The Watery Rave

Fall can be windy on the Yellowstone. As the boats arrived in Glendive midday the crew was looking hard ridden and put away damp. They’d been fighting the wind all day and were ready to eat the first animal that wandered into camp. Fortunately, it was Taco Tuesday in Glendive.

We shuttled down to a Mexican Restaurant where we got our fiesta on. The guys grilled the waitress for all the Glendive hot spots. She gave us a couple of options: Sit on the bench in the middle of town and watch for a car with an out of state license plate to come through; or have another taco. Apparently, Glendive isn’t a hub of social interaction.

We did hear about a gun show down the street, and the guys got all perky at the thought of blowing something up. Apparently Glendive is also the home to the world’s greatest collection of campy dinosaur museums, a fact that had Alby thinking of the Flintstone’s title sequence. There was also the badlands of Makoshika State Park. Makoshika is an Indian word for “stupid tourist never returns,” and weighing our comparison to that comment we did the adventurous thing and walked next door to the bar.

The place had everything you want in a dark and dingy cowtown saloon—a pool table and a jukebox loaded up with a fair mix of 80′s Old Wave music. We blew the dust off the jukebox and raised a toast or ten to the final week of production with the Talking Heads’ Psycho Killer blasting in the background.

Before arriving, the crew had lined up a flight with local pilot, Craig Stebbins, but the wind and clouds seemed like the perfect combination to make a small plane fall out of the sky. Still, we wanted to talk to the guy, so we met him out at the hangar/ancient biplane burial grounds.

As luck would have it, when we arrived, the clouds cleared and the wind went with them so we were out of excuses to remain rooted to terra firma. Shannon and Hunter drew the short straws, took the two seats inside while Mike filmed them as they took off.

The scenery was crazy spectacular—Makoshika with all the lost tourist skeletons littering the landscape (only kidding), the Yellowstone and the diversion dam at Intake. Craig was such a nice guy that he avoided stunt flying despite the fact that Shannon and Hunter had personal barf bags.

Every day on the Yellowstone starts the same way—with a coffee run and daily run-down of the water ahead. The town of Savage was the next stop and if the weather cooperated, the boats just might make it. We faced adversity from the diversion dam at Intake and expected to have to snake around for much of the trip, but Robert and Shannon were confident. We left under rockin’ skies and air so pure it gave you back your virginity.

Justin and Sarah ran head by road to scope out the diversion dam and to meet the crew should they need any portage assistance. Luckily, the fearless and totally capable captains were able to glide through the Intake diversion dam. High water and skillful navigation proved to be tougher than any diversion, and the boats were quickly back down the river.

With the crew floating again and questionable weather looming, the support crew in the vehicle moved on to Savage, lest it rain and some of the wet boaters seek refuge in the Jeep. Alby spent enough time napping in the raft that we thought about shellacing him to the bow like a hood ornament.

It didn’t take long for the wind to come up, and as the boats neared town the Jet Stream became the least of the boat crew’s concern. There’s nothing more fun than being on a major river through mountainous terrain, wrapping around a peak and seeing one of those “End of creation” skies. The team immediately went into “find land and pitch camp” mode, hoping to avoid the stinging beat down that was comin’ round the mountain when she comes.

The rains came as soon as the crew docked and the few members that opted for a second cup of morning Joe were able to set up tents. Those who hadn’t the time to pitch their tents before the storm squeezed in with the others for a group cowering, while Shannon called them all “petunias” as she hunkered down and kept with the raft.

The car crew took the changing elements on the chin of a sport’s bar, where they watched a NY Giants victory and toasted the hardcore campers with crunchy mini tacos. Payback came later at their campsite, which was basted in four inches of water, forcing the crew to sleep in the car.

It was eerily dark at the campsite, the kind of moonless night in the outdoors that makes you feel like there are eyes on you at all times. Time passed slowly, and I don’t think we got more than 10 hours of sleep in the car. All that rain had the ground muddy and the Jeep’s tires got a bit of a makeover as Sarah and Justin scouted possible interception points for the boats.

