Outside's 15 Guilty Pleasures

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Outside Magazine October 2004

Outside's Guilty Pleasures
I, Rothario
Ever wonder if river rats get all the women? They do.

By Mr. X & Michael Engelhard


	When the sinful deed involves river-trip sex, the rules are clear: Don't tell the folks back home. (Jeff Riedel)

I KNEW I WAS IN TROUBLE as soon as I picked up Judith at her motel in Stanley, the staging ground for trips on the Middle Fork of Idaho's Salmon River. She was gorgeous, urbane, in her mid-thirties, with long black hair. On the shuttle drive to the put-in, I snagged a long look in the rearview mirror, which only confirmed my first impression: She was hot.

I was 28. I'd worked on western rivers for nearly a decade, taking hundreds of scantily clad women on floats through the canyons. And if you're already thinking, Man, those river guides must get laid a lot, I'll tell you straight up: We do. Most outfitters forbid guides from sleeping with customers, and most river rats do it anyway. When I was 20 and working on the river, I lost my virginity with an older woman—while her father and her minister snored in a neighboring tent. Another time, I hooked up with a woman whose husband was along.

By now, the "initial survey" had become routine. I mentally sorted the new arrivals into couples, singles, and potential "temporary singles." Eager to impress Judith, I chatted her up in the van. At the launch ramp, I picked her to demonstrate rescue techniques. But on the first day out, I watched with disappointment as Judith chose to ride

I lost my virginity with a river-trip client—while her father and her minister snored in a neighboring tent.

with Chip, another guide. Over the next few days, she sometimes rode in my raft, too, but whenever she did I had to share her with an elderly couple from Wisconsin—who favored me because I looked like their son.

Finally, on our last night, I got lucky. A few of us had stayed up late, passing wine around the campfire. Judith was getting super-loaded, and we were flirting big-time. Guide etiquette requires that you get lost when you see a pal making headway, so everybody left. Not long after that, I offered to help Judith back to her tent.

We staggered over to it. I had grabbed a candle from the camp kitchen and—to add to the ambience—I lit it next to her sleeping bag. Wined up as I was, my judgment was seriously impaired. Not only did I risk burning down the tent; I forgot that our frolicking could be projected onto the wall like Balinese shadow theater. I closed my eyes and savored Judith's embrace.

Soon enough, I opened my eyes to see that Judith's fine, long tresses had caught fire. Hoping to resolve things before the mood got ruined, I patted the flames out with my hands. Judith figured out what was happening; we laughed and got back down to business.

The next morning, I was making pancakes when Judith appeared—hung over, and with her hair in a ponytail to disguise the considerable chunk missing on one side. Nobody asked about it, so the candle episode apparently had gone unnoticed.

On the final night in Salmon, the guides whooped it up at a local bar, and Judith came along. Hoping for a repeat, I walked her to her motel. This time, though, I got shut down. We weren't out in nature anymore; the rules of civilized society had kicked back in. She said goodbye and closed the door in my face.

I heard later that Judith had gone straight home to move in with her longtime boyfriend. I tried to find consolation in her $100 tip. I'd like to think it was for services rendered.

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