Taming the Snake: Nothing is Better Than Nature’s Rollercoaster

Travels with Wally and Company: The Westward Excursion: 1988

Day 10: July 2, 1988 Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming

Even though The Mom woke up early on Saturday, she had difficulty making me move. Why get up early? Did we have anywhere to be until 11:45? Couldn’t I catch up on much-needed beauty sleep? And wasn’t it impolite to leave an attractive Swedish blonde midway through a dream?

But by 8:30, collapsing on a damp lounge chair, I noticed, after several minutes, that the Wyoming day was clear, bright, and warm — perfect weather for rafting the Snake River.

Rubbing the bristles on my cheek, I snarled, knowing a shave was needed. My whiskers are like razors. I hate shaving, I thought to myself, walking to the bathhouse. But I avoided the pay showers and the hassle by turning on a water spigot outside, sticking my head underneath the frigid water, and then shaking my hair violently like a dog.

Talk about eye-opening!

Dave sat outside reading. Noelle was inside with a hairbrush and a can or two of hairspray. The Mom was busy fixing breakfast and cleaning the camper.

The Dave Hansen Rafting passengers gathered in front of a wildlife museum and taxidermist in Jackson. A bus would take us a half-hour south for the rapids — where urbane Dr. Snake turns into the monstrous Mr. Snake.

The town of Jackson surprised me with its size and crowds. It was the hub of tourism in the Grand Tetons — winter and summer fun. The town’s population hovered around 4,500.

The main drag of Jackson featured quaint store after store, lining each side, selling everything from Izod, sports equipment, and women’s lingerie. Traffic was heavy. The streets were narrow. We had trouble finding the meet-up location. We asked people on the street, but they were all tourists as well.

The Mom bought a few things at a drugstore and bought us ice cream cones. The place also served as a pizza shack. Only one attractive young lady was working.

How long had it been since I rode a school bus? The seats had torn green vinyl, coarse black rubber, protecting the floor, and of course, windows that never worked properly.

We were excited and anxious. We brought extra clothing for the return trip. Getting soaked to the underwear was all part of The Experience.

There were two dozen on the bus, excluding the comical young bus driver. Most were families. Some couples. And true, may I say, ‘hicksters’ squatting in the back who appeared to have just walked off the set of Deliverance. Some were missing teeth. Others had scrunched noses, and a deep, backwoods accent. They mumbled vocabulary that may have been English. They wore plaid shirts and, of course, the signature Mac hats — situated various ways upon what appeared to be a human head and hair which may not have ever been washed.

Hey, who am I to complain about washing?

I had this terrible fear — a fear I’ve had since watching that disturbing Burt Reynolds film at too young of an age. One would come up to me, later, and say, “Come on, squeal like a pig!”

We waited for the river guides and rafts

We were then divided into two groups of twelve — each equipped with a life jacket and an oar. Our guide introduced himself as “Stewart.”

Noelle liked him because he was cute and had “a nice tush.” I was glad that the “hick” group was in the other raft. Stewart gave instructions before setting out in the large army raft.

“Would anyone mind sitting in the front with the most action?” he asked.

I quickly stepped forward, in Wally Chapstick fashion, and offered my humble services. Dave sat next to me. The Mom and Noelle sat in the rear next to Stewart because “he had a nice tush.”

He was in command of the steering and served as the rudder.

Once on the river, we introduced ourselves. Stewart showed us rowing techniques and several safety precautions.

The trip started slowly. Calm water. But then we encountered several small pockets of white water. I mean, we got drenched. The water was freezing, but very clean and clear. We maneuvered between boulders and shallow regions where sharp rocks projected from the bottom of the river. We bypassed several whirlpools, which sprang up occasionally, but mostly the river ran quickly — only minor rowing was needed.

The river was raging, but it was not up to its normal height and force — only 5500 ml of water every second. Rafter terms.

The air was refreshing. The scenery along the banks, of course — primitive— the river had forged a steep gorge, but not so steep that growth could not take root. Towering evergreens populated the banks. Every twist and turn of the Snake posed a new view.

I was cold. My clothes were soaked. A sharp mountain chill didn’t help. The July sun provided no comfort with the Snake mostly rumbling through shade from the steep banks and evergreens.

Occasionally, we would hit a long, sunspot — and oh what a feeling!

We had not yet encountered the “granddaddies of white water.” I wanted more action. More thrills. More chills.

In the middle section of the journey, the force of the river grew. We hit a few hotspots where the water splashed over the bow and blanketed the raft with water. A glance back saw Noelle and The Mom smiling brightly, enjoying the tush, I mean, the trip.

“Dave, how are you doing?”

He replied just fine. We sat on the left side of the raft on the outer tubing — dead front for whatever action took place. Then came the real rapids, the Big Kahuna — straight into the heart of darkness. Off in the distance spray rose from the churning water. The vicious sound made it seem that we were approaching death.

