Al Kesselheim

Criminy!

Before the election I adopted the stance that our country had not descended to such a level of depravity that we would actually elect a candidate like Donald Trump. I just wouldn’t accept that possibility.

And I was wrong. We went ahead and did just that. And ever since I’ve been trying to wrap my head around it. It’s easy to simply call your opponents idiots (I know, cause I’ve done it plenty). But really, how is it that the majority of voters listened to what Donald Trump said this past decade, watched what he did and tried to do, witnessed the way he treats people . . . and then said, yeah, that’s my guy??? I truly don’t get it. How is that even possible?

I’ve been mentally trying to braid together the strands of explanation that might deliver some sort of answer. I’ve come up with a couple, and am open to more.

First, for decades now the Republicans have been busy trying to make it harder to vote, and particularly difficult for those most likely to vote against them. Gerrymandering, removing ballot drop boxes, closing polling stations, creating whopping lines and waiting times, and culling the voter rolls of hundreds of thousands of potential voters. Much as they have whined about voter fraud, when it comes down to it, most of the instances of actual fraud have been perpetrated by republicans, and the efforts to simply create roadblocks to voting have, indeed, made a significant dent in voter turnout.

Second, there is no discounting the latent presence of misogyny and racism in our culture. Turns out that a lot of our fellow citizens simply will not vote for a woman, any woman. It was clear as far back as Shirley Chisholm and Geraldine Ferraro. It was true for Hillary Clinton, and I believe it was a factor again for Kamala Harris. Again, I don’t get that, given the number of successful women politicians around the world, but it’s a thing in America. Racism rears its ugly head too. Obama managed to get by it, but the blowback was ferocious. Sad to say, but a whole lot of white voters in this country won’t get behind a candidate of color, even when the other candidate is as unbelievably flawed and dangerous as Trump.

Third, the level of propaganda and disinformation these days is gobsmacking. It’s the age of information, but so much of it is bad information, or targeted information, or superficial information, or simply mendacious information. Everyone, including me, is isolated in their information silo, being fed what they want to hear, what reinforces their beliefs, and leading them down rabbit holes rampant with bullshit, all dressed up to appear reliable and true.

Then there’s the Electoral College, but don’t even get me started on that piece of garbage.

So here we are. We’ve gone and put the fox firmly in the hen house. He’s told us the plan. Prepare to cope with it. Do Trump voters actually think their health care will get better and more affordable? Do they think their freedoms will be expanded and protected? Do they think their retirement will be more secure? Do they think democracy and freedom will shine bright? Do they think the rule of law and the Constitution will be followed and respected? Do they think that the women in their lives will feel protected and supported?

Yeah, well, good luck with that. Be careful what you wish for, because you may be in for a pretty rude wake up call. I think we’re in for an era of political corruption unmatched since the early 1900s when the titans of industry, including our very own Butte Copper Kings, were gleefully pulling the levers of power. And guess what, that isn’t going to benefit 99% of the people who filled in the blank next to Trump’s name.

As for me, I’m not listening to ‘news’ anymore.

My friend, Joe, is an avid nordic skier. The kind of guy who gets out 100+ times a year on his skis. His definition of summer is “three bad months of skiing”. For me, it’s about paddling, and for me, an equivalent definition of winter might be “four bad months of paddling”. On a good year, the river time starts in March, with a jaunt south to, maybe, the Salt or Gila or Verde. On the other end of the season, I might well head off for a final float in mid-October, as I did this year when I joined friends on the Desolation and Gray Canyon section of the Green River, in Utah. March through October, with an occasional blip in mid-winter, say, to Big Bend, or Florida, or the lower stretches of the Colorado . . .

In between, there are many days on local stretches of water, places I’ve cruised down dozens and dozens of times. There is the annual Memorial Day shindig, rife with unexpected hilarity and community. There might be a northern expedition to a remote and big-hearted quadrant of empty country. There are top-to-bottom watershed explorations, nights on river banks, hikes up to the rims, whitewater rushes, calm dawns, weather to deal with, new currents and familiar ones, camps to make, rapids to assess, surprises, challenges, a few accidents, contemplation, and the repeated, welcome doses of ‘river time’ consciousness.

This October, on the Green, it was the usual thing. A group of us got together, a society of folks who were on the invite list, had the time and flexibility, fell prey to the seduction of another outing, and who gathered at the put-in from our various points of origin. In this case it was a group of five guys. Most of us knew each other, some better than others. All of us were seasoned in the outdoors. Everyone came self-contained and ready to load into boats.

Fall was coming on in the turning yellows of the cottonwood trees and the cooling nights. The river was quiet. The glut of summer boaters had ebbed to a few groups strung out along the corridor. We endured one 24-hour interlude of rain, during which we stayed put, hunkered under a kitchen tarp or in our tents. The river rose, turned brown with silt. We ran rapids, boats lining out one after another through the waves, past rocks and ledges, down dirty tongues of river. We stopped to scout a few more notable spots, talked at some length about strategy, went back to our boats and attempted to execute said strategy with varying degrees of accuracy. We took walks. We played cards. We told stories, made connections, disclosed secrets, shared visions, remembered past exploits and imagined some to come.

Like I said, the usual thing, and special for that. I have come to treasure the competent companionship on these exploits, the company of people who know what they are doing, who are unfazed by difficulty, who handle themselves with grace and style. These journeys, gaggles of people riding the back of current, are nuggets of experience, each unique and memorable, each quietly fulfilling. Sometimes it is me alone, a society of one. Often it is with Marypat, or with an old friend. Or it can be a group – four or six or twenty-five of us scattered down a glittering ribbon of water in colorful boats.

