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Michael P. Ramirez

Daily Cartoon

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Cowboy State Daily is Wyoming’s largest newspaper with Wyoming’s most experienced journalists. 

<title>Daily Cartoon: Saturday, May 11, 2024 | Cowboy State Daily</title>

Daily Cartoon: Saturday, May 11, 2024

Headshot of Cowboy State Daily's business and tourism reporter, Renée Jean

Renée Jean

Wyoming Life

On a hot July afternoon at Frontier Park, two brothers sit side by side sharing a drink and decades of memories.

The Brewster brothers, John and Bill, are among Cheyenne Frontier Days longest-serving volunteers, starting in 1962 and 1959 — if you don’t count the years when they helped their dad, who was Indian Chairman at the time, 

“You remember dad on those Indian trips?” Bill asks with a chuckle.

“That doesn’t count,” John says, shaking his head. 

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"“When was that? ’51 to?” Bill says."}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"“It was ’50 to ’52,” John replies."}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"Or maybe it was until 1953, Bill suggests."}]

They decide John has volunteered 64 years, while Bill has 70 years in all. That’s 134 years between them — longer than Cheyenne Frontier Days has been around.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"They laugh, as if at an inside joke. "}]

The math all done, time has a way of blurring together, the Brewster brothers told Cowboy State Daily with a laugh and a shrug. 

It’s been a time that’s full of story and family. 

“Do you remember when those cowboys from the ranch used to come by?” Bill asked John. “They were all World War I veterans. They’d come by and drink a little whiskey and smoke cigarettes in the living room, and some of them still rolled their own. You know just being around cow people is … I’ve been a cowboy all my life.“

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"“Me, not so much,” John interjected."}]

“That’s OK,” Bill said with a chuckle. “I’ve got a picture of you on a horse. Saw it the other day.”

It’s proof, if nothing else, that John belongs the same way Bill belongs, in Cheyenne Frontier Days' unofficial pop-up city of volunteers, doing all the unsung jobs that keep this historic event rolling smoothly along.

For all the flashy cowboys, arena lights and concerts, it’s volunteers like the Brewster brothers who have become the real soul of Cheyenne Frontier Days, and not just for the work they do. It’s the stories they carry inside their heads. 

They are a living archive of ranch hands, rodeo legends, and family moments that range from World War I cowboys to Indian trips with the likes of Princess Blue Water. 

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Fighting Custer"}]

“I’ve got to tell the story about Dad bringing the Indians down,” John said with a chuckle.

Bill nodded his head to say, “Yes, please do,” and his eyes had a twinkle.

“Dad was Indian Sheriff, and they used to bring the Indians down in open trucks from Pine Ridge,” John said.

“They were just bobtail cattle trucks,” Bill added with a laugh.

“There were two who would ride with my father in a car,” John said. “They were Princess Blue Water, Rose Ecoffey and Joseph High Eagle. He was the last surviving combatant in the Custer massacre. He was 15 when he fought Custer.”

High Eagle would often try, in a mixture of sign language and Oglala Sioux, to tell the Brewster brothers’ dad about the fight.

“Rosie’s in the middle,” John said. “And Dad’s driving.”

“No, no,” Bill said. “I’m sitting right behind High Eagle, and she’s sitting right next to me in the back seat. And he starts in with sign language, and maybe Oglala too, talking about the Custer massacre, trying to tell my dad about it.”

Except, he claims that the Indians just had arrows, which the Brewster brothers believe to be false.

“They had rifles better than we had,” Bill said. “They had all Winchesters and we had our Henrys. We had single shots.”

The conversation at the time was making their dad uncomfortable, John recalled. 

“Dad kind of gave this look, like, ‘Really?’ ” John said with a chuckle. “And Rose said, ‘You’re safe. He likes you.’”

Ecoffey was an amazing woman, Bill added. “She was blind in one eye,” he said.

John and Bill have both personally heard her tell the story of how she came to slap the Prince of Wales. 

Blue Water was 7 years old, according to family legends, and told Queen Victoria her people would bow to no one.

“She told us they had been introduced at the court of Queen Victoria, and she said, 'I only bow to the president,’” John said. “And Edward the Eighth was standing there and he laughed.”

Ecoffey had thought he was laughing at her in that moment.

“So she slapped him, and he laughed all the harder,” John said. “And she said, ‘When we got back to the hotel, let me tell you what my father did to me!' She got into trouble for that.”

