"Lean In" by Shelby Humphreys

Here in Montana, we’re heading into spring runoff.  Winter’s cache of precious snow funnels down mountain draws and babbles all her secrets into spring streams.  These hidden waterways zigzag through thickets, playing tag with the forest.  Rivulets pool in the plateaus.  Streams become creeks, and creeks join rivers.  Their refreshing touch awakens berry bushes, which will churn sun and snowmelt into August fruit.   If we're lucky, we'll have enough moisture to quench the hills and keep fires at bay this summer. 

In town, our Clark Fork River swells in a muddy rise.  Spring fishing surrenders to the slurry for a while.  No use casting a fly; not until after the tube hatch anyway.  This is the between time, the waiting hour, unless – of course – you go rafting.

Spring runoff attracts adventure rafters like Salmon Flies pull trout to the surface.  Rafters need not be out to catch a fish, mind you.  The water is challenge enough.  As rivers rise, so does the force of all that water.  Underneath the speedy swell hides a myriad of dangers, both seen and unseen.

Where a slight hump appears on the surface, a sunken boulder the size of a Volkswagen could be pushing the water up and over (I know one spot where I can dunk my head under and hear boulders thudding down the riverbed, like muffled thunder.)  More visible – but no less dangerous -- are giant cottonwoods felled by hungry beavers.  These trees, called “strainers,” act like a sieve, siphoning everything under their water-logged trunks and into tangles of immersed branches.  Beneath deceptively smooth spots in the river, deep whirlpools can catch you unaware.  Like underwater tornadoes, they yank everything into their murky holes.  That’s why, this time of year, I stay close to the shore.

And that’s why others don’t.

During spring runoff, locals like to ride the whitewater rodeo known as Alberton Gorge.  One crucial juncture along this stretch of the Clark Fork asks each boater to measure their courage for the day.  Where the mountainsides draw together and narrow the river’s breadth by half, a tall haystack rock squats between the flow.  This matters for three reasons:

The narrow channel creates a super-swift underwater current, which any good guide can float you over in a class 3 adrenaline rush of whitewater hustle.  That’s fun for some – except -- for number two.

Squeezed by the gorge, all that water has to go somewhere.  Spring runoff creates enough momentum to lift the river up and over the haystack rock.  This swell then plunges down the other side with all the wild gravity of a wilderness waterfall.  The force alone can bore out the riverbed below.  You’ve got a Montana black hole, also known as a “boat eater.”

Like it splits the river, the haystack rock splits your chances of getting through the gorge still in your boat.  As waves roll back onto themselves at the foot of the rock, the wonky current can snag an edge.  Even the best guide has felt their aft tugged into chaos.  Oars go flying.  The raft yanks backwards, sideways, and upside down, all at the same time.

Their guide knew this, the day my husband and his buddies decided to float the gorge.

[voice change]

“Guys,” the guide grunts in his best this-is-serious-stuff tone.  “How are you feeling today?”

No one answered.  Frank thought his question odd.  From what he saw, perched at the front of the raft, the sky was blue and the water perfect.

“We’ve got a decision to make,” the guide says.

Six souls scan one another, anticipating a man-up moment.  The guide drops an oar into the last calm water they’ll see for a while.  He raises his free hand and points down river.

“Up there, we’ve got a moment of decision.  There’s a tight rise with a big rock waitin’ for us.”  Wiping his face clean of sweat, river mist, and judgment, he’s giving his clients an out, like a good guide should.  “We can eddy out now and portage this puppy trailside, no harm done.”

 “Or?” one rider with trendy sunglasses goads.  Eyes dart to the guide.

“Or,” the guide pauses.  ”We can deep throat that sucker and find out why they call it the Alberton Gorge.”

A round of “hell yeah’s” and “damn straight’s” circles among the men.  With only two minutes between them and the rock, a quick discussion ensues.  Some grouse over having to haul the raft up a steep trail, but the steely dare in everyone’s eyes convinces them otherwise.  They want the gorge to ferry them back to boyhood, even for just a moment.  Nods all around.  The guide grips both oars and points the raft downstream.  A smile widens in the bent shade of his cowboy hat.

“Here’s the thing,” he says.  “If we’re gonna do this, we got to do it full force.  There’s no halfway with this.”

Everyone’s lips purse in agreement.

