Wherever I am, with that first verse I’m sitting by a campfire watching orange light hit the fretboard of a river-battered guitar. I’m sticking my head out a truck’s window to catch a breath of syringa infused, backroad Idaho air. There’s something in that song that catches me when I’m not “on”.
This May I’ll boat on two different multiday rivers, spend nights in six of my favorite cities and river towns around the West, drive and fly way too many miles, move out of… Continue reading
No need to manically dance around in your pajamas to beat the winter blues when you have… fishing!
Most stories – they bury themselves in the sand. They drift lazily up and down eddy lines. They climb into cracks in the sandstone, limestone and schist. They poke into a driftwood pile and settle in for the winter. Feelings wander up side canyons and don’t come back. Heart-words sit on debris fans and decide not to leave.
I want to open myself up to whatever that water moving downhill needs me to know. That river doesn’t need me to try to tell it stories (I’m SO FUN and SOCIAL! I’m a RIVER GUIDE! I’ve GOT THIS) and my ears are a little more open than they’ve ever been before.
I looked at these two people, standing under that wooden arch, that I look up to as boatman, that I respect as teachers, and whom I love as friends. Okay, I tried to look because I was crying pretty good and also had my sunglasses on – and I saw not only the love between them but also the mess.
Then one morning, I wake up to fire our coffee water and instead of pink dawn, it’s still dark. I fumble around for my headlamp, then watch the blue flames lick up a metal pot. A sliver of moon skates along the ridge above camp. I’m wearing my puffy jacket. The river sound bubbles against the sound of lit propane and instead of giggling, “summer, summer SUMMER” the river says, gently, “Here comes autumn.”
“Okay, so now I need you to SQUEEEEZE her sides like you are SQUEEEEZING a bean!” my mom’s husband Greg tells me in his excited Italian New Yorker accent. “The reigns are like… Continue reading
know you’re not going to make room in your already packed ammo can toiletries kit for an extra bottle of conditioner. So if the SPF is the issue, why not just run some of your sports sun screen through your hair every morning? Disclaimer: I’m not sure how this will affect your shiny bouncy levels.
It’s one of those nuclear hot Salmon River afternoons. Up on a sand bar bench, our metal dish buckets heat themselves without help from a stove. T and I are cooking dinner, trying not to add our own sweat to chicken fajitas and a black bean salad. I slide down the beach to drain a few cans, my brain running menus, boiling times and vegetarian options. It’s the end of a trip. I feel muddled by heat, my muscles sore from rowing against the wind.