They say there’s more than one way to skin a cat, which is to say there are many ways to accomplish a task. In my first year guiding I heard the same phrase, if only a little differently. It’s your cat, you skin it; which is to say do it however you see fit. Of course, when it came time to actually do the thing I usually did it wrong. So much for the many ways. But a first year of doing anything is a steep learning curve. Eventually you learn that while there are many ways to do something, some ways are easier and more efficient. So here’s a story about learning the best way to skin a cat.
I grew up running rivers with my family. When the time and opportunity arose I applied for a job at Dinosaur River Expeditions. Wouldn’t you know it they hired me. That first year I was nervous, but expected that I knew quite a bit more than someone off the street. Pride comes before the fall. I was a lousy boatman. All that time on the water with my family, I’d never spent any time rowing the raft. I was always in a hardshell kayak. The kayak is a one man craft, made of hard plastic, relatively light and maneuverable. A raft on the other hand is rigid rubber, and depending on the size can fit six to eight people. As a novice I wouldn’t have called them maneuverable boats. So there I am on the day section of Flaming Gorge. A kayak mind in a raft body. Let me be clear, the day stretch is class II whitewater at most. It’s mainly a scenic float. The lines are straight forward: take the tongue, avoid the rocks. I guess that’s not how I wanted to skin my cat. Just about everyday that first summer I’d high side the boat on a rock, or high center the damn thing and be parked in the center of the river for a minute or two. And, just as inevitably, I’d send a couple of my passengers into the water. A coworker quickly nicknamed me danger. “That’s the danger boat, if you’re looking for an exciting ride,” he’d say, and I’d see the uneasiness creep into the smiles of my passengers faces and see the hint of doubt in their eyes, and I’d hope like hell I ran a better line.
When I did get to run multi days (they were hard pressed for help that summer, and so gave me the opportunity to run a boat, god bless em) my lines were little better. And as bad a boatman as I was, I was an even worse kitchen hand. Especially if you ask a coworker, who shall remain nameless. It was as if I’d never lifted a knife and chopped a vegetable. Or greased a pan. To be fair to her I did have trouble distinguishing cabbage from iceberg lettuce in the vegetable cooler. I ran around that kitchen like a headless chicken, and she was on my tail like a hungry fox, making sure I knew every mistake I made and making sure I knew it damn well. Even still, I made brownies with olive oil and forgot to put them in the dutch oven (luckily someone was watching my work, and dessert came out on time, and as I recall no one noticed an odd aftertaste of olives). After doing dishes and cleaning the kitchen, there were nights I’d sit on my boat and think I wasn’t cut out for the job. But morning would inevitably come, and I’d do my damnedest to make sure the scrambled eggs weren’t burned, and people would hop on my boat for the exciting ride, only to be stuck on a rock for a while or sent for an unexpected swim.
Though I was an inept boatman, and a liability in the kitchen, for all that I was – in the writer’s humble opinion – an alright guide. Who knows, maybe it was like watching a train wreck. But people enjoyed being on my boat, risks included. I guess it’s not that surprising. These days your guide is as interesting as the place they’re guiding you through. If wealth was measured in stories in memories, your guides would be some of the wealthiest people on the planet. And believe you me, they’re eager to share that wealth. So, to all the passengers and guides that were there in my first season, thanks.
