June 26-28^th 2004

By Jon and Sean

Written in the sprit of and tribute to

Hathaway Jones “The Tall Teller of the Rogue"

Jon: Every year I plan a trip for a few of my buds and their dads. . .

Sean: Well, kind of. Jon planned the first trip - and what a trip that first one was – beer, fresh crawdads flown in from Louisiana, great fishing (of course, I did suggest the place), good friends, you know the deal. But since then, we have been orchestrating this event together.

Jon: Very true. Not only does Sean help with the planning, he brings a ton of gear. The guy can car camp like no other. To my delight, he carries those skills to raft camping. There is no freeze dried cooking on Sean’s trip. Might explain those extra pounds…

Sean: Whatever chief. Those extra pounds all solid muscle, which I need because I end up carrying more crap than you.

Jon: Keep that delusion bud. Anyway, this year, we decided to return to the location of my epic battle with stupidity: the Rogue River in Southern Oregon. (see http://groups.msn.com/JonBial).

Sean: I’ve always wanted to run the Rogue and if Jon was willing to go back, it couldn’t be that bad…

Jon: Willing, yes, worried, also yes. But on the bright side, I would see what the river looks like when one eye isn't swollen shut.

So, we applied and drew a permit for 12 to float the Rogue in June. I figured, 12 people, we should fill that easy. I had commitments from 10 already, the four guys, their dads, plus my dad and I.

Confirmation time reduced our numbers to 7. Cancellations may have been due to the pictures my dad took of my sutured face that were posted last October (see http://groups.msn.com/JonBial). Just goes to show you, friends that used to base jump become a little less adventuresome when you add a wife and couple of kids.

Sean: No Jon, I think it’s age that adds wisdom. We’ve followed you down some hair brained adventures (rock climbing in the dark, fishing canyons that require ropes to get to…) we’re all waiting for the day you acquire some wisdom, or at least act your age.

Jon: I pray not! Regardless of the reason, the day before take off, we were down to four (Sean, Chris, my dad and I). 4 for 10 is pretty darn good… if you're a Mariner hitter. Actually, 4 is a good number, we loaded up my Maravia spider and Sean's 13 foot Sotar and made the trek down to our put in and camp for the night at Argo.

An uneventful evening passed. That is unless you count the college party down stream 50 yards or the family of 15 or so beer guzzling fools that sailed right on by their intended take out. They didn't miss it by much, I mean, 5 river miles can fly by when the beer can is tipped up.

Sean: Yeah, had we not intervened, that family certainly would have been a case study in natural selection. Ole bubba from Grants Pass and his extended family were evidently subscribing to the notion that beer makes you smart by killing off only the weak brain cells and this being their first time rafting, they decided to improve their intelligence, and by extension their rafting skills, by bringing along a brewery in their raft.

As the first boat sailed by, they were yelling what sounded “how far is it to graves reach”. Graves reach? There is no such thing – did they mean Graves Creek? Perhaps. Ever helpful, Jon yells “Graves Creek is about 3 or 4 river miles down river,” which was true. Their faces dropped. Either Graves Creek was not their intended take out or they were out of beer. The first raft paddled to shore faster than a frat boy line up during initiation week. I sat on the cooler, protecting our meager beer supply.

Their second boat pulled up, Bubba the beer bellied sumo wrestler bellowed out “Welcome to Galice!” Hmm, ok. Galice – Argo, pretty close. In any event, we helped them pull their raft to shore, making sure to keep the several empty intelligence enhancing malt and hops beverage cans in the boat. I am surprised they didn’t have bottles.

Just as we were explaining to Bubba that he missed his takeout by about 5 miles (we used small words), a van towing a trailer from a local raft rental company came roaring up the road and came to a dust clouding halt next to our camp site. Four not so happy looking employees jump out and begin herding up Bubba’s family and loading up the rafts. Apparently, they had been following them from the road for about the last three hours.

Although a bit dim, they were at least polite. Before taking off Bubba yells out with a grin that reveals a desperate need for periodontal work, “thanks so much fellas for stopp’n us – if’n you had’nt, we don’t know what would’ve.” Well, I had a few ideas – Rainie Falls for one.

Jon: Sean, while correct, is a little harsh. After all, we have made some pretty darn stupid calls ourselves without the aid or excuse of alcohol. Sean’s story is a little incomplete, probably because he plans on sharing this with his wife. He left out the greatest paradox of the story. Bubby’s daughter, who amazingly had all her teeth and was rather pleasant to look at in a string bikini that I think was made of kit string.