What is so satisfying is the unstated competence and experience that underlies the outings. People who know how to set up a tarp in a storm, who can start a fire with wet wood, who can tell the difference between a rapid you can read-and-run and one that requires a scout, who know how to pack up and go without fuss, who can bluff a bear that is probing the edge of camp, who can look at a map and make sense of it, for whom long interludes of silence riding the skin of water are not uncomfortable, who know what a beautiful paddle can do for you, who can admit to fuck-ups, and then make up for them.

I am blessed with a community of such companions, including my children, who possess the skills, have the experience and judgement, and the sensibility to be good partners on a journey. It is a treasure to savor over the four months of bad paddling, and to anticipate again when the thaw finally comes and the next dance begins.

It’s a tad stunning to think that in the past five years, I’ve been fortunate enough to pull off four northern expeditions. The Mountain River in Canada’s Northwest Territory with some of our kids and partners, then a month on the Noatak in northern Alaska with a crew of 10 friends, then the Elk River in the central tundra barrens of Canada with a crew of guys, and then this year, paddling for more than a month on the Horton River, above the Arctic Circle in the Northwest Territories. I’ve adopted the theme of ‘keep on doing it as long as I can do it’, knowing that journeys like that after retirement are numbered.

Kind of crazy that I’ve been able to join these journeys, that I have the financial ability to make it happen, that I have adequate health to manage it, and good companions to adventure with – from kids who put up with us oldsters to peers who count themselves as lucky as me.

This time there were five of us. Lee James from Arizona, who proposed the idea and organized much of the logistics. Joth and Louise Davis, long-time adventure partners and great companions, and the two of us. Three folding pakcanoes, plenty of time in the itinerary, and trusted partners who pull their weight and bring competency to the equation.

So, we all drove to Yellowknife (25 hours from Butte) figuring that carrying all our gear and avoiding the pitfalls of commercial air travel was worth it. (It was!) From Yellowknife we flew to Norman Wells on a commercial flight operated by the same outfit that flew us to our put-in by float plane (yes, a commercial flight, but an outfit that understands the challenges of expedition freight). After a night at an outfitters base we flew via Twin Otter to Horton Lake, where we landed within a few yards of the connecting stream that leads to the Horton. 33 days later, 350ish miles downstream, within shouting distance of the Arctic Ocean, we were picked up on a gravel bar by a wheeled Twin Otter and flown out to Inuvik. After a day or two there, and some wrangling over air cargo, we flew commercial back to Yellowknife. Of course, our gear didn’t make it with us, so two of us had to wait an extra day in Yellowknife for the gear to finally arrive (another lesson in the shitshow of commercial air travel). Our conclusion . . . never do northern trips that depend on commercial airlines.

Kudos to Lee for picking a trip perfect for the old fart set. No big lakes to get windbound on. No horrendous rapids requiring long portages. River current the entire way. Through the portal we went, into that wild dimension free of outside news, political drama, household chores, family squabbles – truly on river time. At one point I posed the question to the group – which reality is the real one – the one with Trump in it, or the one with the Horton River flowing through it. The response was unanimous, and unsurprising! Our calendar allowed for a leisurely 12 miles/day average, which was quite sedate and doable. By earning more miles, we kept awarding ourselves with rest days – 11 of them during which we could hike the tundra expanses, observe wildlife, entertain ourselves in camp, swim, read, fish, and hang out.

Wildlife along the way was consistent and rewarding – a great look at a wolverine on shore, almost daily sightings of lone caribou, a couple of distant looks at musk ox, probably 10 barren ground grizzly, and a family pack of wolves who howled at us from behind our camp. Other highlights included three canyon sections with varying degrees of whitewater, most of it quite doable; river current that was clear as gin, sliding along with a kind of seamless grace that was mesmerizing; some whopping fossils embedded in limestone; paddling with my partner in life, with whom I’ve shared many thousands of miles in synchrony; only a few episodes of crappy weather or strong headwinds; some remarkable glimpses of smoking ground from smoldering coal deposits in the Smoking Hills near the end of the river. And, most astonishing in these times, not one sighting of another human in more than a month! How often does that happen?

On the down side, we witnessed sobering evidence of climate change at work – permafrost ‘blow-outs’ along the banks, slumping banks and hillsides sliding into the river and collapsing terrain everywhere. As Lee noted, “I’ve studied geology a lot, and I have no explanation for what’s going on here.” Also, some very smoky days whenever the winds persisted from the south, evidence of distant forest fires.

What a sweet way to spend a month, watching the evolving terrain of a long river slide past, playing mental Wordle to pass the time as we paddled, seeing animals free of humanity in their element, and relishing the time and mental space to indulge deep conversation and contemplation. And, at the end, hiking to a ridge from which we could see the shining Arctic Ocean shimmering in the distance.

Do we have another journey like this in us? Stay tuned.

There are these occasional benchmarks by which we gauge our progress through life. Reality checks. Gut checks. Ambushes. Our kids graduating from college, our enrollment in Medicare, the advent of retirement, parents passing, decades rolling past like the rhythmic click of an odometer going a tad too fast for our liking. All leading to those who-is-that-person-in-the-mirror moments.

This Memorial Day weekend was the 10th rendition of the quirky and surprising tradition of 3 Rivers, a long weekend devoted to boating three stretches of water (often notable for their ephemeral, sketchy and improbable availability) and camping out between. What started as an impulsive suggestion with no real expectation of longevity has become a fairly entrenched event that folks plan their calendars around. Participants range in age from 25 to 75 – students, contractors, doctors, artists, lawyers, teachers, nurses, guides . . . Boating skills also vary widely, although the group is quite competent in Class II – III water, and has handled some decidedly exciting moments with barbed wire, diversion dams, more whitewater than expected, less water than expected, low bridges, logjams, lethally thorny vegetation, portages. A good number of the runs have been first descents for all with surprises lurking around every bend.

