Dean
Summer on the river is controlled chaos.
The gravel parking lot atJohnson River Adventuresis already half full when I pull in just after seven. Families are unloading coolers and canvas bags filled with sunscreen, visors, and snacks. Teenagers complain about wearing life jackets. Someone's kid is chasing a wild duck across the gravel lot while their mother pretends not to notice.
Over a decade of working for the family business, I can testify that every group is the same. Someone’s excited, someone’s nervous, and someone is overstimulated. Occasionally, someone is all three.
I don’t really care and neither does the river.
The Etowah rushes past the weathered docks the same way it did yesterday and the day before that. It’s pure mountain spring water fed by snowmelt high in the Viridian Mountains. Here the river is wide and slow but a few miles downstream, the river splits in two.
Most tourists stick to the easy branch. The current slows to a lazy drift perfect for inflatable tubes and cheap coolers full of beer. It doesn't branch again, and the pickup point is impossible to miss. One of my older brothers, Dermot, who is home from law school spends most summer afternoons there loading sunburned tourists into a company van.
Even the day-drunk ones usually manage to find it.
The other route is where the Etowah stops playing nice. Class II rapids quickly turn into Class III and IV, and every summer some entrepreneurial manchild decides he's the next great outdoorsman. By sunset he's stranded in a side channel with a dead phone battery and mountain rescue wondering how he managed to get himself stuck in the exact same place we warned him about.
I grab a stack of paddles from the equipment shed and haul them toward the dock. Dylan and Duke are handling the kayak rentals, but the twins never remember to grab enough equipment.
“You got the first group,” Diesel mutters when I pass him.
None of my four brothers could ever pass for civilized, but Diesel is a bit more gruff than the others. Any day now I’m sure he’ll run off into the wilderness and become one of the reclusive mountain men our small town is known for.
The four of us alternate guiding tours down the river, and it never fails that I get the earliest group.
Not that I mind. Diesel might be a jaded grump, but I loved growing up on this river. By noon, I'll be soaked. By sunset, my shoulders will ache and tomorrow, I'll do it all again because it’s the best job in the world.
A gust of cool air drifts off the water, providing a brief break from the summer heat already settling over the ridge. It won't last. The forecast says ninety degrees. Half the tourists showingup today are here because they heard kayaking is a good way to cool off.
They're right. The river is freezing cold on a good day thanks to the snowmelt. I spent half my childhood getting thrown into it by my older brothers. As the youngest, it was my due.
"Morning, Dean."
I glance up to find my dad carrying a crate of bright yellow life jackets.
His beard has more gray in it than it did last summer, but he'd deny it if I pointed it out. The only person allowed to mock Doug Johnson is my mom.
"Morning,” I reply, wondering if he’s going to start lecturing me about the importance of proper hydration or the heat index. The old man never misses an opportunity for a safety lecture.
"Big group today,” he says, green eyes sweeping over the crowd gathering by the dock.
"Classic peak season."
"Good point,” he agrees, adding nothing to the conversation he started.
We load gear in comfortable silence. We've been doing this together for so long that talking isn't always necessary.
Dad foundedJohnson River Adventureswith my grandfather before I was born. These docks practically raised me. I learned to swim before I learned to ride a bike. Learned how to read river currents before I learned algebra.
Some people dream about leaving their hometown. I've never understood that. Everything I need is right here.
"You're guiding the beginner kayak group?" Dad asks.
"Yep."
He gives me a sympathetic look.
"Good luck."