Sean: Didn't notice.

Jon: Moving on, the launch morning dawned clear and cold and after a quick breakfast and check in, we were in the boats and before we knew it, we passed Graves Creek, the point of no return. It was at this point that some little voice began to keep time with my heart rate, “fish ladder, fish ladder, fish ladder…” As the sound of Rainie Falls grew louder, I grew more chicken.

As we approached the falls, some guy on the bank said he had been watching people run the falls all morning and that they were lining up on the fall to river right. What kind of idiot did he take me for and what kind of guy says crap like that just because he wants to see someone break their head open. The actual run would be just left of center. Sorry dude, you are about 8 months too late.

We got out to look at Rainie Falls. Last time I was here, I had big kahonas but no helmet and no brain; this time, I traded my kahonas for a helmet, which apparently had the effect of making my brain work as intended. See Sean, that’s wisdom.

We watched the water. We watched the water some more. I was thinking "fish ladder" but telling Sean, “the main chute will go.” It was a bluff, ain't no way I was doing that at 2500cfs. I was thinking Sean was going to say, “you go ahead and I’ll stay here.” Instead, he just said “no.”

Sean: Well, a promise is a promise and I promised your mom and dad that I would try to talk you out of the falls. What I was really thinking was, its runable, but not with our set up. A fellow rafting buddy who had run this river before had said the falls would be runnable at the level we were experiencing, but the only way I could see doing it was in rafts much larger than ours, and with the aid of a paddle team to help build up momentum.

I offered up a compromise – the middle chute.

This was something I had researched. Talking with other rafters, I understood the entry to be a bit technical, but the run it self to be self executing. The trick I was told was to ship the oars earlier than what you would think is necessary because of the narrowness of the chute. This would prove to be bad advice…

The approach requires a sharp 45 degree left hand turn at the top of the drop. How do you make the turn with shipped oars? I came up with a plan of having Jon and Chris at the front of the boat with paddles to help make the entry turn.

Jon: As Sean was saying, middle chute and explaining his plan I was still thinking, "fish ladder." If George Lucas were writing this, it would say, "scared shitless I was." Sean’s plan sounded good, except that meant I had to be in the boat, twice. A situation I was less than thrilled with. I was thinking it would be a little more ideal if Chris rides up front and I take pictures. My dad was thinking we were all nuts. He and I were both thinking, "fish ladder."

Too proud to stay on shore, I donned my brain bucket and off we went. I'm not sure when Sean shipped his oars, but I suspect it was somewhere between Salem and Myrtle Creek. Then he has the guts to yell at Chris and I to turn to the left. Like I'm not already paddling because of the fear? We hit the right chute entrance rock. It was not pretty.

Sean: No, it wasn’t. From my perspective I could see that Jon to my left had a solid hook on the water, doing a backstroke with all his might. Chris however, was paddling like my little three year old girl. He might have even been whistling the sound of music.

It should come as no surprise that we didn't make it. I frantically reached for my oars, but the blades were caught up on the oar keeper rings. The front stuck on the right entry rock and began a slow turn, sideways to the current.

I once saw a photo of a raft stuck sideways in the chute, creating a rubber bridge over the water with the current running underneath. I now know how that happened was about to repeat the feat.

Jon: While we are hung up, I'm thinking about the ramifications of jumping over Chris to the rocks, crossing the fish ladder and hiking myself back to Graves Creek. Hitching a ride home shouldn’t be that hard...

I am broken from my thoughts by a pivoting boat. The good news is that at 13’; Sean’s boat was not large enough to get wedged at the entry. The bad news, we're going down backwards.

My dad burns the whole roll of film. Like I needed 36 frames of my face looking like Polyanna's would if she met the nightmare on elm street guy. Happy texts my ass. As we slide towards the exit and I'm hoping Sean tied his gear down well and am glad that I didn't have waders on this time.

Sean: Oh, don’t worry Jon, they can’t see your face when all you dad could take pictures of was the back of our heads. See, going down backwards has its advantages.

As we hit the bottom, I pop up from the bottom of the rower’s compartment where I have tried to become one with the bottom of my boat, unhook the oar keeper ring and eddy out river left. I look at Jon with a huge smile of relief on my face and say, “see that was not so bad.” He does not look so happy.