The key to success and the essential ingredient to group chemistry has been the willingness to show up self-contained and prepared, ready to join in at whatever level is comfortable, and take part without complaint or protracted negotiation. Set the date, time, place and whoever comes appears, remarkably on time and fully prepared to jump into boats and head downstream. A rare group quality.

A decade ago, when this started, most of us still camped out in tents, or threw down in the backs of trucks. These days almost everyone wheels in with camper vans, trailers, slide-ins or other forms of relative comfort. A decade ago most of our kids were still in school. Now most of the kids are on some sort of career path and are behaving remarkably like adults. Some of us are grandparents now. A decade ago hardly any of the conversation was health related. These days, there’s a lot of campfire talk about prostates, joints, kidney stones, friends who have been ambushed by dire emergencies, heart surgeries and the like. So yeah, the wheels of time keep grinding along, reminding us to keep pushing the envelope while we still can.

This year was something of a departure, in several notable ways. First, we decided to extend the weekend into the following week, and recapture a sort of ‘best of’ tour of repeat rivers that stand out in the medley of 30 stretches of water we’ve enjoyed. Second, rather than taking on three different rivers, this time we ran three sections of the same river – the Stillwater River spilling out of the Beartooth Mountains and making a beautiful run to its confluence with the Yellowstone River near Columbus. Third, we were joined by Larry Laba, the founder and owner of SOAR inflatable canoes, who has bequeathed the group with a bevy of his blue boats and played a big part in our continued enjoyment of whitewater and river life. Larry showed up with two good friends, Bob and Ken, joined in for all three days, and brought SOAR tee-shirts for everyone.

This year’s weekend logistics were about as efficient as possible. The usual cadre of roughly 20 folks showed up. We camped in a riverside campground (Castle Rock) that served as the take out for the first day and the put in for the second. On the third day we all broke camp and bumped downstream for the final stint. The Stillwater, it turns out, is not at all still. It cascades out of the mountains and rips along the valley at a stout clip through bouldery stretches. We hit it before the snow came out, so we had a pretty technical, rock-garden time of it. (We ran it at roughly 1,100 cfs, but in the warm week since, it ramped up to 5,000 cfs). Day 1 took us from the picnic spot at Old Nye down to camp, roughly 10 miles of winding, pretty stream that ramped up into a hot stint of maneuvering through rocks for the last couple of miles. Day 2 was the main event, putting in at camp and engaging in pretty non-stop whitewater of a very technical nature for the entire 10 miles down to Cliff Swallow access. A lot of practice with draw and pry strokes, side-slipping, ferrying, punctuated with a few ignoble pinball descents. Then back to camp for the usual gatherings around fires, side conversations in one or another rig, drying and regrouping, taking naps. Day 3 was another 10 mile sluice from Cliff Swallow down to the Absaroka access. Not as demanding as Day 2, but plenty of action, bouncy water, quick maneuvering. All good. Seemed to me pretty clear that one of the other things that has developed over the decade is that the general whitewater skill level has amped up noticeably.

Everyone headed for home and a reset day before taking on the add-on week of rivers. On Wednesday there were 11 of us who showed up for a run down the lower section of Sixteen-Mile Creek from Maudlow to the Missouri. It’s a seldom run section of small river with a rather horrendous shuttle that winds its way though remote and panoramic ranchland, former railroad bed, wildlife-rich country (we saw elk with young calves and several moose). The river has a short window of navigability, but we got down it in style, despite a really dismal weather report (turned out to be not nearly as dire as forecast). At the end of that long day (made doubly long by the shuttle), most of us gathered at the Mavor’s for fish tacos.

Thursday was slated for Belt Creek, in central Montana. A group of 7 of us headed up. As we got close to the put in, we noticed a startling amount of newly downed timber everywhere. That spot had gotten 3-4 feet of snow and high winds the week before and was still working out of the mayhem. Our campsite was still being cleared by Forest Service crews and everyone was adamant that running the Belt was a really bad idea. Bummer.

We decided to take a hike up the lower (Sluice Boxes) section of the run as a consolation. Turned out to be a really nice hike, and along the way we were able to scout the river and actually see a raft go down. Based on new intel, we decided to stay afterall and make the run the next day. That run, from Monarch to Sluice Boxes State Park, might be the best single-day float in the state. We made our way down it on Friday, negotiating a few obstacles along the way, but generally finding it quite runnable and as awesome as ever.

Down to five now, we motored over to a campground along the Missouri River near the confluence with the Dearborn, our next destination. Lucked out with a great, riverside camp at Mid-Canon access, and got an early start the next morning for a run of the Upper Dearborn, from Bean Lake to Highway 200. That flow is unbelievably clear, running through stunning canyons and foothill country, with an occasional bigger rapid, one portage and lots of read-and-run rock garden. All in all, a very sweet day on the river.

And then there were three of us. Randy, Lee and I headed for the upper Boulder River near Basin the next morning. It was running at about 300 cfs and it looked bony as all hell. We questioned whether we could get down it without protracted hang ups, but there we were and off we went, starting near the Bernice exit, running down past Basin and the Merry Widow Mine (another story) and on to Galena Gulch campground where we left our rigs. It was really low, highly technical, but we managed to get down it without many hang ups and in somewhat breathless style. A jumpy, full-on, but very fun run back to camp.

The next morning Randy took off for home while Lee and I indulged a day off in Butte, punctuated by a memorable lunch at Mr. Hot Dogs. On the final morning of our week after, the two of us drove over to Rock Creek, west of Phillipsburg, for the last river in the line up. By this point, warming temperatures were bringing down the snowpack and the river was up to its seasonal norm, which meant it was charging along almost bank-full. We made the 16-mile run from Skalkaho Highway to the Windlass Bridge in roughly two hours, a fast charging cruise with a couple of deadfall pull-arounds, a diversion dam descent, and a side channel or two we shouldn’t have taken.