The river tightened between two large boulders, sending the rapids through a slender chasm. We hit the rapids head-on, but I held my position and continued to dig in the water. Dave collapsed and fell inside the raft, and then water poured over him as he tried to regain his footing.

Noelle screamed, and The Mom laughed with joy. The water turned back to its original blue-green color and the force of the rapids propelled us further down the river.

The river grew calm and placid.

“Would anyone like to take a swim?” Stewart asked. “Here’s the place to do it.”

So in Beatles fashion, I turned off my mind, relaxed, fell overboard, and flowed downstream. We kept pace with the raft. We were floating quickly away, and we heard more rapids, so Stewart picked us up. We looked like Blue Meanies from The Yellow Submarine. We were so cold. We were blue and uncomfortably numb.

We then hit even more rapids, even bigger than the previous ones. Stewart shouted more rowing maneuvers in order to catch each rapid straight on. I loved the feeling of losing one’s stomach, plunging over the edge into the white water.

When would be our trip to the Colorado River, I wondered? One day, perhaps!

The trip lasted two hours. A splendid time had been guaranteed for all, and The Snake River did not let us down. We said our goodbyes to the guide and his tush. At Dave Hanson headquarters we changed into dry clothing and then ate Sloppy Joe’s, potato chips, and Kool-Aid — all part of the experience. Although the meal was good, it only semi-filled my hunger.

At the campground, I fell asleep immediately

An hour later, The Mom woke us up and said she wasn’t planning on making dinner since we already had a light early dinner. I complained. I even offered to prepare dinner. So we ended up eating Herb and Butter Rice-A-Roni and Spam Spam Spam, string beans, and Spam Spam Spam Spam and Spam.

With a side of Spam.

Later that evening, the family possessed an interest in those beloved beavers once again. The Mom was tired and Noelle decided to stay back at the camper and play cards. The Mom drove us to the trail.

“I’ll be back to pick you up shortly before sunset,” she said. “9:30.”

She also asked for firewood. So Dave and I headed out once again. The pond was only a mile and a half away. The path was well marked and level. We quietly walked around the banks to the place where David had spotted the beavers. At the end of the drought-stricken lake, we saw a beaver lodge, but still no beavers.

With his binoculars, Dave scoured the lake for his friends. We sat on a friendly log and spent most of the time killing ruthless mosquitoes and swarms of gnats. Dave handed me the binoculars. Soon afterward, I spotted movement underneath the green blanket of lilypads — a brown object stuck his head above the water. It waddled to the shore.

Beavers!

Dave grabbed the binoculars. I was surprised to find how large they were. We remained there observing beaver behavior for forty-five minutes. Such behavior captivated Dave. I took a few pictures.

It was getting late. The Mom would be waiting for us. Along the way, we picked up firewood. Both of us had armfuls of wood. The hike back took longer than expected, but The Mom was nowhere.

For ten minutes, we searched the parking lot. Her truckster headlights flashed. She said we were late. What? She said she waited half an hour. What? The Mom said we got too much wood. What?

That night we had a huge fire

Now it was 10:30. The sky was death dark, but the fire soon caught. The light illuminated us in lounge chairs like heathens in the woods. We enjoyed the warmth and comfort of the fire. I cracked open a beer I bought legally at 19 in Wyoming, brought out the guitar, and sang a few favorites — “The House of the Rising Sun,” “Hotel California,” “Yesterday,” “Mrs. Robinson,” and “The Pigeon Song (Don’t Shit on Me)” — a song from my Uncle Ron.

The catchy chorus goes:

“I said don’t shit on me ’cause I still want to see Don’t wanna go blind — so pleasssssse — don’t shit on me.”

In my bed, the night now silent, a sudden river of words swirled and eddied around my head. I fumbled for a scrap of paper and wrote down words so I wouldn’t forget. Let it be known. I want to become a writer. Maybe not the likes of Byron, Keats, or Shelley, but, nonetheless, a writer.

More adventures coming! Look for these stories on The Masterpiece:

• Day 1: Travels with Wally Chapstick and Company
• Day 2: The Traveling Blues Ends with Talentless Bums
• Day 3: The Magicless Normalcy of The Corn Palace, and Other Notables from Iowa
• Day 4: Thousands of Stars Interrupt ‘Rocky’ in The Black Hills of South Dakota
• Day 5: The Wonders of Childhood Rediscovered on a Mountain Hike
• Day 6: When Storm Clouds Turn Into The Big Horn Mountains
• Day 7: Savory Sulfur — the Armpit Incense of an Earth Intense
• Day 8: Le Grand Tour of Parc de Yellowstone
• Day 9: Hiking for Teton Beavers or Writing Twenty Pages?