Beer and Wimmin' First

Two weekends ago my daughters, Heidi and Wendy, took some of their family members and a group of close friends for a weekend at our beloved hideaway, Moose City, on the Canadian Border where the North Fork flows out of Canada. Upon their return I asked for my usual report of events and they said one of the highlights was floating the river with wonderful fly fishing. I asked, “What did you use for a raft?”

The answer surprised me. “We used your old English Avon.” I was surprised because that raft has got to be over 50 years old. Took it in on a trade from the late Jim Stephens who bought a lot from me at Polebridge. Following is just one adventure we’ve had with that raft over these many years. The date? Summer 1966:

Somewhere in the swift waters of the upper North Fork river there is now a large plastic bowl, an orange life jacket, both halves of a broken oar, some odd pieces of clothing and an expensive footpump for my English “Red Shank” raft. The loss of these personal items occurred Saturday at 5 p.m. near the mouth of Kishenehn Creek. First wife Iris and Wanda Hollensteiner were peacefully sitting in the stern and Jim Hollensteiner was fly fishing from the bow while I rowed. The river suddenly split into four channels and I took the second one from the left. Slight judgemental error! We were immediately slammed into a harmless appearing parallel log jam, and in three seconds our air filled boat was pinned by force of the current and filled with water. It was scary, ad it did happen fast.

I was not seriously concerned for human life but standing there with roaring water up to my neck I did think it was the end of my faithful river raft. A lesser craft would have been ripped apart but the old Avon kept resisting that tremendous pressure until Jim was able to free it. He did so by super human strength, pushing with his legs while his back was against the log jam. When we broke loose he left on the logs while three semi-drowned rats went drifting away.

Ever try to maneuver a 2,000 pound raft in a wild river? It was someplace in there that I broke the oar. Popped ‘er like a toothpick. Eventually we got beached and bailed things out with our hats. A miracle had saved our two cans of beer and a spare paddle, so we loaded the water logged girls back in and made it on down to Hammer Point where cousin Stanley Schaffer and others were waiting with pickups.

Jim and I excitedly began to relate details of our harrowing experience but Stan didn’t seem very impressed. Then he practically ruined our whole adventure by saying, “Couldn’t have been much of a disaster if you were able to save the beer... AND the wimmmin’.”

Life is good.

— George Ostrom is an award-winning columnist. He lives in Kalsipell.