The journal of 37-year-old school teacher Eric Johnson documents the highs, lows, lingo and lifestyle of the raft guide gig in all its glory on a weeklong beginner course with a herd of twentysomethings.
Day 0:
Pull into Coloma late and fail to find the rafting company campground. Sleep in the back of the truck down by the river—something I have been warned about.
Day 1:
Guide school begins. Meet my classmates. How old are you guys? Hoping for some endearing nickname like The Professor or Pops. Meet the instructors Sean and Iowa. (Note: never learn Iowa’s real name).
Introductions: “Tell us your name, a reason for taking the class, and an interesting thing about yourself.”
Most of the students are looking for jobs as rafting guides. They’ve been to exotic places, done interesting things and have personal philosophies. I am a high school teacher with a wife and three kids. Eyebrows go up. What married man with three small children enrolls in a whitewater guide school? I am either interesting or stupid. Several students scoot closer; they want to know which.
Day 1 Afternoon:
Gear checkout. “Rig to flip; dress to swim” our instructors remind us—the first of many eye-roll inducing rafting platitudes that will come our way. Later we hear: “T-it up,” “It’s never too early,” “Go with the flow,” “Embrace the spin,” or its more poetic cousin, “Spin it to win it.”
We take our first run down the river, a guided trip through the lower gorge of the South Fork of the American River. We ride as passengers and our instructors point out rapids and features of the river.
I make it a point to try and memorize everything.
Day 2:
I remember nothing.
Now it’s our turn. For the remainder of our instruction, we will be the ones guiding the rafts downriver. Terrifying. Under the guidance of absolute novices, we bounce off rocks, spin out of control through rapids and blow past eddies. Our “guides” change places every few bends, shriek commands, issue the wrong instructions, or totally freeze-up.
Day 3 & 4:
Middle Fork of the American River. Sean calls this river “bipolar.”
“It starts out with some super violent class IV and then goes to basically flatwater for nine miles until you hit more of these huge drops.”
Iowa is more emotive, “We’re going to the Mo’Fo’!”
Our instructors guide a rapid called Tunnel Chute.
“Super consequential,” are Iowa’s exact words.
“So what happens if we fall out of the raft in Tunnel Chute,” somebody—not me, of course—asks.
“Um…um…you need to get into a ball and go to a super happy place in your head.”
On the second day Sean falls out at the bottom of Tunnel Chute and we learn the importance of not falling out as a guide: Sean has to buy Iowa a case of beer.
Super consequential.
Day 5:
Throwbag and raft flipping practice. More inexpert rafting down the South Fork. I am sore, tired and drinking PBR’s after class. But I warn the young job seekers around me to abstain.
“You know, they might just want to see if you can go a week without drinking,” I say as I pop open another beer.
Day 6:
My pain is replaced by the sheer joy of being on the river everyday.
We do the whole river from the Chilli Bar section down through the lower gorge to the Folsom Reservoir takeout.
The upper section goes fine. I decide that I am totally guide material.
We stop at the campground for a quick lunch. After lunch I take another turn at the helm. I pilot us right onto Rookie Rock where we are pinned for the next five minutes until I unload some ego, which gets us off the rock but does not make my raft driving skills much better.
I proceed to hit rocks on down the river. I bounce off of Fowler’s Rock, the first rapid in the gorge section, spin backward through the rapid, hit several unnamed rocks that are just as hard. Not my best performance.
“Spicy line Johnson,” Sean says. “Who’s next?”
Humbled, I hand over my guide paddle.
Day 7:
On Saturday, last day of class, the instructors bring a two-person raft and a volleyball to the put-in.
“Wilson may fall out of the raft from time to time,” Sean says. “Please save him.”
This is the major exam.
Our last trip down the river goes well. We save Wilson a few times. We make pretty clean runs. I pilot Trouble Maker rapid perfectly and get another shot at Fowler’s Rock, which, upon successful navigation, I rename Johnson’s Redemption.
My younger classmates talk about what’s next if they are not asked to work for the company as a guide.
All that possibility. Paralyzing.
I am reminded that this is the part of being 22 I don’t miss.
“Don’t worry,” I tell them. “Just follow your line, T-it up, embrace the spin.”
My classmates roll their eyes in gratitude.
“No trouble,” I say. “That’s what I do. I’m a river guide.”
Schoolteacher Eric Johnson has returned to the classroom where he offers similar words of wisdom to his high school English class. They, too, roll their eyes.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2015 issue of Rapid Magazine.
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