Ecoffey frequently visited the Brewster family whenever she was in town.

“She and my mother were great friends,” Bill said, wrapping one finger around another. “They were close. They’d come to the house and they’d bring a couple cartons of cigarettes and sit around the garden to smoke. They’d all be in costume.”

Bill still has a photo of Princess Blue Water sitting in the garden with other members of the tribe such as Charlie Red Cloud, Frank Afraid of Horse and Levi Sitting Hawk.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"It’s A Family Tradition"}]

Stories like that might not show up in a rodeo program, but they’re part of the living memory Cheyenne Frontier Days’ longtime volunteers have built around the event in the process of volunteering year-in, year-out.

For people like the Brewster brothers, Cheyenne Frontier Days isn’t just another event on the calendar. It’s the main event.

Pulling on a pair of cowboy boots and slapping on a cowboy hat to help run the rodeo in Cheyenne was simply what you did in the summer when you lived in Cheyenne — for generations running.

“It’s just part of life,” John said. “It’s part of summer. As far back as I remember, our mother was a member of a ranch family and our grandfather was on the Frontier Days parade in the '20s, so it’s family here, it really is.”

“Our dad rode a caisson in the arena here with the Black Horse Battery,” Bill said. “That was a wagon behind the horses and attached to that was a cannon.”

Over the years, the Brewster brothers have quietly done just about every job a volunteer can do. Bill started out driving parade wagons and later shifted to the carriage ranks, then worked around the chutes, and even recited the Cowboys’ Prayer on the last Saturday of Frontier Days.

“That’s on the final Saturday,” John said. “The rodeo stops. They read all the names of the volunteers, cowboys, anybody involved with ranching that has passed away, and then they recite the Cowboys’ Prayer, and Bill would do that.”

“I’m only the fifth guy who ever did it,” Bill added. “Well, there’ve been a couple in between. I’m not going to be doing it this year, I’ll do it again next year.”

John spent time doing the “car count” in the early 1960s, tallying up license plates by state so the announcer could tell the crowd how many people had come from which state. Then he moved into parades and contract acts, helping juggle wagons, floats, queens, VIPs and the Grand Entry. 

These days, he hammers out the entire parade lineup, and he’s the guy behind the 10-gauge blank cannon that booms to officially start the parade.

Between them, they’ve stitched together a lifetime of jobs that rarely make headlines, but are still essential to keeping the Daddy of ‘em All on track. To them, it’s just another summer in Cheyenne, but it means the world to an event that’s celebrating 130 years of rodeo. 

John and Bill Brewster 20260721 131233 7 23 26

<title>The Brewster Brothers: 134 Years Of Cheyenne Frontier Days In Two Cowboy Hats | Cowboy State Daily</title>

Cheyenne Frontier Days has 2,700 volunteers, many of them multigenerational. Among them are the Brewster brothers, who have 134 years of volunteering between them. "Our grandfather was on the Frontier Days parade in the '20s, so it’s family here.”

The Brewster Brothers: 134 Years Of Cheyenne Frontier Days In Two Cowboy Hats

Leo Wolfson

Entertainment

There are lots of rappers with grills — chrome, gold or diamond-encrusted jewelry that fit over one’s normal teeth — but it’s unlikely anybody flashes a Western grill like Wyoming native and country rap artist Ryan Charles. 

In true cowboy style, Charles has a grill made of turquoise stones, a popular marker within Western music culture and jewelry. 

For the country rapper from Buffalo, it’s a perfect representation of the hybrid persona he carries in fusing country with hip-hop into what’s known as “country rap.” 

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"The Country Rapper"}]

, has seen his stock as an artist grow exponentially in recent years. He now has a social media following of a few hundred thousand and receives an average of 391,388 monthly plays on the Spotify streaming platform. 

Last December, he released his first album as a record label-signed artist, the self-titled “Jiggy Buckaroo.” 

Charles views his Jiggy Buckaroo persona almost as his alter-ego: a high-energy, Western rascal with a twang in his voice and a constant readiness for a good time.

What really makes Charles stand out is ability to blend hip-hop with country, a pioneer within the growing country rap genre. Charles blends a style of lyricism more likely to be found in a classic country song yet raps his lyrics over a more traditional hip-hop-style beat.