Jon: Although the boat filled with water, I was still in it, and we remained right side up. I guess I’ll call that a victory. No gear lost, no flip, no unintended swimmers, river zero, our party, well we didn't lose, a weak victory indeed.

We head towards my boat for a second shot. Nope that shaking is familial tremors, not fear. As we push out, god delivers me the one thing I need. An idiot. I'll explain.

Pulled over by my boat is a guided trip. One of the guys thinks he has run class VI rivers in Asia because he watches the discovery channel. You know the type. He is all disappointed because the guide won't run the main chute. He has done it before, and like most know it alls, he wants to tell me his balls are bigger than mine.

I’m thinking, shut up you Merlin Perkins wannabe. Better yet, you think you're man enough, you take a boat over the falls, instead of sitting there in judgment because I am going over the middle chute. Too old to be a punk, to dumb to be called anything else. I'll take suggestions, but right now I'm thinking "tool" is the best descriptor.

At least I've quit shaking. We shove off, if for no other reason than to escape this self important idiot. We line up, and having learned from the first take, I ignore the bad advice to ship the oars. Who cares if the oars crack Sean or Chris, they’ve got helmets, and I’ll be fine. With Sean on the right, and Chris to the left, and me on the oars, we make the entry turn just fine and we have an uneventful perfect slide down the chute. Dad burns a few more shots, these might be worth keeping.

Normally a pretty bright guy, Chris says, “I got a lot wetter this time in your boat Jon.” Sean pipes up, “yeah Chris, going down forwards will do that.”

The rest of the day's float would be largely uneventful, but for the treat we got to witness at Upper Black Bar, where a crew of inexperienced Inflatable kayakers, a paddle boat and a gear boat, go right down the middle. The paddle crew went first and didn't even turn around to see one of the kayakers take a swim. From our scouting position we yelled, we waived and we blew our whistles, but to no avail. We yelled at the chase gear boat, and gestured, but they were unperturbed. The swimmer eventually eddied out with his boat, but it looked like a tough swim and could have been bad. The gear boat's run was similarly hairy, but they managed to come out without flipping or swimming.

Sean: Well, that’s not entirely true. While scouting Black Bar I was reminded of some advice I had been given about that rapid being a commonplace for river carnage to occur. The normal route is to the far right, but at higher flows a run just left of center is possible. That was the route the paddle raft and gear boat had done. The IKer was just to the right and caught a large hole that forms from a large entry bolder on the same side.

Jon: You're being too kind. This was the group's first time on the Rogue and they ignored guidebook advice to scout. But, they made it so who am I to judge?

Sean: Yes, they made it and having witnessed the gear boat and paddle boat execute a center run, I begin thinking perhaps that is the way to go. The truth is, the run to the right is not without peril, as the current does try to push you into the right wall. Having watched others, I decide the middle run is for me.

As I approach, I realize that the horizon line looks quite uniform. That is, it was quite difficult to see the left of center line I needed to hit to run the rapid clean. Unfortunately I was a tad bit too far to the right and the same suck hole that grabbed the IKer grabbed my boat. The hole stopped my boat and turned me sideways immediately. The water filled my boat and pushed me towards the boil line. Just then, the boat began to list to the downstream side I yelled at Chris to stay in the boat (as if he had a choice) and to jump to the high side of the raft (in this case the upstream side). When he did so, we reached equilibrium and were flushed out without incident. We then eddied out to wait to see what run Jon would take.

Jon: Yeah, that looked like fun. Far right for me. Good line, uneventful passing.

Sean: Our next snafu occurred in Kelsey Canyon. I had given Chris the con. After a few minutes of instruction, he was off like a champ, making several runs without error, until Kelsey Falls.

Kelsey Falls is not terribly difficult, the run is to the right of a large boulder, but there is a submerged rock at the exit that gets a lot of boats hung up. Mine was no exception.

We hit. We stuck. We swung around and the boat took on water. “Highside! Highside!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jon grab his throw rope.

We reach that uneasy equilibrium and begin to gentle rock our way loose. Although I think I was more phased by the event than Chris, he did ask if I would like to take over control of the oars, and not remembering what else might lie ahead, I readily said yes. (Although, I would later let Chris row the raft through the lower part of the trip, which he did so flawlessly).

Jon: That night we made camp at Battle Bar (partially because it had a pit toilet and it meant we would not need to use the bucket we had to bring along per BLM regulation). Sean, ever the father, told us the story of Bob Fox, who had built a cabin at that location, but was later shot by a neighbor in the cabin.