The crews reconvened at a pretty, rocky beach in Savage. It was still cold and cloudy, but the gang was in good spirits knowing there was hot food and coffee just a short walk away. At the only eatery in town we got a warm-up agate talk and a recipe for a cowpoke Red Eye from Linda, the bartender. She knew we were visiting The Agate Stop so she gave us a few pointers so we didn’t act like the average touron. We made fast friends with Linda, especially because our pretty, rocky beach was basically in her back yard, and because the guys private shower was in binocular view from her house.

After lunch, we met up with Tom at The Agate Stop. I know you’re thinking “someone holler geek!”, but the place was very cool and plastered with amazing patterns of rock. Over the course of the trip we’ve become addicted to those glowing hunks of mineral along the river beds.

We learned the background on agate formation and that we were at the end of the agate field in the river. We’d been stopping on a regular basis to hunt for them and the crew had bags of them stashed in the vehicle for “ballast.” Bags. Of. Rocks. Sounds crazy, but when you find one on the beach, hold it up to the light and see that glow…Sort of like a hunk of rock candy…It ain’t for eatin’ though, just for looking through.

That night, Shannon got her Pad Thai on for a home cooked dinner, while the rest of the gang set up tents, put together a fire and watched Robert fish. We hung out for a bit before returning to the bar for another few rounds of pool, fried carbs, and the only Interweb access in town.

We left Savage the following morning, convinced that they only call it that to scare people away so that the town’s people can enjoy it for themselves. We were bound for Sidney–the last big town before the confluence.

As we neared the end of our journey, the crew’s emotions were pinballing like an 18-year olds hormones. We had worked so hard to get to this point and frankly, we were ready to meet our goal. At the same time, everyone had bonded with the river, with each other and with Alby, who was a chick magnet and great wingman for the guys and potty privacy protector for the ladies.

It was going to be strange to take the boats out of the water after 30 days of watching them slip downstream, strap them to trailers and pile into the vehicles for the long ride home. We had one day left on the Yellowstone, and the sun screamed its excitement of the day ahead. Our elevation was regulating and the oars felt heavy in our hands.

We passed more buried cars and perhaps the last agate hunting beach where we brought in a haul and Robert showed his rock picking prowess. We also saw further evidence of just how much this river lives from season to season as a lift bridge, long since out of use for vehicles, displayed its lift halfway over land.

Hunter exclaimed that he could see Sidney, and pointed to a puffy white cloud in the distance. We laughed at him until we got closer and realized he’d seen a smoke stack.

We hit town running, and eventually found the M & M Café, home of the steakasaurus burger. We stayed long enough for pie and for the girls to use their charms to talk our waiter into gifting us some coffee for the next morning.

As we approached the camping area, it became obvious that we’d overshot the sunset, so with little light to spare, we set up on a muddy island. We learned a lot of lessons on the trip, not the least of which is to scout your camping area before dark settles in so you have not only a dry spot to put the tents and build a fire, but also enough wood around to make a fire. Lesson noted, we all hit the mud early.

It was no big deal, as we all knew we would rise early anyhow. It was the day we’d all been waiting for…we’d reach the Missouri river tomorrow.

Dawn ushered in a renewed attitude as everyone was ready to roll up camp and see the muddy beach behind us. We all stood on the boats and screamed, “Goodbye Yellowstone!”, something we should have probably waited until we’d covered the miles to celebrate.

All in all, our final day on the majestic Yellowstone River was quiet, peaceful, and hot. Good grief was it hot.

Mike had talked to a guy who said to be on the lookout for his property. He lived on the Yellowstone and said, ‘Just look for the seven llamas.’

The llamas were quite curious about our boats, and were more than happy to spit on the raft crew a bit more than the driftboat. We passed an endless litany of sandy beaches, each one a testament to the statement that agate hunting died out after Sidney.