“That’s the fun part. Some days it feels like we’re making more of a country song and some days it feels like we’re making more of a rap song,” Charles said.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Painting A Wyoming Picture"}]

To get a picture of country rap, consider some of Charles’ lyrics in his song “Duffy’s Bluff,” the title a reference to a well-known, since-closed restaurant in Buffalo. The lines are dripping with Wyoming culture and soul, and a few hunting references.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"italic"}],"text":"Country rappers acting like some broads"}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"italic"}],"text":"Mind your beeswax"}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"italic"}],"text":"Like some tree cats"}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"italic"}],"text":"Interior camouflage"}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"italic"}],"text":"750 on the stones"}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"italic"}],"text":"Snakes come with holes"}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"italic"}],"text":"Where I put my feet at"}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"italic"}],"text":"Than be around y'all"}]

As much as he’s honed his stage presence over the years, Charles said he’s constantly tweaking his style and delivery to maximize his creative output.

In his song “Ten Sleep,” Jiggy Buckaroo raps about driving the scenic route between Buffalo and Ten Sleep over the Big Horn Mountains, spotting countless elk and big horn sheep along the way.

Later on in the song, still deep in his cowboy outlaw braggadocio, he raps about watching every episode of the hit TV show “Gunsmoke” while growing up. 

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"A Different Kind of Outlaw"}]

In the 1800s, Buffalo was a town of Wild West outlaws, home to the Johnson County War and not far from the notorious Hole-in-the-Wall hideout. 

Charles said there were a few people he grew up with there who didn’t understand why he started pursuing rapping and a hip-hop career, a stark contrast from the country music culture they grew up in. 

Now, those same people and their children play his music. 

[{"type":"text","text":"“It was kind of a full circle moment,” he said."}]

After high school, Charles received a formal audio engineering education in Seattle and started to lay the foundation for his music career. Upon graduating, he moved back to Wyoming to work in the oil fields, but the music bug wouldn’t stop biting.

Charles decided to follow in the footsteps of countless other aspiring country music artists by moving to Nashville to pursue his professional music career. 

He draws a comparison between his decision to move to the southern city and making a career in an industry where no script exists for becoming successful beyond “going with the flow” and taking opportunities as they come, Charles said.

Even though the city isn’t a hotbed for hip-hop, Charles said Nashville has been the perfect home base for him. 

Surrounded by an incredible amount of country music talent, Charles said it's helped him rekindle his love for the genre he had growing up and hone his own song writing pedigree. 

It’s also where he landed his first record deal.

, which aired on NBC, reaching the semifinals. 

It was there that he met and spent time with hip-hop legend Snoop Dogg, who hosted the TV show. The two built a relationship and Snoop invited Charles backstage when he came to Nashville to do a show. 

Charles has also opened for hip-hop stars Nelly and Wiz Khalifa.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Wyoming True"}]

Despite moving away and experiencing a little success, Charles is still a Wyoming boy through and through, hanging a large Wyoming flag from the wall of his home recording studio in Nashville.

He’s also good friends with Wyoming country music star Ian Munsick, who he considers a personal inspiration for his gift of storytelling and style of enunciation. The two have collaborated on a number of songs, and it was Munsick who brought Charles on his first tour, the rapper serving as Munsick’s opening act.

Now when he opens for Munsick, Charles jokes the country crooner is lucky Charles doesn’t have as good a singing voice as him, or Munsick would be opening up for him. 

 for his sold-out show at the historic Red Rocks Amphitheater in Colorado in 2024, where the duo performed their song “Cowboy Killer.”

Charles’ turquoise grill is another nod to his country rap hybrid persona. 

Like many with a Western upbringing, Charles has long worn turquoise jewelry. When he looked into buying a grill, Charles decided he had to keep a link to his original heritage.

Charles, who also has a song called “New Boot Goofin’,” also has an affinity for cowboy boots and just launched his own company called Yalls Boots Co. 

“I’ve been wanting to do a boot company for a long time now, boots are my thing,” Charles said in a Facebook post earlier this month.

The Jiggy Buckaroo was back in town for a short Wyoming tour last week, performing in Casper before hosting a Cheyenne Frontier Days after party show at The Lincoln Theater last weekend. 

Now he’s off to Alaska for a fair and rodeo performance, followed by a personal fishing trip.

One of his favorite concert memories, he said, came last summer performing in his hometown of Buffalo. They set up a stage on a flatbed trailer outside Bond’s Brewing Co. and Jiggy Buckaroo did his thing for hundreds of screaming Wyoming fans.