He also told us about the Indian war that had taken place at this site. We explored what remains of the cabin today. Chris quietly said “yeah, a lot of people died at this spot, and all the BLM could do to honor their deaths is build a crapper right here in the middle of it all.” He had a point.

We quietly walked back to camp, where dad had prepared our feast.

Sean: And feast it was. I knew there was a reason you brought him. Spaghetti with Italian sausage, salad, garlic bread and wine. We gorged ourselves. Compliments to the chef.

Jon: As we sat back to let our bloated stomachs absorb the comfort of the fire pan campfire, our conversation turned to we talked bears.

Sean had said that everyone he talked to said we will see a bear at some point on the float. My dad was visibly nervous. Indeed, he had specifically purchased bear spray repellant for this trip. Bear, yeah right, we aren’t going to see a bear.

Sean: All I could do was laugh about the Bear repellant, Chris had brought some too. I insisted that stuff would do nothing but piss off the bears. Chris and Jon’s dad said it wasn’t for the bears… Jon and I exchanged nervous glances.

I said what we needed to do was strap up our coolers and place cups of ammonia on the coolers to keep the bears way. Everyone looked at me like I was crazy, except Jon’s dad who I could tell was thinking about pouring ammonia all over the place to keep the bears away (which later that night he did).

Jon: Yeah, in fact, he was so fixated on the repellant power of the ammonia, I think he bathed in the stuff, at least that would explain the rather ripe smell coming from his sleeping bag. Made it hard for me to sleep, my dad slept ok, although he was curled up to his bear spray. I just hoped he didn’t wake up disoriented and use the spray in the tent. I rowed the river once with one eye swollen shut, that was tough enough. But doing it blind…

Sean and Chris used the more traditional snoring repellant. Bears, yeah right, we're not going to see a bear.

The next morning dawned clear and bright and we tried to lure a bear down to the water with the smell of frying bacon. Unfortunately, our prowess at bear luring was about the same as fish catching. So, we broke camp and shoved off towards the challenges of the day, mule creek canyon, the coffeepot, and the infamous Blossom bar.

Sean: Along the way we made a couple of must do stops for first time Rogue adventurers; Zane Grey’s cabin and the Rogue River Ranch.

Jon: At Zane’s, we exchanged bear fears for rattlesnakes. I joined the group in this concern, but as a large rafting party had just come down the trail, I figured we were safe.

Sean: There we were, worried about snakes, while hiking to the home of one of the Rogues most known adventurers, Zane Grey. Zane was an author that wrote a number of books from his small one room cabin on the banks of the river. We also saw one of his boats, a long 16’ wooden dory. Zane must think of us modern day adventurers with our fancy inflatable rafts, and highly stylized river vests and rescue knives, our irrational fear of snakes and bears. No doubt, he would have thought us pansies. It was a different era.

Jon: Pansies compared to those adventurers perhaps, but I know a lot of people who were watching tv while we were approaching Mule Creek Canyon.

I led the way, past the jaws and Telfer’s Rock (which creates an infamous boat crunching hole, and where several boaters – all not wearing their life vests – had died in the past) into the narrow canyon.

I didn't so much as scrape a rock. I'd like to say it was my skill, but it was probably just lucky currents. The canyon is like that, you can circulated forever, or it can be smooth as butter. Regardless, it was a flawless passage and I was starting to feel a little more like a boater with each stroke. A little confidence is a wonderful thing, too much and well, I’ve got some scars as a result of too much confidence.

Speaking of confidence, as I was gaining mine, Sean was losing his.

Sean: Too true. The day before we had made some mistakes: Rainey, Upper Black Bar, and Kelleys. I knew if we made a mistake entering the canyon, it could be a long and scary swim. I had done my research, I knew the canyon was a deceptively beautiful but dangerous place. We needed to have a clean, safe run.

My adrenaline was pumping – which always makes one feel alive – but the adrenaline was pumping a little too much, as I found myself constantly over correcting. I kept on telling my self to calm down – make slow calculated strokes and work with the water.

We made it through. I too can say I did not hit a rock (only because Chris used a paddle to keep us off the sides of the canyon).

By the time we hit the coffee pot, I had calmed down and ran it without incident. But my memory of my earlier performance in the canyon had me wondering about how I would do at the next rapid: blossom bar.

