When I was 16, on a cross-country bicycle trip, I rode into the tiny town of Stanley, Idaho—something between a ghost town and a year-round population of 60. There were two establishments: a hardware store and a saloon with the “welcoming” name Rod and Gun Club. I grabbed my empty water bottle and went inside.
Sitting at the bar was a tall, bearded man in his late twenties. A red bandana covered his head, and a blue one hung loosely around his neck. His black T-shirt read Henry River Trips and featured a raft plunging through a frothy rapid. By his side lay a large, strange-looking dog with huge, floppy ears that hung beneath its jowls.
“Where you from, kid?” he asked, giving my ragged shorts, sweaty T-shirt, French-style bicycle cap, and skinny, tanned frame a confused once-over.
“New York.”
“You ride all the hell out here on that damn thing?” he asked, glancing at the pack-laden bike leaning against the front window.
I nodded.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he barked, intrigued and clearly impressed. “You must have one sorry ass!” He let out a guffaw and slapped his knee in amusement. “Hey, Sam, fill the kid up.” He grabbed my water bottle and passed it to the bartender. “Ever been whitewater rafting?”
I shook my head.
“Wanna go?”
I nodded, unsure what he meant, but at 16, it sounded good. At the time, whitewater rafting was in its infancy east of the Rockies. I had been on class II Sierra Club canoe trips with my father and loved rivers.
“I’m headin’ out on the Middle Fork in the morning. Then I’m floating the Rogue in Oregon. You meet up at Grave Creek, down from Grants Pass, next Sunday, and you can ride with me. If I were you—and I sure as hell ain’t—I’d dump the two-wheeled mule and thumb your way. Might actually beat my ass out there.”
At the time, I had no idea people got paid to guide others down rivers. I assumed he was just some crazy guy offering to take me on a private trip.
When I got outside, I looked at the map. I’d have to average 100 miles a day to make it.
The following Saturday, I rode into Grants Pass, Oregon, drained from a 600-mile week and an unrelenting desert headwind across eastern Oregon. I asked a gas station attendant where Grave Creek was.
“Fourteen miles that way,” he said, pointing down the road.
“Does the river right here in town go down there?” I asked, thinking maybe I could leave the bicycle and tube it.
“Yup.”
I had once gone tubing on the Delaware River Back in New York and it seemed like it might be a reasonable mode of transportation.
“Got a truck inner tube I can buy?”
“Yup.”
“Any chance I could leave my bike here for a week?”
“Yup. Lock it out back, but I can’t be responsible.”
After purchasing the truck tube, trash bags, clothesline, and a kid’s orange “horse collar” life jacket from a local sporting goods store, I lashed my belongings to the inner tube and jumped on. If the whitewater had been more challenging, I might not be telling this story.
As I floated into Grave Creek, the guy I had met in Stanley shouted, “What the hell?!” dropping his beer and running over, his strange dog in tow. “You’re the last person in God’s universe I ever thought I’d see again! Where the hell did you come from?”
“Grants Pass.”
“On that Huck Finn shit? You traded a bicycle for a damn inner tube? Jesus Christ, you’re batshit crazier than me!”
His name was Dory, and there was no way I was crazier than he was. Even if I was, I was 16 and he was nearly 30. He rowed his raft without a care in the world, accompanied by his giant Bloodhound/Golden Retriever mutt. Dory would have taken being referred to as a “free spirit” as an insult—more like a combination of Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, and Rube Goldberg. Whether he was paddling his home-made kayak alone down some extreme river that had never been run, or flying a plane he had assembled from a kit, his life was one never-ending adventure.
The company manager and trip leader, Clint, was never informed that I would be joining the commercial trip until he saw me jump onto the raft. Clint was stocky, with a handlebar mustache, a long blond ponytail, and a beard. His back was hunched from rowing Army surplus bridge pontoons down the Middle Fork of the Salmon, which served as baggage boats in those days.
Middle Fork of the Salmon, which served as baggage boats in those days.
“Who the hell’s that?” Clint bellowed gruffly, as he floated by.
“He’s my little brother,”
Dory pushing the boat off and jumping on.