“From the big things to the small things you kind of get those little moments,” Charles said. “One thing about this career, it can be tough and it can be challenging and mentally draining sometimes … those little moments, they make it worth it.”

Ryan Charles cowboy rapper Charles 3 21 25

<title>Wyoming People: Buffalo’s Ryan Charles Is Putting Country Rap On The Music Map | Cowboy State Daily</title>

Buffalo, Wyoming, native Ryan Charles — aka Jiggy Buckaroo — is putting his fusion of country-rap music on the map. He’s landed a record deal and has opened for country music star Ian Musick, as well as rap superstars Nelly and Wiz Khalifa.

Wyoming People: Buffalo’s Ryan Charles Is Putting Country Rap On The Music Map

Welsch mug

Jeff Welsch

Outdoors

A few hundred yards downstream, after 70 miles of twists and turns and memories and restoration of a base human spirit, a white pickup truck appeared beyond the vertical lip of a canyon wall on river right and disappeared swiftly behind another tower of rock on the left.

Almost in unison, 22 hearts — one for each first-time floater on the revered emerald gem that is central Idaho’s Middle Fork of the Salmon River, including and especially mine — sank.

The truck harkened an inevitability we all understood and accepted, but still dreaded as this jarring reality loomed ever larger each day.

We were plying the last stretch of the crown jewel of America’s wild rivers and, in my case, closing the book on an elusive spiritual pursuit 40 years in the making.

An odyssey that began six days earlier with a backcountry flight into a dirt airstrip was now a few half-hearted oar strokes from takeout at busy Cache Bar, after a left turn and one more mighty rapid on the Main Salmon River.

Silence engulfed us, save for the ever-fainter roar of the last of the Middle Fork’s 100-plus rapids, the chirp of chukars pecking at bugs on a boulder-strewn shore, and the goodbye echoes of wind whispering off canyon walls that towered above us like granite cathedrals.

Our bearded and tanned trip leader Murph, no stranger to this moment and its emotional swings, swiveled his head toward the four other yellow rafts and read our collective minds like a seasoned therapist.

“Welcome,” he announced, “to the most depressing place on Earth.”

Murph himself was wrestling with those emotions, as he’d conceded he would when he first gripped his oars at the Indian Creek launch site in the heart of America’s largest contiguous wilderness area.

He pirouetted his raft 180 degrees and pointed it upstream, putting the growing vehicle traffic out of sight if not out of mind, and we all followed suit. We gazed one final time up the waters we’d covered, contemplating a landscape unmatched in the Lower 48 states.

Even the group’s six 11-to-14-year-old kids, who’d spent the morning playfully smacking the water’s surface with paddles and gleefully celebrating drenching descents through rapids with foreboding names such as Devil’s Tooth and Foreplay and House of Rocks, solemnly rested those same paddles across their knees.

No heart was at once more melancholy and yet full as the one belonging to the second-oldest member of the expedition.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"Mine."}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Unaltered For Millennia"}]

The Middle Fork of the Salmon is born at the confluence of gin-clear Marsh and Bear Valley creeks on the eastern edge of the Sawtooth Mountains. The river carves a serpentine chasm through the craggy Idaho Batholith and, climactically, Impassable Canyon, the third deepest gorge in North America.

Its waters plunge an average of 30 feet per mile, producing nearly continuous rapids over its 104 miles.

Its flow, unaltered for millennia, is regulated purely and solely by Mother Nature — no dams, no agricultural pumps, no diversions, no community water systems, no wastewater effluent, no rip-rap and no spans save for a handful of suspension bridges for foot and equine trail traffic.

The trout fishing is world-class, the hot springs restorative, the rapids exhilarating as well as 

 with one notable and intensely personal exception 

To safeguard the Middle Fork’s fragile integrity, a scant seven launches per day are allowed between commercial and private trips. The odds of the average citizen winning the Middle Fork lottery are about 1 in 55, with 20,000 applicants vying for roughly 350 slots each year.

President Jimmy Carter wasn’t encumbered by such long odds in August 1978 when he floated the Middle Fork, along the way instilling in his wife, Roslyn, a passion for fly-fishing. Two years later he would sign the Central Idaho Wilderness Act into law, the name soon to change to Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness.