The rowers had their work cut out for them. The sun beat on them and the Yellowstone River, once gushing and choppy, was now much more like a lake. A cool, glassy basin too lazy to be bothered with the recreation abilities of a raft.

Robert kept checking the map and calling over to Shannon so she could compare it to hers. We were close. Robert stopped for a few more casts. They wouldn’t be his last ever, but they would mark the last fishing stop on the journey.

We passed by a few islands, rounded a bend and heard boats in the distance long before we saw them. Western North Dakota was much like Eastern Montana as far as watercraft was concerned.

We hadn’t seen a raft or a driftboat in a long time. So long, in fact, that the people on this stretch of the river looked utterly confused at the sight of us. They’d always hooted and hollered obscenities when they learned where we’d put in. We never failed to laugh.

As we neared the other boats, the Yellowstone River stretched wide and fed into the Missouri River. We pushed across the confluence. Not to be outdone, North Dakota offered up its own serene sunset as we parked the boats, toasted to the water, toasted to our families, toasted to each other and ate some dry, stale toast. We’d made it.

The boats were loaded onto their trailers and we made camp one final time. Neighbors popped over for dessert, we stayed up late, well, maybe it was 10 or so.

Sleep came easily and we were rested and happy the following morning. Boats and cars were loaded. We piled in for the time warp home, driving through all the towns we passed along the way, reliving memories that, while so recent, felt so far away.

We were giddy as we pulled into Livingston. We shared a few more stories before the inevitable. It was time to go home. And just as we’d done so many nights before, we drifted off into the sunset the Yellowstone at our backs.

This week we made the run from Billings to Glendive during which we crossed paths with some crazy-ass stuff. There are days when I wonder if the banks of the Yellowstone are the Ancient Car Burial Ground, a place to determine whether cement is more permanent than water and concrete proof that greed begets destruction. Then we meet up with characters that throw that mentality out the window in a frenzied effort to hug every bunny in Montana.

We were running a bit behind schedule, so we spent our days blistering the oars and taking names. At times, it seemed we were moving so fast we didn’t have the chance to take in everything, which during the majestic sections seemed a bit irreverent. To compensate, we tipped a beer or ten to the river…daily.

Montana in late September can be a bitter, cruel and chilly environment. The Jet Stream can channel the first arctic blasts down through the Midwest, and the weather can dip below freezing at any moment. It can be a damp, cold slap in the face that makes you want to pull your sleeping bag over your head and wait to hear someone has the fire burning like a Christmas tree dump and the coffee sizzling like a pissed teenager. Montana in September can be an outdoor struggle for survival… except when it isn’t, and this was one of those years when sunny skies and an Indian Summer breathed down our necks like the breath of Hades.

Our skin got darker in the blistering sun and several of us developed our flip flop feet tans as we supported the stock price in Gatorade and were so tired that rocky beaches were no challenge as sleeping quarters. Even Robert, who’s usually happy as a clown after midnight became frustrated with the constant beat-down from the heat and solar-flared off one afternoon.

Along the way, we saw some amazing, freaky and understandably cool things. The skies were gorgeous and introduced the day with a vivid array of blues that led to the midday grumblings of “What’s a guy got to do to get a cloud?” We had killer sunsets and big moons for a few nights, encountered diversion after diversion during the days on the water, and eventually made it past  the shoreline rusty train museum, the “How Green is my Pasture?” frog gathering, and the sentinel of killer robots.

At Miles City, we intersected the Tongue River, perhaps named after one of Alby’s ancestors, since he has a tongue like an anteater and is constantly licking his eyebrows.  We pulled the boats ashore at a place where we could camp nearby, and headed for town.

While at Miles City, we met Roger Muggli a local conservationfarian and protector of the Tongue River. He’s a lifelong Montanan (think paleface) and loves it so much that he’s devoted his life to taking care of the land. Sometimes referred to as the busiest man in Montana, Roger was kind enough to take the gang out to a fish migration channel his efforts helped construct. Robert’s actions have helped bring the number of native fish species from five up to 49, so he’s like the mayor of the fishheads.

