BLUE HERON STONE

Because I could not bring back
the blue heron
who watched us,
out of the river’s shadows,
and then flew heavily away—

because I could not keep
her yellow metal eye
to remind me of fierceness—
I kept this stone.

Blue-grey, like the heron,
layered by millions of years in the sea,
and rounded
by thousands of years in the river,

it is the circling clouds of a storm;
it is all weathers, all calm,
all the weight that keeps you from me
and holds us to the earth.

By Polly Brown

Pack good!

Play fair!

Listen up!

Have fun!

Hang on tight when the Captain says so!

Stay hydrated!

Look out for each other!

Respect the critters!

Love the River!

Don’t lose your sewing kit!

COFFEE! COFFEE! COFFEE!

Day begins on the river with birdsong,

resurgent willows, cliffs and shadows,

surging sun poking through a notch

in a butte face, Coffee! Coffee! Coffee!

french toast and bacon.

Down come the overnight habitats,

ingeniously rigged and shaped to embrace

the sleepers dotted about this beach

washed a grain at a time from the West Elks,

Eagle Nest-Gore, the Never Summers

and countless unnamed washes and arroyos

contributing redrock sediment of ocean eons.

We are off and away, a striped cucumber-

looking bug alights on my left arm, climbing

towards my elbow feeling his way through

the filament forest of my limb, I flick him

in the direction of the tamarisk grove

he and his fellow beetles are defoliating

in favor of the resurgent willow sharp tooth

beavers cut their lodges out of, see

their dragging chutes plowing down

the sandy banks.

A Cooper’s Hawk on river right watches

us navigate the shallows.  Noon’s a hike

to granaries of the gone Ancient Ones

who’ve left hands imprinted on a cliff

face wall, a boy and his mother or

father and daughter waving welcome

Feathery hands bridging a thousand

years of river flow (thundering at times)

that languidly turns another today as

in the river we drift this hot afternoon

tucked in life preservers bobbing past

a row of shoreline judges rating our

water ballet!

Guides David, Julian, L.B., T.J. and

Christian make it possible for us

to be here, no plug ins,

just the current of the Colorado

bearing us on.

(With Holiday Expeditions, Moab through

Cataract Canyon to Hite, June 23-27, 2012)

Greg Hobbs

Steve Wassmuth

“ODE TO STEVE”

written by

Gerri Findley

on the

Lower Salmon River

It was summer nineteen eighty-six

And we needed a vacation fix.

So we headed off to Idaho,

For a Salmon River rafting go.

We met or guide the day before.

Did not know then we’d truly scored.

But he held on to a cigarette pack

And I thought, He’s a smoker, oh crap.

But he just always picked up litter

To make the river that much better.

Yes it’s Steve I’m talking about.

The river guide with lots of clout.

He gave us the trip we’d never forget.

He fried the perfect omelet.

His sandpit lasagna in cast iron

Was super delicious and that’s no lying.

When that trip was over it wasn’t the end.

We went back to Tulsa and told all our friends.

Steve sent us a gift – A COUGAR HORN

We sent him a card when Greyson was born.

He stole our design and did the same one when he and Lynnel gave birth to their son.

He’d mail us letters for April Fools

Steve’s a practical joker who’s funny and cool.

More years passed by and we lost touch.

But we never forgot this guy we liked so much.

And when we entered 2010

We wanted to raft the Salmon again.

We told our kids about this Steve

And they responded “When do we leave!?”

So we planned out a 2100 mile trip

To see this guy that was so hip.

We met again in the Holiday parking lot.

Little did we know that he forgot.

Who the hell that we really are,

And we’d driven so far.

He even brought us rhubarb pie.

Not realizing it was for a different guy.

He finally remembered the second day

After he heard some stories we’d say.

But that’s OK, we’re not chopped liver.

All is cool when you’re on the river.

So Happy Birthday Steve Wassmuth.

Our favorite Grangeville River Goof.