driftboater to attempt Whitehorse rapids on the Deschutes would rename OhShit! Rock just as it was the first time, and history would converge again. I can distinctly remember arriving in Oregon, traveling from Montana, descending alongside the McKenzie River, with my tongue hanging out at the beauty of the river and the lush greenness in contrast to the sagebrush brown of a year on the high plains. I was, as a northwester, coming home, after an absence of ten years. Then a truck towing the most weird boat I had ever seen passed me in the opposite direction. I scratched my head about that boat for another thirty minutes until, in the vicinity of the McKenzie golf course, I saw in the river that same weird boat, a fly caster working the water from the bow, the oarsman back stroking to hold his place. I almost ran off the road at the realization and possibilities of the fusion of form and function. I had to get me one of those. Learning to run a river, or any particularly bad piece of water can be a real problem. The published river guides perform a certain function for the uninitiated, but they have their limitations. After having negotiated the Deschutes from Trainwreck rapids to the mouth with my brother-in-law sitting in front reading Henning's Guide out loud, and having reached Gordon's Ridge rapids exactly two rapids too early, I knew I had reached my limit. For the upper (lower) Deschutes and Whitehorse Rapids, I would have to rely on the old rule of medical school; see one, do one, teach one. Therefore, on the exact day I first met John Soreng through our wives playing tennis at the club, and he mentioned flyfishing the Deschutes, during the salmonfly hatch, catching 20-30 14-16 inch trout per day on dryflies, for a whole week, and apparently successfully running Whitehorse, I did the only sane thing I could think of. I literally got down on my knees and with no vestige of pride or social appropriateness remaining, I BEGGED him to let me simply follow him through the float the next year. I EVEN PROMISED HIM I WOULDN'T FISH FOR THE WHOLE WEEK! Whatever other impression I made that day, I did embarrass him so badly he promised me in front of rapidly assembled witnesses that I could accompany his party the following June. That first year, for the first three days of the trip, every minute and hour hung on the unspoken and spoken question marks we all had about Whitehorse Rapids. Emotionally, for everyone, the trip was cleanly divided into two sections, BW and AW. BW you were tense, nervous and irritable, laughing uncomfortably at humor. AW you would deflate your held breath, settle back, and enjoy your reprieve on life. Dave Carlson seriously talked about lining his boat through, and had the rope to prove it. And Dave
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