“I think if I had to pick out the three or four best days of my life in politics, it was the time I spent going down the Salmon River by raft two summers ago. This was a delightful trip,” Carter said at the 1980 signing. “The River of No Return, encompassing the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, is indeed one of our nation’s treasures.”

Even the Colorado River of the Grand Canyon, for all its aura and remoteness, is bookended by dams, its flows dictated by the demands and whims of far-flung water users.

The Middle Fork is as pure as the driven snows that blanket its upper reaches and feed it, along with the dozens of creeks that sustain and nurture it.

The mere utterance of the words “Middle Fork” move riverkeepers worldwide to genuflect.

A Middle Fork descent became a vision quest for me a few years after Carter’s visit, when as a 20-something Idaho journalist and budding river enthusiast I was struck by the local reverence for it.

Grown man-card-carrying, beef-eating Idaho men admitted to weeping at the sight of those same anti-climactic trucks and boat trailers.

While awaiting my turn, I rafted and kayaked many of the West’s great whitewater rivers — Idaho’s Main Salmon, Lower Salmon, South Fork of the Payette, South Fork of the Boise, and even the impossibly elusive Selway with its single launch per day; Oregon’s Rogue, Deschutes, McKenzie and Illinois; the Alberton Gorge section on Montana’s Clark Fork; and my splashy introduction to rafting at age 22 in Lunch Counter and the Big Kahuna rapids on Wyoming’s Snake — measuring each against a vision of the Middle Fork adventure certain to come.

Yet year after year, hope gave way to futility.

The lottery sneered at my every annual application. Speed dials in hopes of a rare cancellation were fruitless. Invitations from the friends who’d occasionally struck Middle Fork gold were always ill-timed.

And, of course, there were those all-consuming daily demands such as parenting and work.

Compromising my chances, for many years testosteronal stubbornness prohibited me from even considering one of the commercial trips, which I derided as for soft East and West Coast elitists.

Over time, I’d begun to concede in the twilight of my own serpentine journey that my dream would always be just that, and that any Middle Fork floats would be relegated to vicarious YouTube fantasies.

Then, for the Christmas of my 66th year, my wife, Sherry, herself once a river rat who’d said “yes” to our engagement on one Rogue River descent and “yes” to matrimony at the same remote lodge on the same day a year later, handed a laptop computer displaying an invoice to my son Matt, whose eyes knowingly widened.

“Do you think he’d like this?” she asked with an impish grin.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"Matt nodded vigorously."}]

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"He nodded even more emphatically."}]

Matt handed me the computer and my eyes moistened as I saw the words: Middle Fork Adventures.

After 40 years, I’d finally won the Middle Fork lottery.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"No Outside World Access"}]

On July 15, after the short flight from Stanley to Indian Creek, I wandered down the launch ramp. For the first time, I dipped a sandal into the waters of a stream I’d touched only with my eyes from 30,000 feet.

“Holy waters,” I said to a guide I’d just met, and he nodded with a smile.

For the next six days, we would have no access to the outside world, save for the seven-person crew’s emergency satellite phone and a brief stop at a pastoral lodge and hunting camp called Loon Creek Ranch.

It is one of several guest ranches and busy airstrips grandfathered into “The Church”, a counter-intuitive concession nevertheless necessary to persuade politicians that this national treasure merited protections under The Wilderness Act of 1964.

At Loon Creek, Starlink made Apple Pay and thus the purchase of huckleberry ice cream possible in a tiny white “store” with mule-deer antlers above the door, across a yard from the horses and pack mules in a nearby corral.

Cell phones were otherwise of no use except for time, photos/video and satellite mapping until they inevitably died.

For the 22 of us, the dopamine urge to doom scroll on social media each morning left our fingertips with surprising ease the moment we took off from Stanley and banked across the flanks of the Sawtooths. Early pining for World Cup results also tapered quickly.

A lanky 14-year-old boy from Seattle, paddling alongside Matt in an inflatable kayak, or “ducky”, offered that his baseball team was in the state playoffs.

“But I’d rather be here,” he said, his parents beaming later when the sentiment was relayed to them.

Day after day, we navigated rapids, hiked to Sheepeater pictographs, soaked in hot springs, drank straight from cold springs, caught wild cutthroat trout, climbed to waterfalls, poked around abandoned cabins once inhabited by crusty hermits, admired bighorn sheep and bald eagles and mule deer, and sat contemplatively in the mist of a cool grotto surrounded by 500-foot walls.