While at Miles City, we spent a lot of time at the Grenz family establishments–The Broadway for noshments and the 600 Bar the following morning for a cowboy breakfast (sans Redeyes). Three words: Miles City Rocks!

The next morning, we pushed off down the Tongue River and re-entered the Yellowstone for another day of zaniness. We hit up small town Terry and had a few meals at the Dizzy Diner where Rance, the owner, was so impressed with our adventure that he bought us breakfast! Heck of a guy…

We also stopped into Prairie Unique where Dale and Kathy restocked our supplies with great local Montana products including Dutch oven bread mixes, chocolates, and granola, so maybe we can fatten Robert up enough to fill out his clothes. We also spent time at the Evelyn Cameron museum where Lady Cameron’s prairie photography will make you appreciate central heat and air and running water.

From Terry it was a twelve beer and three fishing stop raft (about a day and a half) to Glendive where we’ve stopped for some rock hunting, more fishing, and much-needed sleep. Given the direction of the trip, I expect nothing less than a visit from the Twilight Zone in the days ahead.

We’re all fine here out on the river, although most of us were already delusional when we began the excursion. Internet is getting tougher to find, which has the geek component of our excursion a little twitchy and we’re starting to get confused about what day of the week it is, but so far no one is delirious.

We pulled into Reed Point on the evening of the 3^rd, and camped with some Simms Fishing buddies which gave Robert the opportunity to talk fish smack. This is Montana, where cowboys rise long before the sun, and work long, hard days, and in the spirit of the workingman, we were up at the crack of 11 .am to gather for the Sheep Drive.

Unfortunately, the cowboys arrived much earlier, so we missed the sheep shearing demonstration, much to the chagrin of the long hairs in the group. We were just in time to see the Cowboy Action performers, so if the morning Joe hadn’t gotten us going, the shotgun and six shooter blasts certainly did.

In Cowboy Action shooting a group of friends and family are dressed in period fashion (which isn’t that far from the normal Montana look), and partake in gunfights, fake robberies – basically anything gun-related that may have happened in the Old West with the exception of shooting someone in the back and stealing their girl. After the first show we hung out with some of the gunslingers and saloon hussies, and they shared the details and time consuming efforts that go into making their own blank cartridges and sewing costumes. Then there’s the weekly practice schedule (who’d a thunk it?).

Two of the big attractions at the Reed Point Sheep Drive were the auctions– one for artwork and relics, the other for log sawing teams. Robert and his buddy Mike actually placed in the log sawing event, which makes a good argument for the merits of strong coffee.

It was a hot one in Reed Point and near the end of the day, Hunter and Robert took a walk along the railroad tracks to capture their insights of the area. Each of these guys has a different take on Reed Point, something exhibited in the light and bugs and all sorts of other weird things they took images of.

The crew was hanging out and mellow until the colored lights strung above Main Street turned on, then it was “game on” for the R&R posse. Everyone basically danced and sang badly with the band, for which our karaoke license was permanently revoked by the music police. The Reed Point Sheep Drive was a blast, but we were burned out from the sun and endless activities.

The day after the Sheep Driver everyone was pretty worn out, and a significant segment of the group had a case of the beer flu so we made it an easy day. We stopped in Columbus that night to stay with Shannon’s buddy, John whose family has a great cabin off the Stillwater. It all kind of went downhill from there with John Deere Gator drag races and drift boat circle rowing competitions.

We ran into some friends of friends who let us crash their Labor Day party, and then park our boats at their place before heading over to John’s place. By the time we go to John’s, everyone was feeling the effects of partying in the sun, so the mood went crashing like a falling tree and we all decided to make it an evening of burgers and an early night. Colds/allergies/sun stroke/burst eyeball capillaries had taken over some of the crew, so we thought it best to tone things down and get as much rest as possible.