So, in the books. A reality check in just how quickly a decade slides past, a tribute to stellar group chemistry, another fun-filled slate of water, and a commitment to the next decade, wherever that takes us. 30 river sections in our wake, each memorable for its own character, a span full of comedy, hairball adventure, companionship, goofy antics, awesome moments, and zest for life. Keep bringing it on!

It always seems slightly miraculous that we can make plans months and even years ahead of an event, and on the appointed day and window of time, with people vectoring in from far and wide, everyone shows up at a pinpoint spot, ready to take part. In this case the pinpoint was Sand Island boat launch on the San Juan River, just outside of Bluff, Utah. Within a couple of hours of each other, on the appointed day, nine of us vectored in from points as disparate as Germany, Texas, New England, Montana, Oregon and Colorado. And the following morning we retooled from cars to boats, met and paid our shuttle driver, packed boats, parked rigs, filled up water jugs, ferried gear, made sure we had spare car keys, and otherwise unplugged from society and slowed down to the pace of the river. Off we went, one raft and four inflatable canoes, on the somewhat tardy but long-awaited inauguration of the 70s iteration of our decade-themed group of friends.

It was my trip to plan and organize . . . so far so good. We had been sporadically corresponding about the details for months, but now we were on the river, for better or worse, and it felt like better. Along the way we’d had collective craven moments of weakness and doubt – what if the weather is shitty? What if my car isn’t up to the shuttle road? What if we need to pull out early if things aren’t going well? All of it was either ignored or placated and to everyone’s credit, once the die was cast, everyone showed up with an ‘all in’ attitude firmly in place.

The San Juan River has looped its way through my life. I first ran it back in the 70s in an aluminum canoe, before permits were required, before I’d developed much in the way of river skills. Since then I’ve been back many times, on various portions of the reach, as early as March and as late as November, at various water levels, in all sorts of weather and watercraft, noting the changing popularity of the float, the increased regulation, the evolution of ripple effects wrought on the river by Glen Canyon Dam and Lake Powell. In that time I’ve slowly gained knowledge – best camps, best runs on Government Rapid, when it’s best to portage or line Government Rapid, side hikes, little known gems of landscape.

For nine days we dawdled our way down the winding course of this magnificent desert tributary of the Colorado. It’s a trip you can complete in 5-6 days, but we adopted the retirement pace, taking side hikes to ruins, up old Mormon trails, up Chinle Creek, rimming out at the top of Honaker Trail. We relaxed in camps, played cards by headlamp, dipped in eddies, found pottery shards and granaries and petroglyphs, endured sand storms, rinsed off in pools, felt the presence of the indigenous people who once thrived there, told stories, listened to canyon wrens, spread a friend’s ashes from the exposed and dramatic platform of Horn Point, coasted through the deeply incised Goosenecks, slapped through rapids, wandered up side canyons.

I kept waiting for the shoe to drop, for the inevitable catastrophe that seems all trips contain at some point, but it never happened. Things kept falling into place. The poop bucket didn’t overfill. We were able to refill water at Mexican Hat. The weather stayed stable and benign. Everyone got along. No one blew it in the whitewater. Day on day the canyon held us in its spell as we beetled along under the dome of desert skies – this gaggle of old farts still finding adventure and camaraderie and health. Blessed with luck and verve and the wherewithal to pull off such exploits.

We aren’t lawn bowling yet!!

I don’t know, maybe it’s an age thing. Maybe it’s the sentimentality of the holiday season . . .

Could be that I turned 71 and am more acutely aware of loose ends, and also of the cycles looping through my life. It’s not a ‘bucket list’ impulse. I’ve never had the cliche urge that seems to infect old people with the fever to jump out of airplanes or walk across beds of red-hot coals.  Not that, but there is something going on, some satisfaction in taking care of unfinished business, and also, the need to pay more intentional tribute to the circular seasons that ebb and flow through the course of a lifetime. It manifests in my attention to connecting the dots along incomplete trails I’ve begun, or left in segments. And in the deepened awareness of the swirling patterns I’ve become incorporated in by nature of my family, my unique history, friendships, quests, quirky traditions, and the steady, inexorable currents of time. Trails completed. Circles closed.

Not that this is something ever done, because just as a box gets checked, a new one opens up. New cycles initiated, new trails begun, fresh awareness, some physical and tangible, others emotional and only vaguely understood. Still, something’s going on, and it seems to have come into particular clarity for me lately.

Like I say, some accomplishments are very tangible and concrete. Fulfilling an ambition to float the Gila River, in New Mexico, last March, for example, which has dangled out there in my imagination since I lived in Santa Fe in the 1970s. Getting around, finally, to running the Rogue River in Oregon, which has been somewhere on my river-running radar for probably forty years. Who knew, after all those failed lottery applications, that you could just show up and score a permit, which I did with my oldest good friend, Grant Herman, in September. Or, in late August, with Marypat still navigating her knee-replacement recovery, the final 100-mile piece of the Clark Fork River between Butte and Paradise, Montana. Somewhere in those four paddling days, a revelation – “Hey, look at me!” she exclaimed, “I’m kneeling!”.

The meaningful return to a summer canoe expedition in the Far North, with a band of six guys, most of them strangers. Those extended, logistically-challenging, expensive expeditions have a poignant flavor, because who knows which will be the last I’m capable of. I had that same pang of uncertainty when we did the Mountain River with the kids, or the Noatak with a band of friends. For a guy who has no history of making the ‘cross’ to mark a blessing, I am tempted by that gesture at the successful conclusion of each one of these journeys. How lucky am I, I think, every time.

In the vein of traditions, we are logging the 10^th year of our Three Rivers gathering, that Memorial Day glut of quirky river sections with a boisterous gang of paddling friends. This spring will be a decade-marking week of rivers in celebration of a tradition no one knew would go anywhere or last even one year.