Jon: As we left the coffeepot, I could see the canyon had shaken Sean up; he realized that the river was in control and he wasn't. I'd seen that look before, about 8 months ago in a compass mirror.

We pulled over at Staircase Falls swam a bit and let Sean's heart rate subside. Some women yelled at us from across the river and I was reminded of a piece of wisdom from an elder gent, “good from afar, far from good.” We loaded back up and headed towards Blossom.

Sean: As we approached blossom, I could feel the tension in myself rise and the adrenaline again begin to kick in. I could hear the rush of the water before I could see the rapid. Once it came into view, I gave a Shaggy like gulp, and rowed towards the right bank to find a portage, I mean, to scout the rapid.

From the scout rock I could easily see the route. I had seen pictures of the rapid before, but in person, the rocks seemed much closer with no room for error.

Jon: While scouting blossom, the group that had the IKer flip on black bar showed up. We waited to see if they were going to walk downstream to scout, and eventually some of the party did. The paddle captain, ironically stayed behind. As we approached, Sean said if she was going to lead the crew, she needed to see the rapid from scout rock down stream. As she headed out, she asked me the route, she was pretty nervous.

I then went first with quite an audience. So, with dad in the front praying to a higher power and me pulling on the oars with all my might, we made the entrance eddy, floated by the picket fence and pulled like hell to avoid the partially submerged Volkswagen, no problem.

Sean: Chris and I headed out just a few minutes after Jon – wanting to stay close enough to help in case of an emergency, but no so close as to foul up each other's route. As Chris and I headed out, he looked at me, and said “you are really nervous about this, aren’t you buddy.” I replied with a half hearted smile, “yeah, but don't worry. I'll let you know when it's time to worry.” He said he had all the confidence we would make it through. I was too smart to goat the river gods with such statements, I let it hang out there without a response – in hindsight, I perhaps should have responded with a respectful apology to the fates.

For those not familiar with Blossom, let me share a first timer’s view. The rapid is classified as a boulder garden. Ordinarily this means playing a game of dodg-em as you float around boulders in the river’s path. Blossom, however is different that most boulder gardens in that certain paths lead to narrow constrictions without exits.

As the river meets the garden, the entry is to the far left where there is a break in the boulders (due to the efforts of Glenn Wooldridge who had blasted a route through the rapid. Before Glenn’s work, Blossom was a mandatory portage). As you enter the rapid, you must them quickly move to the right keeping your boat as close to the boulders centered in the middle of the river as possible. If you don’t do this, the current will take you into a line of boulders that reach out from river left to the center of the river. This line of boulders, the so called picket fence, acts like an Ogre’s teeth, straining, catching, and chewing up the unexpecting or inexperienced boater in its jaws. Indeed, many a boat or life has been lost here and we could see the remnants of a drift boat that did not make it wedged in the rocks.

The truth is, to those educated about this rapid, and in hindsight, the move is an easy one to make. The rocks in the center create an eddy, which when caught, allows the boater to make the maneuver to avoid the picket fence without much trouble.

However, once your boat is lined up to avoid the picket fence, your boat is carried through the pour off, wherein most of the river’s force is directed. The velocity here is great, and unfortunately the hazards of this rapid have not concluded. At the bottom of the pour off is a large boulder, partially submerged at higher flows, but always present. (some call it the submarine rock, due to its long and submerged characteristics, although there is another that looks quite similar but perpendicular to the rivers flow just a few yards down stream) To avoid this boulder you must pivot your boat with the rear facing river left while passing the picket fence and then immediately begin a river left ferry to avoid the obstruction and to put yourself on the preferred route where you can play dodge em with the rest of the boulders in the rapid.

I began my run and in the beginning, it was perfect. That would soon change. I didn't even have time to tell Chris to worry, no problem, I'm pretty sure that warning became unnecessary. The problem was that I did not begin my past-the-picket-fence-river-left-ferry soon enough and found myself on the other side of submarine rock. For those put in this position, the river lines you up perfectly to hit, and potentially wrap, on the largest boulder in the rapid: Volkswagen rock, which from an up-close view, I can tell you first hand seems much larger than a Volkswagen.

Seeing that I would be unable to avoid the Volkswagen, I immediately pivot my boat so as to hit the rock bow first and avoid wrapping on the rock. As I had hoped, the current pushed me to the right, and off the boulder, where we were able to meet up with Jon in the Eddy down below.