That was what we needed, as the next day had an entirely fresh vibe and energy. From Columbus, we drifted on to Park City, which was new territory for everyone on the crew.

The scenery was beyond spectacular and the fishing epic, so we hung at the bank of Tia and Fritzie—the Park City sisters.

From Laurel to Billings things changed, as the river went from scenic vistas to urban sprawl. Billings is a big city in Montana with its own dog-eat-dog mentality. Alby was smart enough to lay low here.

We were in the splooge of the Exxon Mobil oil spill that occurred earlier in the summer while the vista proffered cement towers stretching to the sky and factories abutting  majestic bluffs. It must have been a slow news day, as local news anchor Angela Douglas wanted to float with us for a while, which had the boys in the crew drooling like dog-eating-dogs.

We even spent some time with Senator Lynda Moss, who clued us in on work with the Yellowstone Heritage Partnership, the general health of the river, and the benefits of cultural (as opposed to drunken college road trip) tourism.

We camped on a creepy island near a factory that looked like it specialized in coal production. The entire time, we were expecting the arrival of Shaggy, Scooby, Freddie and the rest of the Mystery Crew.

Throughout the night we kept hearing splashing sounds that were either jumping fish or the Goat Killer of Coal Point wading up to kill us all. Earlier in the day the crew noticed several groups of permanent campers (re: homeless) nearby, and some of us worried that our boats and provision might turn into donations during the night. When morning came it was obvious that the urban surroundings had played on our small town prejudices, and we all said an obligatory Rere-Rorry Ruys.

Cities have been tough to digest during the trip. While it’s nice to have modern conveniences like Internet access, Monday Night Football and curbside pedicures, we also feel the stress of those environments and the entire crew was ready to get make like a tree and leave Billings.

Exiting Billings began with a shot of excitement. Since Laurel, we’d continuously run into the Exxon clean-up crew, who always skeptical of anyone holding a video or still camera were alternately waving to us, grabbing their radios when we floated by, and just generally appearing to be providing intel on our whereabouts to Big Brother. As we floated away from Creep-Out island, a pair of jet boats (all the boats wave huge American flags–just like the goat killer) revved up their engines and starting speeding towards us.

An alarm sounded at the factory, and we all got ready for a take-down and gratuitous strip search. As quickly as the boats had run in our direction, they stopped and turned back up-river, sending a wake that kept our boats rocking for several minutes. Whatever was going on, we weren’t a part of it, that or they obviously felt the power of the shoulder camera armed techno geek.

The rest of the day just rocked (figuratively) as we floated through parts of the Yellowstone that usually go unseen. The river was low and these massive bluffs loomed above us and many of the rocks looked as though they’d been painted long ago.

If you inhaled and exhaled rapidly for two or three minutes, you’d get delusional enough to see faces carved in the rocks to watch over the river. At water level, the river itself had cut into the rock, leaving shady undercuts that bred the bright green moss that will keep any graffiti artists slip sliding away down river forever.

We pulled onto a camp called Voyager’s Rest, and Roberts was like, “oh great, Trekkies,” but we didn’t see one Klingon or anything that even looked like an alien. Once again, the sunset kept us gazing into the sky until only the moon, growing fuller every day, lit the paths to our tents.

We’ve had another busy week on the Yellowstone. Moving camps after long days on the water place a high value to a hot cup of coffee.

The crew pulled into Livingston, Montana late Saturday, August 27. We’d met a woman from 9th St. Island at the Trout Headwaters party who offered to hold our boats while we were in town. Robert and John needed to stock up on flies, and the rest of us just wanted to experience a real, sit-on-top and private toilet.

Margot A. is a longtime 9th Street Island resident, fly fisherperson, and one of those incredibly generous people who see something they like and then welcome it with open arms. She hosted the crew on Sunday morning and then spent the day in Robert’s driftboat all giddy and laughing like a 10-year old. She caught her first fish in four years, and it would take another four years to build a bridge across the smile on her face afterwards.

