Coming to the Stanislaus River
The first time I experienced a whitewater river was late at night on a Friday in early April 1971. Four of us got out of our old Volkswagen van which had stopped in the middle of the Parrott’s Ferry Bridge on the Stanislaus River. We stood at the wooden rails, and peered out into the dark, moonless night, hearing the rush and swirl of water below, but seeing nothing. After a few minutes we got back in the van and headed up the road to Vallecito, to meet the others who were to go through training that weekend to become new whitewater guides for the American River Touring Association, ARTA.
I grew up in San Diego and the closest I ever got to a river then was down by the slowly flowing San Diego River in Mission Valley – mostly dairy farms at the time, now all malls and traffic. I had no clue about rivers that poured through rocky canyons, except for one memorable night. A friend’s father took the two of us camping and we spent the night next to a very small waterfall, maybe fifty feet away from our campfire. In the darkness, I could just hear and not see the power of rushing water, and spent the night with that magical sound constantly around me. I don’t remember what it looked like the next morning, but the visceral memory of alive whitewater stayed with me, and the unseen Stanislaus at night surely resonated.
Beyond that I was absolutely clueless about whitewater rivers and rafting. One of my roommates in a large house in Berkeley, where I was in my fourth year of university studies, had showed several of us small black and white prints of rafts going through Rainey Falls and other rapids and said we should definitely apply to be river guides with the company he had been with since he was 16 years old, ARTA.
I recall that I had no idea what the reality was in those photos, but the idea of a summer job outdoors seemed perfect. So, I and two others wrote letters to ARTA and our guide friend, Jeff Fowler, attested for us. This was enough to get asked to an interview, probably in late February or early March 1971. Later, I learned that about 100 people had applied and twenty or so were interviewed, all for a dozen spots as guide trainees.
Like so many others, I made my way to 1016 Jackson Street in downtown Oakland, to a small two-plus story building that was ARTA headquarters, but had mainly been the owner’s printing shop – before he peeled all that away to chase his dreams of running rivers all over the world.
I went inside, found my way up the very not-to-code wooden stairway to the office area and waited to be called in to meet with Rob Elliott. I walked in, reached across and shook hands with Rob, sat down and immediately engaged with him in talking about the day, the world, the outdoors – I can’t recall the details, but I do know that we had an immediate fit in our twenty minute conversation. “We’ll be in touch”, he said and I walked down and out of that building.
A week or so later, I learned that the three of us in the house (the others were two brothers, Steve and Doug Hoxmeier) had gotten the nod and that we should show up for guide training the first weekend of April. I don’t remember my reaction to all that, but I’m pretty sure it was excitement, but in a vague way, as I still really had no idea of what I was getting into.
Growing up in San Diego, I had been in Boy Scouts and done a moderate amount of camping and hiking in the mountains and desert there, and once in the Sierra for a week. But that was long ago and I had nothing resembling outdoors stuff in my possessions. For the training weekend, I packed a pair of cut-off blue jeans, a t-shirt or two, a cheap nylon windbreaker, my socks (cotton of course) and an old pair of tennis shoes, plus a sleeping bag and what I wore on the trip up. Wool or waterproof wasn’t even in my vocabulary.
When we got to the Vallecito General Store that night, after stopping to peer at the river, I walked in the door and was immediately met by Dick Linford, wearing a blue down parka and extending a hand to me, saying, “Welcome, Larry”. I was flabbergasted he knew my name. All us trainees eventually arrived, and we followed the big black ARTA cabover truck down to Camp Nine, where we slept on the ground.
The morning was cold and rain looked likely for the day. All of us trainees gathered up with the several trainers and Dick asked longtime ARTA guide Alan Deubner to give a “currents and eddies” talk, which he delivered with sketches in the sand at our feet. One of the other trainers was very active down at the boats, wearing only cutoffs and sneakers as he busily and enthusiastically arranged rigging, heedless of the freezing cold water – Mark Dubois, of course.
I don’t remember much about learning to row (no paddling on this first weekend) – two or three trainees were in each raft and took turns rowing, while the trainer told us things and we tried to follow. I do remember getting out at Rose Creek and not being able to feel my feet for an hour, as they were simply too cold to have sensation.
We did the full trip to Parrott’s Ferry, deflated the rafts and went back up to Camp Nine to do a second run that day. At some point, it started raining off and on. We probably rolled the rafts up wet the second time. When we got back to Camp Nine that evening, a couple rafts got inflated to be propped up to make a semi-tent next to the big truck. The next morning, Sunday, we got up to do two more trips.
It had been cold overnight and most of our cutoffs were frozen stiff – it took pouring hot water on them to make it possible to put them on. And the next day was just as unpleasant weather-wise as the first.
But by the time I got back to Berkeley late Sunday night, exhausted from the weekend – the first to three before we started guiding for real, I was transformed: whitewater rafting had now become all-consuming, and I loved it completely.