Legends and lunatics on the Snake River

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

By Grace Hammond

Jackson has a way of reminding you why you’re here.

Last week, I sat on a raft while Jonathan Hunt, our river guide, explained how he had up and quit Kentucky seven years ago, ready to “start doin’ stuff I enjoyed.” He sold his possessions and shed his job in favor of a tougher but simpler life on the water in Jackson Hole.

“Downwardly mobile” is what Paul Bruun called it, leaning in toward the rest of us on the raft.

This seems to be a common trajectory in Jackson. There are two steps: figuring out what you love and then hurtling yourself after it, as if into space.
Bruun, for his part, loves the cutthroat.

“Just giving them a chance to showcase themselves on the surface, that’s when you go ‘hmm, I just got the treatment,’” he told our group.

Downwardly mobile as most of us may be, there are few places where I could spend the first float trip of my life with rafting and fly fishing pioneers like Bruun - who is known as the “Fishin’ Politician” - and Frank Ewing, Denny Becker, Dave Hansen, John Simms and Bill Guheen. among others. These stalwarts gathered in a spirit of protection over the river to “share their oral histories,” as one young guide described it, for the Snake River Fund’s annual Summer Float Series, now in its second year.

When these guides hit the water with a group, “it’s all about infotainment,” the guide told me. “They get sick of the same questions. Tonight it’s their turn to decide.”
Once we had gathered around a fire at the Barker-Ewing camp, Bruun introduced the group: “It’s a lot to do with a lot of lunatics,” he began.

The stories started with friendships, boats, or mishaps, but they always came back to the river. The Snake River Fund aims, above all, “to provide a free river,” Bruun said. “That’s what we wanted to do. You can get nickel and dimed everywhere else here, but not the river.”

The other attendees gathered like a family, sometimes listening in quiet reverence and other times shouting over the ‘legends’ to fill in parts of the stories they forgot. Some stories were no more than crowd pleasers, individual tales that wove the history into a narrative. “Tell the one about the princess!” someone would shout. “Or about who jumped first!”

When Bruun asked Becker to tell a tale, Becker grinned and hugged his knees, looking into the fire:

“I spent all my time trying to forget these stories,” he said.

Two women came to the float together that met in Jackson in the ‘60s while working as cocktail waitresses and dating ski patrollers in Teton Village.

“We’re legends, too,” they joked, reminiscing about their old house together, where they ate on a picnic table in their dining room.

“This kind of thing is the reason I never left.”
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Legends and lunatics on the Snake River | Planet JH News Article: Editorial

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