“Last week, I steered a boat of football players through this hole, and we all went swimmin’.”

Silence, then the familiar rrrriipppp of tightening straps on lifejackets.  The guide stiffens the oars to create a little drag and buy extra training time.

“Right now, fifteen feet of river is running over a ten foot rock we can’t see.   It’s a bearcat rise.  There’s a steep drop on the other side.  It’s a mess, a wet, rough, and rowdy mess.  If we’re gonna get through it, we gotta dive.”

Eyes dash among the crew.

“That’s right,” the guide answers.  “I said dive.  We got to punch this raft deep into that water.  When I say ‘go,’ you’re gonna have to lean into this baby with everything you’ve got.  You gotta punch into that wave, ‘specially you guys up front.  Push ‘er nose down, then push some more.  We had all better be under water, or that wave will flip us over.”

The guide clenches his fist, putting a silent exclamation point on his instructions.  Everyone tests their lungs with a gulp of air.  Oars lift.  The raft sets to going again.

“When we pop up,” he continues between committed pushes into the current, “we’ll be on the other side.”

Frank grips the rope draped along the inside edge.   Across from him, the other point man stretches his legs taunt to wedge himself solid into the sides of the raft. 

[slower] Granite walls rise up.  The air cools.  Shadows blanket the water, making it harder to read the river.  The sound of rapids ahead reverbs back, cloaking them within this natural echo chamber.  Frank smells green moss fed by the constant spray coming off the rocky banks.  They follow the river’s bend as they make the final turn.  Then, Frank sees it.  Not so much the wave as the fountain it spews five feet into the air, as if Old Faithful up and moved to the middle of the Clark Fork.  The guide pushes one oar and pulls the other, aiming straight for the geyser.

[louder] “Get ready!” he yells over the white water's rumble.   More hands clench more rope.  Everyone leans forward, mustering guts and momentum.  The fountain of foam gets bigger, closer to eight feet high now.  Frank eyes the current, following surface rivulets as they stretch long and thin in submission to the faster flow.  He braces.  Wait for it, he whispers to himself.

[louder] "Wait for it," the guide bellars over the roar.  The anxious river yanks them side to side.  They pick up speed. 

Wait for it.

Frank balances his weight between push and pull, trying to move with the water.  Out the side of his eye, a wet shine on one oar flickers then disappears. 

Wait for it.

The raft lunges.  Frank leans into the lift.  The raft’s nose raises, as if arguing with everything the guide just said.

[loud] “Go!” the guide blares.

[quick] The boat tilts skyward, high-centers for a half second, then teeters into a downward fall.  Frank thrusts his body over the nose.  His fingers wrap around the side tethers like fishhooks sunk deep into a trout.  Whitewater is everywhere.  He closes his eyes.  A gurgley mix of air and foam draws down his throat.  Behind him - he hopes - the crew has got his back tight.  Then, they hit wet thunder.  Under water, inside the whirlpool, liquid static fills his ears.  Frank forces his eyes open.  They sting from the shock of cold and sand.  They're still sinking.  Confusion tightens his lungs. They go deeper.  A swampy deep engulfs the last shards of sunlight.  Green goes to black.  His lungs are bulging against the pressure now.  When will they stop sinking?  Is he still in the boat?  The burning in his palms tell him ‘yes,’ but he has no idea where, in the whirlpool, the boat is.  They could spin underwater like this forever.  Should he let go?  Had the others bailed?

[pause]

These questions fill just enough time for a random shift.  Who knows what changed.  Maybe someone shifted their weight.  Maybe the raft bounced off  the bottom.  Maybe the guide had the wits to angle his oars just right and tag onto an up-current.  Whatever it was, the boat rises.  Light beams swim alongside Frank.  The boat breaks the surface, and Frank breathes.  No, he inhales.  Frank pulls oxygen from every atom in the air.  Droplets blink from his eyes.  He looks around. 

Heads.

Heads are floating, all around him, downstream with the calm current.  Disembodied smiles stretch wide as shoulders and torsos rise in unison.  With the raft still half-sunk and water up to their wastes, the guide points everyone to the bail buckets, attached to the side rope with a blue carabineer glimmering wet in the sun.   One man curses.  He lost his sunglasses.  The guide corrals his oars and – before dropping them in – tamps down his hat.