People is People

I am not a fan of guidebooks. Generally speaking I feel they lack the information I desire and are chock full of shit I don't need. In Fort Benton, Montana Greg and I bought a guidebook. "The Complete Paddler" by David Miller. We needed the maps. Maps on the upper Missouri are difficult to come by and state road maps just don't cut it when it comes to knowing where you are on a river. Other than the maps and the fact that he gives the reader ample opportunity to ridicule him, there isn't much use to the book. He spends way too much time describing the river channel in a bend by bend play by play which is useless considering it is a dynamic, ever changing, body of flowing water, but that is not the topic here. I have one main problem with Miller.

The problem began with Wolf Point, Montana but it continues across into North Dakota. When describing Wolf Point Miller goes into great detail regarding his experience passing by town in which a drunk with a handgun fired several rounds in his direction. He didn't know whether the drunk was firing at him or not but felt the rounds came too close. This could happen on any river near any town in this fair country of ours but it happened to Miller in Wolf Point. It would be fine in a guide if you were including it as a bit of colorful narrativebut Miller takes it way too far including that 10 years ago someone of the river was beaten up and that a paddler should go nowhere near the town. Not only that but while paddling by stay as close to the opposite bank as possible and paddle as fast as you can.

The ridiculousness of this tickles my sense of humor but it offends my sense of ethics as well. In describing Wolf Point in such demonizing terms he fails not only Wolf Point whose reputation is soured by this guidebook but the paddler as well who has been cheated of their right to approach that town with the same anxious nervousness they approach every other town with. A certain fear of the unknown but also an excitement about what may happen. And overwhelmingly what happens is a beautiful experience involving the kindness of strangers, such as when we pulled in to Wolf Point's boat ramp (Miller describes as an obvious party spot and to be avoided). It was neat and clean when we got there, we dumped our trash and looked around for some water. We didn't find any and were about to disembark when an old fella with a dog pulled up in a pickup, "You fellas looking for water? Won't find any here. But if you jump in I can drive you to the bar down the road and get some." Not only did we fill our water jugs but we also had another wonderful experience in a river town, something Miller may have experienced had he had the balls to get out and say hello.

Instead Miller spent the rest of his time running scared through the Fort Peck Indian Reservation terrified to meet anyone, hiding his camp in the willow bushes and keeping his head low. Even down into North Dakota at the reservation there he describes the campground as nice but not a place to leave your boat untended. It became clear that Miller is afraid. He's afraid those whisky drinkin Injuns are gonna steal his boat, take his scalp, and leave him for dead. What he needs to learn is that the Greek deli owner in Muppets Take Manhattan was right, "People is People".

As for our part, later on after getting water at Wolf Point we were camped on a sandbar looking across at the reservation when a pickup truck drove down to the river and a few guys got out, saw us, and jumped back in the truck. They drove back up river a couple hundred yards and let out a mighty barrrage of gunfire into the river that lasted 20 minutes or more.

People is People and no matter where you go in this fair country of ours wherever there's a river sooner or later there's gonna be a truckload of whisky drinkin rednecks of one race or another lettin of a maelstrom of bullets into the belly of that river. Why? Cause that's God damned good fun right there. And as a paddler all you can hope for is that they have the courtesy to move upstream a couple hundred yards before letting off that first barrage of gunfire in the direction of your simmering pot of beans.