Jon: Although Sean made it, he looked pretty green. After we both eddied out we both decided we should wait to see if the group behind us was going to need help. If the incident on Black Bar the day before was any indication, we figured they might.

Also, I've been the beneficiary of some pretty good river karma (thanks grantspastor) and it was time to pass some on, so we tied off, grabbed the throw bags and Sean, Chris and I boulder hopped up the river right shore to help, if needed.

The paddle boat was first and headed towards the river left entrance and... Didn't make it. They got hung up on the rocks in the middle and had to rock the boat back and forth to free it. A large cheer went up when it broke loose and they headed down river right. The only one not cheering was the paddle captain.

At higher flows, larger boats can run the right channel. We opted not to because at our flow, we could begin to see rocks jutting from the surface. Rocks, which when hit, could either stick, flip, or pin a raft.

With the captain's face looking grim, they bounced off rock after rock, but made it through and cruised on by, the paddle crew unfazed; the captain a little shaken. I found it odd that not a word of thanks was issued. I wonder if they were insulted.

The Iks followed, each took a different route, all of which apparently required that they bump off the volks rock before continuing down. Again, barely a wave. The gear boat was next and took the route Sean did. Seeing no carnage, and feeling unappreciated, we headed back to the boats.

We passed them a short while later, while they were looking for camping spots, and they seemed like nice people, just a little lacking in river sense, a position with which I can fully relate. We talked a little about running sweep and looking out for one another, but the tough stuff was done and we suspected they would make it the rest of the way without incident.

Sean: We had intended to camp at Tate Creek so we could act like kids and slide down the natural water slide that I had read about in my guide book. Because I was not fishing on this trip, I wanted to explore and do as many side activities in the canyon like this as possible. I had promised myself this was one feature I would not miss.

We pulled over and Jon, Chris and I hiked up the trail, leaving Jon’s dad to spot campsites.

Jon: Midway up the trail, Sean blew out a flip flop and notwithstanding the lack of pop tops, had to cruise on back home. Chris followed to ensure Sean did not bust out an ankle. I kept on going and had a wonderful, but lonely slide.

When I came back, my dad had said all of the campsites had been taken. Sean was disappointed as it meant we would have to push on to another site, without him having experienced the slide. Although I had said we could try to make a makeshift camp nearby, Sean was insistent that we find a camp with a bear food fence (which the BLM provides on the lower part of the river for you to put your food without the ammonia trick Sean had used the night before). Fear of bears, whatever.

Sean: Thankfully, Jon’s dad’s ability to scout camp sites was about as good as my luck on the river that day. Just within 50 feet of where we pulled out, there was an unoccupied camp site, complete with bear fence.

We quickly pulled over, and began to set up camp, with the intent of hiking back to the slide the next day before leaving. I began excavating a perfectly level site in the sand for Chris and my tent and Jon’s dad began dinner.

Jon: Excavate is correct, I think he even made a nightstand.

Sean: Mock if you must, but it was level and I slept fine.

Jon: As did I, despite seeing a bear earlier. As we were finishing our meal, a black bear came cruising down the far bank to the river. No worries, they can't swim says Sean sarcastically. We all laugh.

Dad makes a frantic dive for the bear spray and Sean and I arm wrestle for the ammonia. I took some pics before the bear turned around and disappeared into the far bank. Pretty darn cool. Pretty darn happy for the bear food fence. Dad wonders a loud if the fence is big enough for him to sleep in.

The next morning is a little overcast, but looks like it will burn off quickly. We break camp and wait a little on the weather. When it sufficiently warms, we head up to the tate creek slide and act like kids. On the way back, we follow two does and two fawns, getting within 15 feet of them. Very cool. Great wildlife, a bear, deer, numerous hawks, eagles, cranes and a rhino (just wondered if anyone is still reading).

Sean: The rest of our float was uneventful. We saw many jet boats carrying tourists up from Gold Beach, some of which that tried to spray us with their modern squirt guns. Thankfully, the drivers kept them out of range.

We floated past the homestead where Hathaway Jones' wife was born and I remembered one of Hathaway’s stories about shooting at a deer and having the bullet smack old Hathaway in the backside only for him to conclude the bullet must have traveled around the world. I tell it to Chris, we laugh and enjoy the rest of the float.

Jon: We then hit our take out at foster bar, load up and we head home, tired, but in a good way. All in all, a great trip with great friends, can't ask for anything more than that.

Sean: Agreed