This has been a particularly rich year for family ceremony, as we managed to corral nearly 30 of us for a summer reunion in Maine, where the tapestry of familial fabric came together, created new patterns, and reinforced old ones while cracking lobster tails, walking the trails of Acadia, oogling new family members, and memorializing Aunt Judy on a bluebird day along the Atlantic shore. Most of us also came together to celebrate the long life of my Aunt Noey Congdon, in Denver. She was the last of her generation to pass the torch, and hers is an indelible legacy of fierce integrity and absolute grace.

It struck us this year how our celebrations seem evenly divided between the youthful outbursts of weddings and births, punctuations of exuberance put on by the contemporaries of our kids, and by more somber gatherings to remember those who pass on, mostly our contemporaries and our elders. In that way we teeter at a crux of comings and goings, joy and grief, dancing and comforting. The passing of energy and the anticipation of a future with new and unknowable forces at work.

Here in Butte we remember last winter held fast in the grip of old-time cold and snow. By this time last year we’d already been out skiing probably twenty days, and we were in for a season of minus 40 cold and unrelenting snow. This year, in the final days of November, I climbed a nearby mountain through a skiff of snow in shorts and a tee-shirt. My back is thankful, and anxiety about pipes freezing and whopping heat bills is reduced, but it’s another mark of the cycles we all play our roles in or are forced to live through.

All of it expressions of the great river of existence bearing us along. Headlong descents, quiet pools, swirling eddies and whirlpools, foam-laced drops, serene dawn mists, fearful unknowns, comforting serenity. Another bend left in our wake on this daunting and awesome expedition.

It was Kimmer’s brilliant idea, more than 20 years back. “What if,” she said, “as each of us reaches 50, we propose a trip and everyone else shows up for it?” A novel and intriguing challenge.

Everyone else, in this case, is a group of 8-10 of us (somewhat variable depending on partner participation) who have all been united by a zest for adventure. Some of us have known each other since college. In various combinations we have ventured off together on backcountry jaunts for roughly fifty years. Exploits that range from the epic and serious to the ribald and silly.

We all signed on, but hey, talk is cheap, right? The wreckage of failed brilliant schemes dots the arc of human history, a junkyard full of the skeletons of big talk and not-so-big action.

It turns out that I was first up, back in 2002, and it has earned me the tag of Elder ever since, whatever that means. I have the advantage of being alone in my year, which makes me a dictator free of any obligation to negotiate. And that’s a bigger advantage than you might think.

The 50s decade went largely according to plan. My outing took us down the Continental Divide spine through the Anaconda/Pintler mountains in SW Montana for a week. Over the years, with some fluctuation in group size, we sallied forth through the Kootenai Mountains of British Columbia, made a south-to-north traverse of the La Sal Mountains in Utah, and finished up with a week in Glacier NP in Montana. All more or less on time, with a few wobbly planning moments (notably on the main drag of Moab in 104-degree heat trying to decide where to go). All pretty robust multi-day outings full of goofy games, comical food hanging episodes, unbelievable blooms of Indian Paintbrush, kick-stepping up snow couloirs, morning yoga in mountain meadows, skinny dips, and grizzly bear encounters at 10,000’.

Before I knew it, my turn came around again to kick off the 60s iteration. I picked a hike in Escalante, notable for poison ivy, gobsmacking canyons, and hilarious swims with packs through route-blocking pools. Timing got a little less rigid in the second decade. One team who shall remain nameless dawdled more than five years before finally pulling off a base-camp, day-outing week in the Methow Valley of Washington, a medley of hikes, floats, bike rides, and game nights. Another team put together a moving base camp week in central Utah, featuring petroglyph panels and slot canyons. An eclipse-focused, horse-pack assisted hike and basecamp outing in Wyoming’s Wind River Range rounded out the journeys.

Notice the slippage here, from outright Point A to Point B backpack trips to base camp forays, help with carrying gear, less sleeping on the ground, more vehicular shelter. Sixty may be the new fifty, but still . . . By the end of that decade jokes about trips devoted to shuffleboard and lawn bowling were more prevalent and less far-fetched.

Now, signs of the creep of age haunt us more dramatically as we enter the decade of the 70s. I go first again. There is some wiggle room on timing, spanning both the year you turn 70 and the year following your birthday, before you turn 71. Well, I’m about to turn 71 and I’ve only partially gotten around to my outing. I looked seriously at the year preceding my birthday, but things came up. Namely, for me, a diagnosis of and surgery for prostate cancer. Kind of focused my attention. Also, one of the other participants endured a life-threatening fall on a bike ride that was no picnic to recover from. So, I put it off and blithely turned 70, like it or not. I had another year to get it done, after all.

My plan was to put together a river float and get back to a sustained outing without succumbing to the basecamp routine. There were a lot of logistics to consider – what level of whitewater to accept, who had boats and paddling skills, synchronizing calendars, and the rest. I finally settled on a week-long stretch of the Yellowstone River in Montana. I know it well, even down to the gravel bar campsites. It is upbeat current without being scary. Blah, blah . . . Anyway, everyone agreed, we set a late fall window, and time went on in its inexorable way.

What ambushed the plan was health. First, Marypat had a knee replacement. Her recovery was going well until she developed excruciating back pain that kept her from doing anything remotely rigorous. Then Charlie threw out his back picking up pinecones in his driveway (it’s never something heroic, is it?). Carol reported rotator cuff issues that would keep her from doing any strenuous paddling. Then, Sue, on the first day of a John Muir Trail hike in California, got lambasted by a random rock fall that threw her off the trail where she ended up with a gruesome compound fracture of her lower leg. Long story, highlighted by helicopter evacuation, medivac to Fresno, complicated surgery involving rods and screws, and a long drive back home to recover.

