Frenchy returns with the next installment to his River Rat series and regales us with tales from his first rafting trips. Carried away by his wonderful prose, let us imagine that we are along for the adventure!

Our river guide house was precariously perched over the American River. With rattle snakes in the bath room and beer cans stacked in the living room, the ambiance was a cross between National Lampoon's "Animal House" and "Easy Rider."

Yet, I could escape the beer bashes and endless guide stories by retreating to my hammock, which I had strung between two trees halfway down the cliff over the river.

The river spoke to me in my dreams. When I crawled into the cocoon of my sleeping bag and stretched out against the strings of the hammock, I felt like I was being cradled by weightless hands as I swung, suspended in mid-air above the river. The clear California skies were my entertainment and the warm musk of Oak trees was my perfume.

Of course, I had to be particularly careful attempting entry into my hammock. On those nights that I had drunk too many beers, my hammock entries and sudden dismounts would have made a great Buster Keaton film.

Everyone worked on weekends when large buses disgorged legions of desk cramped office prisoners out into nature for a glimpse of their natural selves. They emerged from the bus full of enthusiasm, questions and laughter.

They were like lambs, frightened but excited, herding together wherever their trip leader ushered them. They turned and looked at us with a cautious curiosity. These Captains of Industry and Delilahs of City Nights were suddenly at the mercy of unknown youths.

We were young, tanned and healthy, but our positions as their guides gave us an authority we never would have been trusted with anywhere else. We helped them into the life jackets while breaking the ice with small talk. A river safety talk warned them of the possible perils of the river and then they chose their rafts.

Some were aggressive and went directly to the guide that suited them. Some thought the trip leader would be the safest. Some commandeered a whole boat for their group. Some women chose their guides based on their hopes for post-campfire activity. The shy ones hung back to be invited or assigned a raft.

Some of the guides played their inherent authority for all it was worth, hiding smugly behind their sunglasses. Most would bubble forth with so much enthusiasm and good will that the guests would soon relax. At 32, I was on of the oldest guides, even though I was one of the newest, I acted gracious and attentive.

As the day wore on and we shared victories over the rapids and our friendships would grow until we were almost family by the end of the day. Having worked in the service industry for so many years, I was amazed that I had found a job where I could yell at people all day, and they would love me for it.

The character of weekend trips encourages people to try to put too much fun into two days. Some arrived already drunk or hopelessly hung over. Many were high. Often it was more like running a kindergarten class than a raft trip, but the exuberance of everyone's good intentions almost always won the day. Mix a day full of adrenaline, a beautiful river camp, good food, and unlimited supplies of beer, and you have a classic river bacchanal. The parties were wild and late.

Sunday mornings were casual while we waited for the river to rise from the dam release. The first rapid splash of cold water worked to clear the fuzzy brains. My guide-school mentor, "Boss", had given me two points of camp advice:

    1) Get dishes done before dark, and
    2) Go to bed early. I usually got the dishes done.

By Sunday afternoon, most of the guests had felt like they'd had a month vacation. At the departing bus, phone numbers were exchanged and heartfelt embraces exchanged.

As the bus rolled out to the parking lot, glowing sunburned, half-drunk clients hung out of the windows and waved good-bye.

We gave them our last guide salute and hit them with a barrage of water from our bailing buckets. Everyone went home wet and happy. It was a simple, sunny, and grand life.

On the water, day after day, I started to learn the reality of the theories taught in guide school. When I first looked at rivers, all I saw was a jumble of white waves and water. Now, I felt I was beginning to learn to "read the water."

A great river guide knows what is making every wave ripple, knows how each current will affect the raft, knows how each type of raft will behave differently, knows how much momentum and force to use and when. The greatest of river guides know how to let the river do the work; they know when to float, when to charge ahead, when to dart, dodge, or side-turn the boat. And they can know all of this without thinking and they make instant decisions without hesitation.

I had only a hint of this mystery. In reality I was still trying to drive the raft like a car on a slippery road, just like most first year guides.

As South Fork of the American River Guides, we were the lowest on the evolutionary guide scale. We all hoped to work on the Tuolomne, the Merced, or the "Slamin' Cal-Salmon," but the true Mecca of guiding in North America called to us from one state away. The ultimate river guide job in North America was to row the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon in Arizona. We were unworthy of such lofty status.

But, at the end of each summer some guides would be rewarded for churning out successful day trips in California with the opportunity to train as a Grand Canyon baggage boatman. At the end of my first year, I was invited to row a baggage boat on a two-week trip in the Grand Canyon. We would put in on October 1st.