their years of
experience, none of them take the Selway for granted—not the
power of the water or its beauty. Mike, the youngest guide who
normally wears a boyish grin, returns from the scout looking serious
and barking commands like an old army sergeant. “Together! It’s
important you all paddle together. We’re going to try to make that
chute,” he points to a very narrow opening between two rocks in the
midst of the rumbling mess. When we climb back in, I am relieved to
see Dad is smiling. My own heart rate seems to be keeping pace with
the increasing rumble the current.
I watch David’s paddle in front of me and dive the blade into green
water, which quickly turns to white foam. The bottom of the boat
drops down as we enter the rapid. I keep marking time with David
until suddenly he disappears and the front corner of the boat seems
to be swallowed right up to my knees. I think he might be in the river.
Mike shouts a command above the roar and I soon realize that David
has not fallen out, but was thrown onto the floor of the raft to avoid
the rushing water.
“Get up and paddle,” I yell in an adrenalin-spiked outburst as though
he had a choice in his position. The rest of us back paddle, the boat
turns and finally releases from the hole. When the waves mellow, we
all raise our yellow blades and slap them high above us and then relax.
David, having returned to his post says, “Has anyone ever mentioned
you’re kind of critical?”
“Twenty-one Selway trips and you stop paddling in Ladle,” I rib
back. We are all laughing though. Then Mike calls “Forward
paddle,” and we do, remembering Little Niagara and four more
rapids lie just ahead.
VII.
On the fourth day we hike the Selway trail towards Wolf Creek
Rapid. I want to scout the course to decide whether I’ll run it in my
boat or on a raft. One way to see a river is while floating it. But it is
entirely new experience to hike though lush forest and up atop a ridge
and watch the current curve around each bend. From up high the
rapids look smaller against the vastness of mountains and trees. My
father walks ahead of me, head down. Joe and I stop to snap
pictures.
“I’m going to just keep going,” he says.
I’m frustrated that he doesn't seem to notice the incredible beauty
around us. “How much farther do you think it is?” he asks. This
confuses me. My dad plays tennis at least three times a week. He is
an extremely young 67. We have hiked only a mile, but sweat crawls
down his neck.
“Not sure,” I answer, "Another couple miles?"
My dad sits down right on the edge of the trail. “I’ll wait here for
when you come back,” he says. I worry. Is he having a stroke or a
heart attack and is afraid to tell me?
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m just not fascinated with heights.”
Then I remember the vertigo my dad experienced while driving up to
Haleakala Crater on Maui a few years back. And also how once,
after coming home from the City Works tour with his grandsons, he
was looking a little pale and we all teased him because he had agreed
to take a ride in the cherry picker out of love for his grandsons.
I look at the silver ribbon of river glistening far below us and his
focused gaze on the trail in front of him makes perfect sense.
“I feel like heading back, you want to join me?” Joe says.
Ron and Bettie and I continued on to scout the rapid, so I can tend
to my own fears.
VIII.
On our last morning, we linger at camp. We know the drill, after
breakfast it’s time to pack our river bags while the guides break
down camp. But the sun is out and the scent of sticky buns wafts
through the air. Dayton and Neil have caught (and released) more
trout than they can count. Even the guides are slow to take down
their tents. Dad and I sit and stare at the water.
Last year my dad sold the boat I learned to ski behind. It was over a
quarter century old and still ran well, though the speedometer, on a
good day, would only reach 40. He traded it in on a 21 foot Sea Ray
with a wider hull that would withstand the waves in Lake Geneva and
Lake Michigan. “The Mark Twain was a river boat, you know,” my
dad says.
The Fox River is too crowded for skiing now. In my father’s day it
was quiet enough and clear enough to swim across. Before he and
Ken bought their boat, they would swim out to the middle then float
down stream a couple miles to the picnic area, where they’d meet
their school friends who arrived on the train for the afternoon. If it
was late in the season and the current slow enough, they’d swim
back. Otherwise they’d walk through town, stopping for ice cream.
Now here we are on the Selway more wild than any river either of us
has ever run. I've wanted to paddle this river ever since I took up
kayaking five years ago, and now here I am here, on the edge of
pristine waters and endless forest with my father, a quiet man who
loves to tell a good story. A kind man who does not hold people’s
weaknesses against them. A man who is not fascinated with heights,
and who is brave in water, in fatherhood, in life. I look to this man,
lounging in his camp chair, brown eyes fixed on the current, and
know that I have always known him.
“I’ve gotten used to this." We’ve completely sunk into what guides
call river time an ironic term referring to the phenomenon where time
slips away and Life becomes wherever a river takes you—through
corridors of lush trees, into big waves and then calm. Then he says,
“My tennis buddies would love this,” and I recognize signs of another
river evangelist in the family.
What is it we love? Certainly it is the motion of the river and the
intense sensory experience of beauty everywhere. But also, a wild
river takes us through a swath of earth where our perspective
changes. Where the boldest headlines are only flimsy paper next to
the stars in the sky and the ancient cedars growing on the beach.
When we finally push offshore it is almost noon. We have one big
rapid, Wolf Creek, and then an easy float to the take-out. My dad
climbs in the paddle raft and I in my kayak. I take long strokes out
into the middle of the river, watching rocks slip beneath me. Even in
deep water, the Selway is so clear I can imagine reaching down and
running my fingers along the rounded stones. I follow my father’s
boat. We let the current pull us the only direction the river goes,
towards home.
© 2007 Laura Stavoe
A version of this story first appeared in Western Journey, a AAA
magazine.
Back to River Writer
Selway River Log
by Laura Stavoe
by Laura Stavoe
Trip Length: 5 Days, 47 Miles
Location: Central Idaho
Outfitter: Three Rivers Rafting
Location: Central Idaho
Outfitter: Three Rivers Rafting