We’re just travelers in time on the Yellowstone, but Margot lives and breathes the lifestyle, so it was refreshing to get her take on the mighty river. Her late-husband (they would’ve celebrated 61 years together that weekend) was a champion fly fisherman and the two were conjoined with the water.

That same day, Sonja, our Online Content Assistant came out for a bit of rafting, one of the fringe benefits of the expedition. It was good for Sonja to get away from the monitor, and see what the “Outsiders” do firsthand. Plus, those glowing legs needed some sunshine.

Our time in Livingston, felt odd compared to our time spent on beaches in the center of the Yellowstone. We were back in town and around cars, stores, backyards to camp in, running toilets and errands to run. Everyone fell right back into their normal techno-geek lifestyles.

Livingston is a funky little town, and it has some interesting characters like a street artist we hung out with. While in town, the crew decided to forgo the freeze dried diner and opted for  pizza night at the Murray Bar, your typical Montana hotel, bar, café and pizza joint.

The gang set out for Springdale, on Monday, August 29 and stopped for some fishing and general leg stretching. Alby offered to help by chasing every cast into the water and absconding with our lunches.

While in Livingston, Shannon procured the elements to cook a veggie stir-fry, which had all the gang thinking we’d at least be able to survive and maintain our normal weights if Robert were to break his leg and we had to depend on the rest of the guys for fish.

There was a storm looming on the horizon, and everyone in camp prepared for the sand blasting that never came but was for told by a brilliant lightning show. The rain was sparse and the lightning was distant, so we set up cameras, lounged in the raft like rubber lizards and enjoyed the display.

We left Springdale at the crack of 10 a.m., and decided to stop on an island for lunch around 2:30 where Hunter took a few shots of the riverbed using our new SPL Canon 7d Waterhousing unit. It’s always a bit tense submerging your best camera, but we’ve had great luck with the model we bought. Robert went fishing, of course, while Alby ate his lunch.

We were on this rocky riverbed and Alby got tired of stone jumping and just picked a spot to take a nap. We’re still not sure how he managed to make a rock pillow look comfortable.

The day was windy and cold with intermittent rain, but fun  when you’re rafting for profit. We stopped at another island closer to the put-in where we’d meet Trout Headquarters Inc., in the morning and camped for the night.

It rained again, which has everyone thinking Shannon might have a storm magnet buried somewhere under her skin. We did see a spectacular rainbow and while searching for gold found some cool rocks. Now everyone’s on the hunt for agates. There are so many great rocks and bits of petrified wood that our pockets are starting to get heavy and we might actually sink if one of us goes overboard.

In the morning we met up with the Trout Headwaters Inc. Research team at Grey Owl where the sign/9mm target let us know we’d have an 8.3 mile raft down to Big Timber. There was a half dog/half no-necked cage fighter roaming the shores that the crew was worried about. We tried to leave him behind in case he lived nearby, but two miles downriver we saw him running along the bank. He jumped in the water and swam for it, so we had no choice but to pull him onboard. Hopefully, he wasn’t planning on eating us.

An hour after arriving in Big Timber, our little doggie was rescued. Rocky was a ranch dog who lived near Grey Owl, and his owner had been depressed for two days because he thought his dog was grizzly or wolf food.

All of us liked the little guy and were sad to see him go, except for Alby, who finally moved from his seat on top of the food stash. The rancher was stoked as hell to see his dog again.

We camped a little farther downstream and were treated to yet another captivating sunset that reminded us that Montana outdoors during the summer is a first class work environment. Dawn brought a soft frost, and everything we’d set out to dry from the day before was covered in a tiny little icicles.

Using human ingenuity and sunlight strategy, the gang drug the tents to a sunny spot then hung our socks and waders on a fence post just to let any vandals know the woolfoot tribe was in town. Adding to the amenities was this odd haze where the water just hung on the air like smoke drifting with the wind. It was freaky/cool/mysterioso.