Weeks away from our late-season launch, we were down to a 50% healthy crew, and I was imagining Sue trying to gimp out of her tent on a frigid morning, Marypat cringing in pain trying to paddle, Carol being relegated to hood ornament status, and the rest of us dividing our time between paddling downriver and being assisted-living care-givers. I succumbed to the obvious and pulled the plug.

Only, the gang didn’t want the plug pulled, at least not completely. Plan B would be to meet and camp at a riverside site in Paradise Valley, downstream of Yellowstone Park along the Yellowstone River. At least we’d have a chance to catch up, gather around the fire, take on whatever outings we could, and patch together some kind of substitute.

And we did. In the end there were 8 of us. All but one, by now, had either a trailer or camper van or RV. Carol’s was the last tent standing, but it was quite the boudoir arrangement with carpeting, a chair, a sleeping cot, even a heater (although, to her credit, she says she never turned it on). The rest of us retired to our mobile getaways, complete with luxurious heat, galleys, beds, and tables.

Activities included grizzly watching, some trail walks, hot springs, and two pretty sweet fall paddling days on the Yellowstone with snowclad peaks and brilliant fall cottonwoods for scenic splendor. Not bad, but I asked everyone to promise to hang in there for a river float in April, maybe in Utah somewhere, to complete my 70s commitment. I argued that it really wasn’t my fault that time ran out on me, given the suite of setbacks we’d encountered. Besides, we’ve gotten decidedly less stringent about timing over the years. Not surprisingly, given the crew, everyone agreed. So we’re on for the culmination of my decade trip come spring, when, presumably, everyone will be back to full strength, right?

I mean, what could possibly go wrong?

On our fridge is a list of stuff we have on our adventure/outing to-do list. Some of it is pretty aspirational (travel to Ireland), but most is quite attainable (local trails, bike rides, paddling). One of them is to finish our top-to-bottom float of the Clark Fork River drainage. It’s a quest years in the making.

Decades ago we paddled Alberton Gorge, downstream of Missoula, a section notable for it’s whitewater quality, but until we moved to Butte our attention had been on other destinations. Then, a couple of years back we got skunked by low water on a Yampa River permit, and ended up paddling nearly 100 miles of the lower Clark Fork from Alberton, through the Alberton Gorge, and all the way down to the confluence with the Flathead River near Paradise, Montana. That, combined with our move to Butte, at the head of the drainage, got us thinking about putting it all together.

A parade of friends in boats in the robust beauty of Alberton Gorge.

Since then we have been nibbling away at it. Over the past couple of summers we’ve been strapping boats on the rig, loading a shuttle bike, and taking on small chunks of the upper drainage – Warm Springs to Racetrack, for example . . . Garrison to Phosphate . . . Gold Creek to Drummond. Day outings with a frontage road or ranch road biking option for our shuttles. We got as far as Drummond, 60 miles downstream of home, where it got more and more difficult to pull off day outings and put together doable bike shuttles.

This past week we committed to the final 100-mile leg, taking the tandem canoe loaded with food and camping gear, and gave ourselves 5 days to pull it off.

Every river has its character – boisterous, sedate, waltzing, full-throated, lethargic – I’d call the Clark Fork a river in recovery (from us!). It runs alongside the interstate and railroad track. It courses through ranches, towns, industry, and rural lands. Most egregiously, it endured the onslaught of mining in upstream Butte, which was punctuated by whopping floods in 1908 that sluiced down unguessable quantities of mine waste and tailings in deposits as much as 10-feet deep, all the way to the Milltown Dam just upstream of Missoula. It was industrial pollution of gobsmacking proportions.

Mining ended in the 1980s and the entire drainage has been recovering (with some remedial help from us) ever since. And yet, paddling it, we often lost that sense of industrial shitshow in the cadence of the flow, in the spreading cottonwoood groves, in the riffles and channels, in the sounds of birds and chattering current. There are, to be sure, moments of confrontation with what we have done. ‘Slickens’, or dead zones, left behind by toxic mine wastes that still persist. Excavations and diversions and riprap and jetties constructed to manage and contain and deflect the river.

This past week we rode down the slide of gravity, heading for the confluence with the Columbia River far downstream in Idaho, past ranches, through Missoula, under highway bridges, camping next to the highway one night, and then serenaded by boisterous coyotes the next. Much like the Yellowstone River, that other Montana great watershed that runs the gauntlet of humanity going east, the Clark Fork perseveres, reasserts itself, finds a way through and around and despite us.

Marypat in Tumbleweed Rapid in Alberton Gorge.

And we rode that watery rail of juxtaposition – wild and untamable, hemmed in and subdued, gritty and pure, frail and robust. Moments of danger, lovely moonrises, the cacophany of humanity, the serenity of purling river, hours of steady paddling, drifting along at the pace of current, under the gaze of bald eagle and osprey, in the company of fox and white-tail and coyote. Whispering past civilization, camping under the noses of motorists, passing college coeds on the riverbank, waving to trains, or ghosting through dawn mists.

From Montana Street in Butte, at the start of Silver Bow Creek, all the way to Paradise, we checked that box. (And yes, I know, the Clark Fork continues on into Idaho and beyond, but below the confluence with the Flathead, it turns into a massive flow, punctuated by dams and reservoirs. No thanks.)

Well, if you run a blog, I guess it’s on you to keep it current, which I haven’t been doing lately. It’s not that nothing has happened since spring, it’s just that I haven’t gotten around to posting about it. My fault, but hey, it’s my blog.

I’m just back from a two-week river expedition in the Northwest Territories of Canada on the Elk River, a tributary of the Thelon in the central barrenlands. It was a return to that evocative landscape so reminiscent of our early trips on the Kazan and Dubawnt drainages, that rolling, endless tundra terrain full of whispers of native peoples, wildlife, and horizon after horizon of people-less landscape. It is not as panoramic or stunning as the western Arctic, but there is something stirring and compelling about it that I can’t fully explain.

