# Ducks in a Row Self Support on the MFS with Inflatable Kayaks



## Dan Murphy (Aug 11, 2021)

The Patriarch had gotten lit up on the back curler just above our camp at Surveyors Bar. Most of his gear stayed with the boat and he floated into camp pushing the remains of his pride. In disgust he carried back up to run it clean.
There are no secrets on the Middle Fork. Word of his misfortune travelled up the whitewater telegraph to the three other groups leapfrogging down river with us. We all gathered along the bank hoping for more carnage, and before the Patriarch could put in- here came the Headhunters to see what the fuss was about; the first HH ran it in his hard shell without a paddle, the next HH goes over on an SUP, and the last HH drops in, running it on her inflatable sleeping pad. 

I had wanted to run the Middle Fork of the Salmon since 1978, but the stars never quite aligned. The All American Boy had secured a permit for July of 2020 and it rolled over into 2021 due to covid. The river was dropping to historic lows so we gave up on the idea of raft support in favor of a flotilla of Duckies. We had twelve people and eleven inflatable kayaks. 
At 1.6 feet, Duckies were perfect for this trip: totally forgiving, pretty maneuverable and able to carry a large amount of gear. We were usually spread out over about a quarter mile of river. When we came through it was generally agreed that the circus had come to town.


They say you have no choice in your neighbors or your in-laws. It also holds true for your cohorts on river trips. You live with the same people who put in on day one for the next week. We were travelling downriver with the Twinkies and their octogenarian dog. So named, as they were willing to use indestructible desserts as incentive to lure unsuspecting boys and girls into “the wrong channel” for their own amusement. 
The Missoula boys were two guys batching it on rafts. They were going to pick up their families at Cache Bar and then “turn the corner” and keep on running down the Main.
The Headhunters were from the South East with a few slices from Indiana. Six kids, expert boaters and all under the age thirty.They had armed themselves with cases of booze, coolers of food, two rafts, a powerful boombox, four hardshells, an SUP and it was rumored they had a three foot long bong equipped with the smoke from four different continents. They were my kind of people. 
At any point in the day, you would float past each other while scouting drops, striking camp or soaking in the hot springs along the way. The ways of the water are subtle indeed, and the required greetings changed with the stature of the group. The Twinkies and the Missoula boys required a certain formality. Finesse was wasted on The Headhunters, and I would announce my arrival just the way it was suggested in my Social Security handbook: shouting “Whatup Motherfuckers” I would be greeted with copious amounts of Bourbon or Tequila, and if I was so inclined there were offers of lighting up to help take the edge off of the day. With a drink in each hand; and a story to share, it was like I was back in my third year of being a freshman in college.

The MF is approximately 100 miles long and most of the drops at our level were fun class two with lots of boulder bed. Pretty much everyone would get hung up a few times a day- there was always a chute to run but sometimes you’d be floating and talking and the next thing you knew you were high and dry on some mystery rock. No need for a Z-drag rescue with the IKs. Mostly you just shuffled up or down boat and bounced yourself free. Or if you were stuck you became fair game for the rest of the crew to “rescue” you using a technique known as the Bumper Car.

There were some more challenging Class III drops that we did scout. We had been warned about the pinning rock at Tappan falls. I was explaining that the way to run it was to quarter your boat on the obvious tongue right, and then bust left at the drop. The Engineer suggested that it would be better if I showed how it was done rather than talk all day. That was a lame request, and now I had to see if my strategy would work. Before I could get going; one of the Missoula boys came around the corner in his raft, running too far right, and he got stuck on the lip. He was plugging up the channel like that boat in the Suez canal. I was afraid we’d all have to portage around him. The Middle Fork was having none of it- just as the guy was reaching for ropes, the river swatted his ass, spun him around and he ran the drop backwards and free. After this demonstration we knew what to do and we all ran clean.
All of our boats were two person inflatables. We limited our gear to what we considered Backpacking levels. Of course some people smuggled in extra gear that lead to the chair envy that happens at all campsites. Booze could be traded for half hour time slots in the better neighborhoods; but as the the trip progressed and the essential fluids became more scarce, the inevitable hoarding occurred, followed by shameless examples of chair sniping.
Much discussion concerned what type of Groovers to use. Weight was a concern and so we dismissed the traditional Ammo Can in favor of a 5 gallon paint bucket with seat. Our Poop tubes were homemade 6” PVC models capped with a suspect rubber seal. The Forester had hustled a bunch of surplus caps from the store room of the Fisheries department at Utah State. They had some cracking but otherwise they seemed trustworthy. 
For all members, the trip could be broken into Before Poop tube and After Poop tube. At some point the friendly little piece of plastic in the stern would be filled with a WAG bag, and forever after, you were left wondering if it was going to give your boat a case of the Gravy Leg. 
Apparently, I did not use enough PVC cement in the construction of some of the PTs. This leakage was discovered by the General Surgeon when she noticed that her emergency toilet paper roll was now a gelatinous mound. I figured it wasn’t really a problem because it wasn’t like you were going to need it anyways. Toward the end of the trip I did notice an occasional hissing sound escaping from the rubber seal. This was followed by the ephemeral essence of what might have been the chili from day two.
All scorpions should have a sting at the tail and the MFS is no exception. Just above Kramers on the Main I was eyeballing a long set of standing waves and then a funny thing happened. Instead of a smooth green V leading to the promised land- about a third of the Main Salmon dropped into a hole that you drop a 4runner in and get a Camry for change. I dug deep and tried to pull through but my inflatable folded up and over on me in the hydraulic- no worries with that much water, I flushed through and I found myself bobbing in the wave train and self rescuing.
At the takeout, I was telling the Headhunters about the hole and my swim. “You went into that? Damn! Here, have some of this Bourbon.”


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## DJBANO (Feb 26, 2021)

Riveting tale. I want to run with this crew.


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## kayakfreakus (Mar 3, 2006)

Ditto, well played first post. Reminiscent of what used to dominate this forum instead of all the BS these days. Float on...


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## tBatt (May 18, 2020)

Amazing.


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## Wolf Larsen (Apr 13, 2021)

Sounds like a blast!


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## gwheyduke (Jul 3, 2008)

If I ever win a July MFS permit, were going... one way or another!


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