And from dawn to dusk, in our rafts and on our hikes and at lunch stops and around the campfire, we engaged in a lost art.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"}],"text":"We talked."}]

An eclectic group from each corner of the country and varied walks of life converged and, for a week, we became family.

[{"type":"text","marks":[{"type":"textStyle"},{"type":"bold"}],"text":"Entering The Cheese Grater"}]

On the penultimate day, just a few hundred yards from our final camp at Otter Bar, I plopped into a ducky for the final time and followed Matt into a Class III rapid called Cliffside that’s notorious for “munching” inflatable kayaks.

Its name comes from the bony cliff on the left known as “Cheese Grater Wall”. As fate would have it, the rapid is most challenging at the present and otherwise ideal flow of 2.5 feet; it’s easier to skirt at higher water in the spring and slows to a relative trickle later in the summer.

“I have seen more botched runs and wall crashes in this rapid than any other,” wrote Matt Leidecker in “Middle Fork of the Salmon River: A Comprehensive Guide”, as if he knew before I did that I would indeed one day float this river.

I deftly navigated the first wave, riding its crest like a cork, then instantly knew my fate was sealed when a side wave surged off Cheese Grater, pushed the nose of my ducky hard right, and left me helplessly parallel to another wave that upended me into the maelstrom.

Down I went, gashing my shin on a submerged rock, before eventually emerging between waves long enough to claim a single hurried breath. Down I went again only to re-emerge moments later in time to gasp for another breath between waves and see I was in a headlong rush toward the Grater.

I raised my hands, briefly flashed on whether a ledge might suck me underneath the wall, pushed off and was summoned into the depths a final time. Upon my third emergence I managed two breaths and spied calmer water a few smaller waves ahead.

“Are you OK?” Murph shouted from his rescue raft, shifting from first responder back to boat captain. “Just stay calm.”

I nodded, and moments later another guide pulled me by my life jacket into the back of an oar raft, shaken but otherwise unbruised except for my shin and my ego.

“Welcome to the Salmon River Swim Team,” Taylor said with a grin once he knew I hadn’t inhaled a pint of Middle Fork Pale Ale. “It’s an exclusive club. We’ve all been there.”

My penance came that night in what guides call “booty beer.” I had to announce around the campfire what I did wrong (listened to the guides tee-hee), what I’d do different (not follow Matt tee-hee) and what I’d learned (people were legit scared when my yellow helmet twice vanished into the depths) before a rite of passage required me to guzzle a 12-ounce Pabst Blue Ribbon from toe to heel out of my river sandal.

It was, fittingly perhaps, the first time I’d ever flipped either a raft or so-called IK, giving me a kinship with this river unlike any other. The Middle Fork had taken something from me while at the same time giving something back.

The next morning, as we reached the confluence of the Middle Fork and Main Salmon, we grudgingly turned our rafts back toward the transition zone and what our culture curiously calls “the real world.”

“Thank you, Middle Fork!” Murph yelled one last time, looking over his shoulder up the canyon and saluting the restorative powers of the river and its wildness.

From the back of an oar boat, Matt and I watched an eagle talon a trout from the depths before we stood and held tight for a final bucking bronc ride through Class IV Cramer Creek Rapid.

As we sat back down on the tube, the ramp at Cache Bar and its throngs of milling people inching ever closer across a placid emerald gem, Matt turned and put his arm around my shoulder.

“Well,” he said, “you finally made it.”

Yes, I finally made it, and my heart, though still tinged with melancholy and a sense of loss that still has me off-balance as I write, was full at long last. 

Middle Fork rafts

<title>40 Years Later, Idaho's Middle Fork Of The Salmon Reveals Its Restorative Powers | Cowboy State Daily</title>

Forty years after first seeing the reverence for Idaho's Middle Fork of the Salmon River, the author finally gets his day on the crown jewel of America's wild rivers. Over six wild and wet days, it proved every bit as restorative as he'd dreamed.

40 Years Later, Idaho's Middle Fork Of The Salmon Reveals Its Restorative Powers

Anna-Louise Jackson

Business & Tourism

Business

It's been four years without a buyer for Montana’s most expensive luxury estate, a 350-acre private island with a huge unfinished 45,000-square-foot villa. The $72 million property also features a boat dock that can accommodate a 70-foot yacht.

Daily Cartoon: Saturday, May 11, 2024

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