“You don’t have a little brother.”
“Hell, I don’t. I do now.”
And for those three amazing days, I felt like I was.
“What the hell’s his name?” Clint boomed over.
“How the hell should I know? Dory responded. “What difference does that make, anyway?”
“So I can add him to Forest Service list. What’s your name, kid?”
“Crazy kid on a bicycle,” Dory interjected before I could answer.
“And how many times do I need to tell you not to bring that damn dog!”
So there were actually two of us exposed stowaways. Bringing a 16 year old kid he met in a bar and a dog along unannounced on a commercial trip was nothing for Dory. He carried a loaded pistol in his ammo can, which he fired into the air whenever he wanted Clint to pull over for lunch or a bathroom break. The first time the piercing bang came from the back of the boat, everyone ducked in panic. The fact that our ears were ringing for the rest of the day didn’t seem to faze him.
Dory and the Rogue River would be my introduction to whitewater rafting. By the middle of the second day—much to the distress of the clients—he had me rowing the boat. I vividly remember my first rapid, Wild Cat, and the concerned look on the clients’ faces. They were already sharing their vacation in a confined space with a slobbering dog, and now their lives were in the hands of a 16-year-old novice.
Dory didn’t talk much to the guests, but when he did, it was aways some bigger than life tale.
When one of the clients in our boat tried to strike up a conversation by asking how his dog got its name, Dory came up with, “Who him? Flipper?
At the time the big oaf was lounging across the client’s feet in the middle compartment.
“Named ‘im after an old flame. She got dumped in the river at Blossom when I smacked into Volkswagen Rock. Took a helluva swim before I could reel her back in. Luckily, I didn’t have the dog back then. The retriever side swims like a fish; the bloodhound—not so much. Kinda like my ex.”
Blossom Bar was an out-of-character, dangerous rapid on the Rogue that passengers walked around and guides took the boats through alone. Of course, Dory didn’t share that information with us.
“Was that here on the Rogue?” the client asked, her eyes widening, regretting she ever asked about the dog.
“Yep. I’ll show ya the exact spot when we run the boats through tomorrow.”
When we pulled into the eddy above Blossom Bar Rapid the following day, the clients in our boat looked terror-stricken. To their relief, Clint had all the guests walk around, and the guides took the rafts through. As Dory was pushing off, he motioned for me to jump in—which my adolescent brain naturally compelled me to do. To someone who didn’t read water, it was a jumble of rocks in the wrong places. At the bottom, Clint was livid. It wasn’t just about my safety—the clients in his boat were upset and wanted to know why I got to go.
“What the hell’s he doing in your boat?” Clint boomed.
“I needed the ballast.”
“Ballast, my ass! Don’t ever pull any shit like that again!” He screamed, knowing he would.
All this was happening in front of the clients. Clint and Dory had worked together long enough for both their backs to be hunched. Commercial river guides were scarce back then, so Clint accepted Dory—craziness and all.
After the trip, he invited me to come out to Idaho the following summer and train with him on the Middle Fork of the Salmon. “I’ll even score you job on the crew.” He promised me. Clint obviously wasn’t informed of this plan.
Dory was an interesting mentor of sorts—rather than setting an example of what to do, he taught me what not to do.
The following summer, my parents gave me money for a flight. I thought it could be better spent on living expenses, so I canned buying the ticket and hitchhiked. When I reached Stanley, there was no sign of Dory. At the boathouse, Clint told me that earlier that month, Dory had taken his homemade airplane out over San Francisco Bay and never returned. They never found the plane or the body.
“He was a royal pain in my ass,” Clint said, with a heavy heart. “But I loved the guy. I’m gonna miss him—even that disgusting dog.”
Although I had only spent those few magical days with him, the impact lit a flame that lasted a lifetime.
Many rapids and river miles later, I now run the Earth River office and help design the trips, along with my two sons, Cade and Teal, who organize and lead the expeditions. Although their introduction to guiding didn’t involve a bicycle, a bar, and an inner tube, I have no doubt that, if confronted with the same challenges, they would have done the same.
By Eric Hertz