Baptized in the River
I watch him, chest deep in the frigid water, sponging off the scum line from his hand-crafted dory, the Escalante. His name is Regan, and he’s a river guide with a penchant for rituals. As the sun dips below the horizon, most would be sipping scotch, but not Regan. He’s immersed in this little pre-Lava ceremony, a tradition he’s observed for years.
“So, Regan, is that a ritual? Tradition? Superstition?” I can’t help but ask, my curiosity piqued.
“Tradition,” he responds simply, returning to his task. Regan isn’t one for lengthy explanations. Perhaps it’s because he’s shivering in the chilly water, or maybe it’s just his way.
A client passing by mutters, “Superstition,” with a sideways glance. I smile, watching Regan work, until the conch shell blows, summoning us to dinner and entertainment.
As I drift off to sleep on my dory’s deck, the gentle whoosh of the riffles lulling me, I can’t shake the image of Regan, glistening in the fading light, reverently tending to his beloved craft. Succumbing to the allure, I too slip into the eddy, sponge in hand, to cleanse my own dory. Tonight, I am a glistening Sam McGee, preparing for the maelstrom of Lava Falls tomorrow.
Rituals of the River
Sliding into the tongue of liquid silk that leads to the infamous Granite Falls, I turn to my clients, “Hold on, high-side the shit out of this one!” Our trip leader, Dr. Dre, pilots his graceful Black Canyon deftly in front of us, and I know he’s about to initiate his own little ritual.
Sure enough, as we approach the chaos, Dr. Dre rises to his feet, hitching up his worn Patagonia knickers, stretching his arms high, then clasping them behind his head. He adjusts his well-worn sombrero, contemplating the path he has chosen, once again.
You can call it superstition, tradition, or respect – at its heart, it’s about acknowledging the thin line between life and death, the raw power of the river that is always taking you somewhere, whether with the speed of old age or the slow eternity of a first kiss.
We boatmen, we’re a special breed. Iconoclasts by nature, anti-authoritarian, individualistic. You’d trust us with your life, but not your wife or daughter. We’re the “talented misfits,” coping with a world that wallops us daily with its unwillingness to be controlled, its fierce independence and wild beauty, its absolute acceptance.
Rituals of the Craft
For me, it’s that dip into the river, like a holy baptism in the Church of Get Up and Do It, in the scout eddy just upstream of whatever rapid has its hold on me that year. Hance, Crystal, Lava – they’re always there, beckoning. And the ragged, colorful print shirt that’s my current treasure and solace, a far cry from the required helmet I now must wear.
The ritual extends to that exultant shout of joy and release, ecstasy, and tension, as we push off to run the rapid. “Have a great run!” we bellow, in unison with our comrades, our pards who have our backs, and who are going through the same belly-groaning joy. The clients can’t help but join in; it’s all about the camaraderie.
Sure, we love our river, our canyon, our desert. We’re the luckiest bastards alive. But without each other, what are we? Without these rituals, how else do we gird our loins for battle or dance? They hold us, place us just so, on this earth, reminding us we are not the first or the last. They help us pay tribute to some higher power I cannot name but plainly feel with every step I take down there.
In my garage, I have a note scrawled and pinned to the wall, a reminder to my wife, who understands even as it makes her ache a little: “Anywhere else, I am something less.”
Adam’s Cleaning may not be a river-running outfit, but the rituals that bind us together, that ground us in something greater than ourselves, are no less important. Whether it’s the meticulous care we pour into each task, the camaraderie that forms between our crews, or the satisfaction of a job well done, our Grand Rituals are what make us who we are.