First, some take-aways:

• it was my first return to the barrens since 2004, when we pulled off an epic family expedition in honor of Eli’s coming-of-age transition on the Kazan River;
• it was my first all-male journey in a long time (mostly I’ve gone with family, or just Marypat, or with a group of couples). This trip there were six of us from Colorado, Montana, Wisconsin and Minnesota, ranging from 40-something to 70, some with long histories together, others who had never met;
• the trip was yet another saga of travel snafus – canceled flights, road closures due to forest fires, epic drives;
• timing was everything – we were lucky to arrive on time because of road closures on the single highway into Yellowknife. Then, after the trip, we made a hasty escape on that same highway, with flames on the side of the road. The other trip members had to contend with another canceled flight, rescheduled itinerary, lost baggage. Then, just days after our escape, the entire city of Yellowknife was under an evacuation order and several communities we had just driven through were burnt to the ground;
• we indulged a chill pace on the journey – 14 days for an itinerary you could pretty easily paddle in 7. Consequently we enjoyed multiple layover days with lovely hiking along glacial esker ridges, time for contemplation, card games and no hard-and-fast schedule. It was a sweet contrast to earlier trips with a more unbending timeline and the stress of falling behind.

Rather than try to recount a blow-by-blow trip narrative, I’m going to let a few of my journal excerpts speak for the journey. (I’ll try to insert a few photos later, when I get that organized).

Aug. 4 – Day 5: We are in a singularly beautiful spot. A crescent of sand beach, open park-like tundra on a bench above, punctuated with scraggly stands of spruce. The water is mirror calm, the sky faintly cloudy, like gauze. Loons yodel in the distance. I’m inside the tundra tarp unaffected by bugs. Washed out a pair of underwear and a tee shirt. Enjoying another cup of coffee . . .

Had a nice late morning stroll up behind camp on a broad esker plateau. Sweeping views back up river, the lake, other more distant esker systems. On top the glacial litter of boulders and gravel, old musk ox tracks and scat, a few desiccated trees. A whaleback of land from which to glass a vast quadrant of tundra, marsh, lakes, willow. Nothing moving. A quiet tapestry of land under the pale summer northern sky.

Aug. 7 – Day 8: It’s late evening. The setting sun sends its lambent glow across the tundra, under the clouds, flaming this austere scene. Full of quiet water, calling loons, ancient boulders. We put in a solid day of paddling into a light head and cross-wind. Stopped to look for wolf dens without finding any. Stopped again to fish for grayling in a riffle. Spent a long afternoon slogging across wide, lakey miles. Our hoped-for destination turned out to ba a rocky shoreline, but we found an alternative tundra site that has grown on everyone. Reminiscent of many tundra camps along the Kazan and other rivers.

I cooked dinner tonight – African stew with appetizers and a dessert. We listened to the final life story, from Mark. Each one unique and vivid and ultimately personal, shared with emotion and heart, humor and tears. We now have a foundation of meaningful personal history to build from.

Loons flying overhead in the late day sky, a harrier, some willow ptarmigan. Still looking for big mammals – a musk ox, a caribou, a wolf, a bear, some life in the empty space.

Aug. 9 – Day 10: We are officially in base camp mode. We have four days before pick up, and about three miles to paddle. Today is on our own to walk and explore, do chores, take baths, cook bannack, relax. It’s a unique feeling for me, contrasting with so many past trips where we had to keep up a daily mileage average and where weather or wind delays were cause for concern, fretful interludes waiting for a break. These days are more in my friend Lee’s style, taking a month to do a river that you could easily paddle in two weeks. Where you settle into a landscape, let it enfold you, sit and observe it, be fucking quiet for once.

Not that we are necessarily quiet, at least as a group. We also have pretty vociferous discussions and a general hubbub of conversation. That is part of the scene here as a group, and a good part. The morning two-cups-of-coffee debates over climate and population and economy and social ills. The raucous evening rounds of card games. The giving-each-other-shit banter that is a fairly constant undertone, good-natured stuff with a whiff of an edge that comes with personal history, inside jokes, and general comfort with each other. That part is valuable too, and also often absent on a more driven journey, on which everyone is watching to see if they’re lagging on packing up for the day or getting a meal done, or staying up with the other boats.

It is a relief not to feel that daily push. Perhaps a mark of age too, because there is a youthful energy and allure attached to the more goal-oriented style, the heroic days, the epic stories. Call it the retirement pace, or the Lee pace, but I must say that it’s growing on me. It makes me feel more available to northern trips to come in this style. . . .

Something about stripping down naked along the river, washing a few clothes, soaping up armpits and crotch, washing hair while the arctic terns cry in the distance, a sandpiper peeps up the shore, the constant hum of insects becomes a kind of white noise. Then sitting there, pale and clean in the sun, drying out, a slight breeze against the skin. The slowly inching river slides by on its way to the Thelon, over Granite Falls, picking up the pace, an inexorable coalescing of molecules jostling toward the sea. Water molecules our boats have been borne along by, through the miles and storms and winds, corners and pools and riffles and falls – stillness and noise. This symphony of place where time stalls out in the vast ebb and flow that encompasses the coming and going of glaciers, the slow erosion of landscape, the movements of life, including us, all choreographed by chance and fate and change. Here before us, here after we are gone, when we are rendered just another sedimentary layer, remarkable only for its strangeness.

Aug. 11 – Day 12: A passing cumulus dropping rain glanced our camp with gusts of wind. I had to hang on to the tundra tarp for probably twenty minutes as the cloud slowly passed. It lathered up the lake with whitecaps, buffeted the tents, blew my chair around. I guyed out things, put rocks on tent corners, zipped doors shut. Probably would have been okay had I been gone, but maybe not.

