MEMOIR
The Golden Age of Whitewater
Would you sacrifice relationships, money, security, and even health for a life of adventure?
In June of 1982, while my brother drove toward Angels Camp, I gazed at the Sobek brochure depicting the first descent of the Bio-Bio River in Chile. Passengers gripped the perimeter line as the guide stared down a broiling maze of whitewater, hands poised on oars that reached to the river like wings. That photo embodied everything I craved: travel, wilderness, beauty, grace, and danger.
When we met Richard Bangs at a little café, he seemed surprisingly humble for the Indiana Jones of Adventure Travel. Over sandwiches and sodas, we pitched our Hawaiian adventure tour, which would teach nature photography, but our goal was to expand perceptions of the natural world. He liked our idea, and we agreed on a few winter dates for the next catalogue. Then I asked as casually as possible, “How do you hire your river guides?”
He had undoubtedly heard this a million times, but Richard smiled and said with that butter-smooth voice, “If you worked for our sister company, OARS, here in the States, we could send you overseas when you have enough experience. I think they have a guide school next week.”
Could it be that simple? I had never been on a river trip in my life, but I returned to San Francisco, gave up my apartment, and sold all my possessions except for my camping gear and motorcycle.
When I introduced myself to the group at guide school, I said, “I’m John French and I want to guide for OARS so I can work overseas for Sobek.” I didn’t realize this was like a little leaguer saying he planned on playing for the Yankees, but two summers later, I was on my way to Zambia.
Our Zambezi crew became a second wave of Sobek guides, standing on the shoulders of the senior guides, who had crafted fantastic trips from their best river explorations. We served as the worker bees who ran those trips over and over, while honing the details.
The Zambezi River served up the most intense training ground for running big whitewater. We rescued each other on a daily basis and then debated our mistakes over G&Ts at the little bar by the edge of the river. In the years that followed, we found ourselves swept along together on rivers across the globe.
We were showmen as much as boatmen, constantly chiding each other to “work smart,” and filling the day with as much laughter as possible. Over the years, we rode every form of transport invented, shopped in exotic markets, and often performed sleight of hand at border crossings worthy of a Vegas magic act. Throughout it all, we acted as ambassadors of goodwill, inviting the border guards to come rafting, bringing gifts of appreciation to local contacts, and even painting Rosalva’s house for her.
Downtime was savored: relaxing in a rooftop pool at the Carrera, painting water colors in a hut in Ecuador, enjoying game park accommodations, escorting clients to Antarctica, killing time in Kathmandu, riding elephants at Tiger Tops, sailing the Turquoise Coast, or just drinking beer on the warehouse porch in Haines. And doing it all with comrades so clever they were paid to play for a living.
By the mid-nineties, my year started on the Bio-Bio, progressed to spring runoff on Giant Gap, the Cal Salmon and Grand Canyon, June in Turkey, back to Alaska for Tat/Alsek trips, a few Septembers in Pakistan or Nepal, back to the Grand Canyon in October, trekking Patagonia in November, and Christmas at Rosalva’s house in Longuimay where we prepped our gear for the Bio-Bio. I was living the dream.
That Hawaiian tour never sold, but Sobek fulfilled my wish for travel, wilderness, beauty, grace, and danger. As far as my goal to expand perceptions of the natural world, I only needed to make people feel comfortable in the wilderness and let nature do the rest. Once, when rowing into Alsek Bay with icebergs and fog dancing a tango, a doctor from India turned to me with tears in his eyes and whispered, as if not to break the spell, “Thank you.”
Our Sobek tribe lived intensely, at a unique time upon this earth, when the world was still mysterious, but accessible to those bold enough to run the gut.
“It took me completely. Blood, skin, bones, and memory. I was no longer held fast on earth, but free, fluid, part of the air and sun. … And so I had my moment of glory, that brief fleeting glory which of itself cannot last. But while it does, it’s the greatest game of all.” From The Reivers, by William Faulkner.
