Who knew it would come to this . . .
When I sent out that whimsical invite more than a decade ago to a couple dozen paddling pals, I didn’t expect much. Maybe four or five friends would be interested in collaborating on my Memorial Day fantasy, and maybe it would be worth doing a time or two. I was completely ambushed by the unanimity of response. Damn near everyone was in. And damn near everyone has stayed in, year in and year out, good weather and bad, trusting that the shindig will be worth it. Actually, the group has continued to evolve. Participants come from as far away as Prescott, Arizona and Bainbridge Island, Washington. People invite a friend, kids join in as schedules allow, new members come along. Every holiday weekend in the last part of May, some twenty-ish folks show up on time, self-contained, ready to go. No whining, no negotiating, no excuses . . . all in. It’s pretty satisfying to know that on a bunch of our friend’s yearly calendars have Three Rivers blocked in over Memorial Day weekend. And not long ago we were having a family conversation about everyone’s favorite holiday. Our son, Sawyer, said, “Memorial Day”. How many people say that Memorial Day is their favorite holiday of the year?? But once he said it, I was, like, “Yeah, mine too!”
Every year the crew rolls in to some designated campground for the first night, grabs or shares a site, and the socializing begins, a reunion after the long winter, a re-connection with friends we haven’t seen for months, or maybe since the last 3 Rivers. We gather around a central campfire where the hubbub of conversation continues – updates, transitions, travel ideas, health issues, catching up. There are usually a few dogs in the mix, some of the younger generation, a few people who come along for the social part and maybe not for the paddling part. Whatever.
Every day we corral up at some riverside put-in – a bridge, a fishing access, a wide spot on the road – and blow up boats, discuss strategy, manage a shuttle, get everything stowed, and down the river we go, discovering new water bend by bend, fence by fence, logjam by logjam, beauty by beauty. There are always discoveries, surprises, and potential for comedy/mishap. So far, so good in terms of any dire consequences. The next day it happens again – another put in, another new bit of current, another set of revelations. And the next.
What’s interesting is that if you look at floating guidebooks about Montana, you’ll see a handful of major rivers covered – the usual suspects . . . Yellowstone, Missouri, Flathead, Clark Fork and their significant tributaries. We have now done 33 sections of current (not counting a pretty healthy handful of bonus rivers added to the weekends) and only a few of them are included in the usual lexicon of paddling destinations for the state. These are, mostly, off the radar destinations, often unknown to any of us before we put on, usually pretty seasonally ephemeral. Sometimes they qualify as epic descents full of challenges (think Grasshopper Creek, Silver Bow Creek or upper Big Spring Creek). More often they are unexpected gems of flowing water you vow to return to another time (think St. Regis River, the East Gallatin, Fischer River, or the upper Boulder of the Jefferson).
This year was no exception. Once again, I’m tempted to say it might be the best year yet, but I was tempted to say that last year, too. The weather was exceptional. Clear and warm and fresh. We camped along the North Fork of the Teton River, way up in the foothill canyons of the Rocky Mountain Front west of Choteau. The water looked lowish, but possible. On Day 1 we gathered at the bridge adjacent to camp and revved it up. The river was clear and fast and cold. Bend after bend we dodged down through boulder gardens, managed a few stouter bits of watery challenge, found our way past sheer canyon walls, outbursts of wildflowers, deep pools. It was busy but not scary. A couple of fences near the end, but nothing difficult. No mishaps. Plenty of fun. Beauty all around.
Day 2 was the biggest outing. At my daughter, Ruby’s, suggestion we jumped a couple of drainages north to paddle Birch Creek, along the southern boundary of the Blackfeet Reservation, below Swift Dam and in the shadow of the high peaks. The shuttle was somewhat heroic, but we got an earlier start and were on the water before noon. It was a stretch no one knew anything about. We could see a quarter mile down from the put-in and a quarter mile up from the take-out bridge. In between, a mystery. The first mile or two was iffy with tight channels, logs, and braided shallows, but we soon emerged into a quiet valley with this clear, rock-flour tinged water chuckling past limestone cliffs, dropping over small ledges, purling through shallows. Along the banks, carpets of lupine, craggy cliffs, empty and quiet country. So damn beautiful and calm. The one punctuation that came as a surprise was a 20′ waterfall over a limestone set of ledges that we were lucky enough to eddy out above and portage past. Other than that, just mile after mile of austere high plains loveliness. What a sweet day, and a long enough one that we eschewed the evening fire and hit reset a bit.
I’m a little tempted to start calling this enterprise ‘2 and 1/2 Rivers’, because on Day 3 there is always a contingent that takes a pass, or opts to take a hike instead, or needs to get home for something. As a result the final bit of water tends to be shorter and less than fully attended. This year was no exception. Most of the crew headed for one of several nearby trails, while it was down to three solo boats piloted by Sawyer, Marypat and me. We drove about 4 miles above camp to the next bridge put-in on the North Fork of the Teton. Again, pretty bony, but it looked possible. And it was bony. I’d call it Class V Busy as we dinked and dodged our way down those miles. Back to camp in about an hour, where we were able to portage the boats right up the riverbank and into our campsite. Pretty handy.
As has come to be the case in recent years, a few add-on rivers to take advantage of spring runoff are an option after the official weekend. On the Tuesday following the holiday, Lee and I headed over for the Sluice Box section of Belt Creek and added another stellar day to the event before heading for home.
The unexpected tradition lives on. Every year we get older. Every year we feel luckier. Every year we promise another one. I mean, why the hell not, right??