Justin walked out into a field to say good morning to pet the cows. He was pleased at how still they stood, as the day before they literally jumped over each other trying to flee from his camera. We suspect cow-tippers have been afoot lately, and the bovine population is on full alert for drunken college kids.

The day turned warm and the crew floated, fished and communed with nature, that is, until we crossed paths with a speed boat on the Yellowstone–the first of many more to come. Farther east on the river motorized vehicles become more common, as do shirtless men on steroids trying to look cool. We’re also starting to see the first bastions of civilization–an irrigation pump–the first one we’d seen since we put in.

We said good-bye to THI that afternoon and camped early that night. Shannon’s buddy, John, arrived with freshly iced adult beverages and was immediately invited to camp with us for the night.

The next day, as we drifted slowly toward Reed Point, John, his brother Pat and nephew Teagan, fished with the crew for a few hours. It didn’t take long for us to realize how pitiful our fishing skills were as John’s nephew completely housed the local trout population.

We’ve arrived at Reed Point, Montana in time for the annul sheep drive. We set up camp and are waiting anxiously for Sunday’s festivities. Alby’s anxiously awaiting the arrival of the female sheep dogs.

After a minor hold-up and some serious prevision stocking and personality searching, the crew caravanned from Livingston, to Gardiner, on Monday evening, August 22, where we set up camp at River Source Rafting along Hwy 89. It took no time to get the tents up and the campground laid-out with the help of the crew from River Source and 24 frosty soldiers willing to inspire the efforts.

On Tuesday morning, August 23, the crew had breakfast at a little place in Gardiner for some informal bonding and meal content pitching. There’s basically two trains of thought here: hot, greasy, hearty food with lots of meat, eggs and other assorted proteins; and the dry, healthy cereal camp. For the second meal in a row, half the table ordered the same meal, in this case, bacon/egg/cheese breakfast sandwiches, leaving the open artery camp scrambling to hide granola bars in their backpacks.

After breakfast we did some last minute shopping for essentials like toothpaste, glitter, sling shots and rock candy, then found a bench to conduct a pre-launch safety meeting. Shannon worked as a rafting guide for years, and she had tips for how to stay alive (as well as in the boat), along with survival options should you go for an unplanned swim or ten. The first leg of the trip contains some nasty water just prior to a section known as Yankee Jim–A spot where the wind whistles the theme song from Deliverance, and many a drift boat have been lost.

Since we’ve never run a river as a group, we opted to drop the boats in that afternoon for a pre-trip float and order barking session down to our campsite at River Source. We would camp there again that night, before sending the team out to face Yankee Jim and the yellow boulders of death the next day.

Yankee Jim had been the hot topic of everyone we encountered that looked adventuresome and lacking the general common sense survival skills of a three-year old. Gardiner, Montana is home to several rafting companies that fill their boats every day with helmeted tourons united in conquering the Yellowstone’s rapids. One of the big comments was about how rough the water is and how difficult that makes it to retain possession of the raft, paddles and everyone on board while at the same time shooting a still photo for posterity purposes. The crew took that as a personal challenge, and an opportunity to show everyone that Yankee Jim was a lightweight compared to Chicken Mike and the carnivore crew.

The team made it out unscathed, soaked and smiling, with Robert and Hunter both commending Shannon on her rafting skills. Shannon, in turn, gave credit to her passengers for being helpful by not falling overboard or throwing up.

With Yankee Jim crossed off the list, the crew had a little down time. Some chose to recheck their gear, some took care of daily production and mechanical maintenance. Robert went fishing.

It’s becoming increasingly obvious that Robert has gills and webbed feet, and by now everyone knows if he’s not in the boat, he’s hip-deep in the river with a fly rod. That’s brought out the hunter/gatherer instinct in John and Hunter, who have been hanging around Robert asking questions and trying to glom their way into a little hands-on instruction.

