In Memorium
May 23, 2006
I met a man upon a raft.
I have come to understand that the water is high right now in the Pacific Northwest. All of that snow is melting, causing the rivers to run at stupendously high levels. One hundred year floods they call them, although we have experienced water this high in the last ten years. It makes me jealous.
While we are in Mali sweating because the thermometer tops 110 in the shade, folks at home are riding some of the best whitewater in the world. I read with envy the notes from River Riders every week about the phenomenal water and the joyous exuberance extracted from the flowing of that water. I want to be there. This week the news was not so great though.
The Klickitat is a beautiful river. I have only run it twice, but would eagerly sign up for it again. It is remote, technical, and tons of fun. It is always an all day trip as there are few places along its run to put in or take out. Water levels have to be just right in order to ride it. Although I worked as a guide for twelve years, I can only remember that river being run three or four seasons. A season on that river is one run or two.
The base of operations for the Klick is BZ Corners. Here we keep the gear for the White Salmon, a much more commercially viable river. Here there is somewhat of a population center as well as easy access to the outside world. The biggest challenge to working there for me was the availability of camping.
Most of the guides in the area are freelancers. They are a tight band of individuals who take care of each other. There is not a lot of room for outsiders, especially ones from Riders. We are the red headed step children of the working guides in BZ Corners. Everyone always had somewhere to stay, but no one wanted outsiders to invade.
One day I met someone different. His name was Jeff Driver. A mutual friend introduced us. I never rafted with him, in fact I only met him a couple of times. If you asked him, he would not know me. He owned a rafting company on the White Salmon. He launched his boats from the front yard of his house. He had a nice piece of land; not huge, but enough so that a person could spread out. He opened his land for camping to all guides. It didn’t matter who you were or what company you worked for; if you wanted to stay you were welcome. He offered space for your tent, a toilet, a community gathering spot with electricity, a shower, and an occasional meal. It was paradise for the dirt bag rafting guide; an Eden unparalleled in the rafting world.
The water on the Klickitat is running at twice its average for this time of year. It’s a temptation too beautiful to pass up. Jeff ran a float there last weekend. They came upon a log jam, perhaps the most dangerous obstacle a boater can encounter. Three boats flipped, putting nineteen swimmers in the water. Two didn’t make it. One of those two was Jeff.
An incredible sadness comes over me as I write this. I find these emotions strange considering I did not cry when my own father died and Jeff is a man I barely knew. He was a generous man. I envy his life. I would like to think that I would live the same way as he, given the chance. I try to take solace in the fact that he died doing what he loved. Perhaps his death would have been truly tragic had he died chopping wood, or driving down the road. Instead, he died on the river. At 50 years old, he died doing what he loved most. May we all die the same way.
MJR
I met a man upon a raft.
I have come to understand that the water is high right now in the Pacific Northwest. All of that snow is melting, causing the rivers to run at stupendously high levels. One hundred year floods they call them, although we have experienced water this high in the last ten years. It makes me jealous.
While we are in Mali sweating because the thermometer tops 110 in the shade, folks at home are riding some of the best whitewater in the world. I read with envy the notes from River Riders every week about the phenomenal water and the joyous exuberance extracted from the flowing of that water. I want to be there. This week the news was not so great though.
The Klickitat is a beautiful river. I have only run it twice, but would eagerly sign up for it again. It is remote, technical, and tons of fun. It is always an all day trip as there are few places along its run to put in or take out. Water levels have to be just right in order to ride it. Although I worked as a guide for twelve years, I can only remember that river being run three or four seasons. A season on that river is one run or two.
The base of operations for the Klick is BZ Corners. Here we keep the gear for the White Salmon, a much more commercially viable river. Here there is somewhat of a population center as well as easy access to the outside world. The biggest challenge to working there for me was the availability of camping.
Most of the guides in the area are freelancers. They are a tight band of individuals who take care of each other. There is not a lot of room for outsiders, especially ones from Riders. We are the red headed step children of the working guides in BZ Corners. Everyone always had somewhere to stay, but no one wanted outsiders to invade.
One day I met someone different. His name was Jeff Driver. A mutual friend introduced us. I never rafted with him, in fact I only met him a couple of times. If you asked him, he would not know me. He owned a rafting company on the White Salmon. He launched his boats from the front yard of his house. He had a nice piece of land; not huge, but enough so that a person could spread out. He opened his land for camping to all guides. It didn’t matter who you were or what company you worked for; if you wanted to stay you were welcome. He offered space for your tent, a toilet, a community gathering spot with electricity, a shower, and an occasional meal. It was paradise for the dirt bag rafting guide; an Eden unparalleled in the rafting world.
The water on the Klickitat is running at twice its average for this time of year. It’s a temptation too beautiful to pass up. Jeff ran a float there last weekend. They came upon a log jam, perhaps the most dangerous obstacle a boater can encounter. Three boats flipped, putting nineteen swimmers in the water. Two didn’t make it. One of those two was Jeff.
An incredible sadness comes over me as I write this. I find these emotions strange considering I did not cry when my own father died and Jeff is a man I barely knew. He was a generous man. I envy his life. I would like to think that I would live the same way as he, given the chance. I try to take solace in the fact that he died doing what he loved. Perhaps his death would have been truly tragic had he died chopping wood, or driving down the road. Instead, he died on the river. At 50 years old, he died doing what he loved most. May we all die the same way.
MJR
posted by Bronx to Timbuktu at 12:01 AM
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