These trips as I age have a nostalgic flavor to them. Partly it has to do with the memories sparked as I go, past trips, the energy of youth, former partners, camps and currents and landscapes that I am reminded of. The shards of personal history evoked by whatever.

Also, the question, each journey, of whether it might be my last one to the Far North. I remember paddling the final miles of the Kazan in my fifties, with the boys in the canoe, that river so potent with power and momentum, and thinking with a surge of real grief that it would, in all likelihood, be my last trip there. How I felt so buoyed and exhilarated, and also so stricken, in that last urgent flush of current.

In a quieter way, it is the same here in this rustling camp with the lake sparkling and the clouds in slow parade and the land spreading away so vast. That this might be it. Anything could happen. Cancer. Civil war. Financial ruin. The creep of age finally closing the door. This could be it, today, the final chapter in the minor personal saga that is my dabble in adventure.

This Plan B world asserted itself once again on our March getaway to the desert southwest.

To begin, on our departure morning, March 15, 6 am, we crept out of town on icy roads, made it about 5 miles, and confronted a sign on I-15 south informing us that the highway was closed to the Idaho border.  In the few miles before the next exit, we explored alternate routes to get around the closure, all of which seemed ridiculous and riddled with their own fraught possibilities. Turn around, creep back home, spend the day shoveling snow and biding time.

Reboot on the 16th, with better results, arriving at friend’s in St. George, Utah in time for a stroll and dinner. The day delay allowed us to drive the 2-lane across northern Arizona to Lee’s Ferry, (closed the day before due to snow) on the way to Prescott, sighting a couple of condors along the way. All good.

The overarching reason for our journey south was the possibility of floating the Salt River in southern Arizona. It’s a tough permit to get, and even if you score one, the likelihood of having enough water to float is iffy. Our friend, Lee, got the permit, and this year, with all the ‘atmospheric river’ activity going on, looked promising.

Indeed, as we closed in on Prescott, the signs of whopping moisture, snow-capped peaks, and recent flooding were everywhere. Flagstaff was blanketed in snow, Oak Creek canyon was full of flood debris, the Verde River, normally a creek with a couple hundred cfs flowing through it, had boomed to 50,000 cfs in recent days. The Salt got up to 12,000 cfs, and our upper limit for tolerating whitewater anxiety was 5,000.

For the next few days, enjoying Lee and Truly’s good company, going for mountain bike rides and hikes, we kept checking river gauges. There was hope. The Verde dropped back down, the Salt kept moderating. As our launch date approached, it looked promising. Only, another pulse of wet weather was looming on the close horizon, predicted to arrive right around our launch day. The river ranger predicted another spike, possibly even higher than the last one, during our float. “It could go to 20,000,” he said.

We huddled, we pondered, we alternately accused each other of being wimps and cowered at the prospect to raging water and long, scary swims in the event of capsizes. In the end we went to Plan B, picking the Gila River in New Mexico. It has also been on our trip radar for decades. It, too, is a flow often too low to run. And the wet weather was tending to miss that watershed. Longer drive, new shuttle arrangements, different maps, some changes in gear.

We drove out of Prescott in a pounding rain storm. Flagstaff was predicted to get 6 inches of snow, followed by rain, followed by another 10 inches of snow. Another big glut of water looked inevitable. Phoenix, Tucson, and finally Silver City, NM in time for an early dinner in a brew pub. Then a tortuously winding road up and over the continental divide, and steeply down into the valley of the Gila.

We camped at a closed campground near the Grapevine launch site and put in the following morning, along with a slug of other boaters (many of whom had made the same Plan B choice we had – we called ourselves “Salt River Refugees”). After a tour of the Gila cliff dwellings and a recon with the shuttle service, we launched around mid-day on roughly 600 cfs of muddy river sluicing through the intensely beautiful Gila Wilderness.

For the next six days we were held in the spell of that valley and the surrounding landscape – volcanic layers in cliffs and peaks and ridges, stunning sycamore trees shining white in the sun, tributary valleys with ancient graneries and petroglyphs, occasional hot springs, signs of recent flooding. The paddling was engaging. The river is a heads up series of challenges. Every bend is a potential minefield of downed trees or braiding channels. Paddling requires constant vigilance and quick choices. At the same time, it isn’t terrifying or pushy. For hours at a time we paddled along in a challenging, fun rhythm through the winding miles, entertained by the topography, sighting new birds, dealing with obstacles, threading the needle through rock gardens or deadfall.

We had enough time to award ourselves with half-days and a layover day with opportunities for hiking, rock hounding, and letting the landscape sink in. It was cold enough that we had thick ice on the water bucket every morning, and headed to the warmth of sleeping bags before 9 at night. The group chemistry geled. The river entertained. The country seduced. All the way to the end the river challenged and engaged us – walking shallow rapids, hitting narrow slots through deadfall, missing walls on sharp bends.

On Day 6, the warmest day of the journey, we coasted up to Mogollon Creek and the line up of our shuttled vehicles. A Plan B worthy of Plan A status. No one regretted choosing the Gila.

Two days later, back in Prescott, we looked back on the wisdom of our choice. As it turned out, the Salt had indeed peaked at almost 17,000 cfs during our window. That would have been daunting indeed. And the Verde, it had zoomed up to nearly 100,000 cfs, an unprecedented flood level that had us all envisioning the fear and loathing of being caught in such an onslaught of river charging through a broad floodplain without high ground. I’d say that the Gila was just right.

Back in Butte now, regrouping, drying out, shoveling. Winter still has us in its grip here. The snow in our front yard is several feet deep, ski areas are buried, the snowpack is upwards of 100% everywhere, and we aren’t changing out snow tires any time soon. Paddling season in Montana is looking good, but it isn’t happening for a while.