On Wednesday, we made our way to a little island and set up camp then were treated to the humor of watching the camera crew run around screaming like girls as they raced to cover their gear when the rain swept in. We spent most of the evening hunting for agates, petrified wood and the overlooked gold nugget, then ate dinner, built a fire and told lies until we ran out of adult beverages and were straining to keep our eyes open. Then it was off to the Green Room–the bright green Nemo tents that will be our homes for the next 30 days

We woke early on Thursday morning, August 24, and made a quick omnivorous breakfast before packing up the boats. Our plan was to arrive like aristocrats in Emigrant, Montana in time for lunch at Old Saloon, a place known for their heart-clogging Saloon Burgers and mind-numbing Bloody Mary’s.

Our schedule allowed for a slow day, so after our late bree-tloody Mary lunch we loaded up and floated about 45 minutes or so until we found another island with a sandy beach that looked perfect for the evening campground. Along with open, sandy section of the island was a small area of vegetation that would make a perfect latrine/mosquitoes swarming locale.

The boats were unloaded, tents pitched and kitchen established, then Shannon cleaned the sand off the raft while the others took photos and fished before dinner. As everyone kind of hung out and got into their different geeky mindsets, no one seemed to notice the clouds gathering into one low-lying frontal back that in theory could be the purveyor of the second ice age.

When the clouds finally shut off the sun, everyone finally realized that a serious storm was about to play rafter pinball with our expedition. Everyone got into their rain suits and braced for torrential downpours. Instead of rain, the wind came up.

You’ve never lived until you’ve been on a sand-based island in the middle of a major river during a serious wind storm. All you can do is hold onto your tents, trying to keep your sunglasses tight around our eyes and pray your clothing has a sandblasting Pressure Finish (SPF) rating of 30 or more. After a while, some of the team moved their tents to the center of the island where what few bushes were there to help block the wind were now devoid of all flying life, whether insect or small birds. The main production tent housed heavy items, and remained in the path of the sandstorm.

When the winds died, a few raindrops fell, but nothing to deter us from returning to our tasks. Robert, of course, returned to fishing after cleaning the fine sand out of his fly box. The rest of us realized that the fine, river sand was everywhere! In your ears, all over our gear, coating the tents and gathering in small clumps in the bottom of our underwear. It took hours for before everyone felt like they and their gear were clean. Robert caught a bunch of fish, washed the sand off his body in the river, and generally didn’t feel the least bit inconvenienced by what the of the crew deemed “The Sand Storm of the Century.”

The following morning we were greeted by bright sunshine, warm temperatures, breakfast burritos and a fishing clinic hosted by Robert, who felt compelled to have someone else in the group that in theory could at least cast to fish. This was Roberts survival strategy, a plan to prevent the team from eating him in case he broke a leg or became otherwise incapacitated during the trip.

Mike put his camera down for a bit to try his hand at casting, and being raised in Montana, brought up on fly fishing it became obvious that we weren’t going to become cannibals. The raft crew had to shove off a bit early to meet some commitments on land, but the drift boat gang stayed behind to fish and make fun of the Sandy Pants gang.

Shannon carried the other half of the crew for another 45 minute raft cruise through the blistering Montana August heat. You don’t realize how hot it can get in Montana until you’re in a windless canyon drifting in calm water with sun beating down. For a while, it sounded like bacon sizzling in a pan, until the crew jumped in to cool off and got the sunscreen out.

That afternoon, the crew picked up de-watering expert, Chris Corbin, and he took a seat in the drift boat for an afternoon of fishing and discussions on how to dehydrate and rehydrate everything from beef jerky to Fruit Loops. Actually, the gist of the conversation entailed the importance of caring for our waterways. The Lucky Charms or Fruit Loops conversation didn’t take place until we’d gotten the important business out of the way.

Later, the boats sailed in to Yellowstone Valley Lodge, where Trout Headwaters Inc., had set up a party for the film crew. The Paradise Valley Grill catered an incredible meal that had the crew talking about sending John back to culinary school.