The Unmuddled Mathematician

Chris Coray, The Unmuddled Mathematician

Many years ago when I was in graduate school studying the only perfect discipline, summertime provided a break.  Fortunately, there were libraries full of books that contained only hard math story problems so I was saved from a horrible vacuum.

Anyway, during many of those summer weeks I would drive out to Flaming Gorge and work on the Green River below the dam.  By work I mean that I would rent rafts to people who wished to float a small section of the river and if needed I would be the guide for people who were a little nervous about trying the river on their own. 

The most popular stretch of the river was from the dam to Little Hole, a take-out point 7 miles down river.  It is a beautiful stretch of water with no rated rapids, just an occasional little wave.  The water temperature in those days was very cold, just about 39 degrees, as the dam had not yet been modified to mix warmer water from the lake surface.  While the fishing was also pretty good, most trout moved quickly down the river to a point where the water had warmed up. 

All kinds of visitors floated that stretch of water.  It was about an even split between those who wanted to float on their own and those who wanted an experienced person with them.  If the former I would rent the raft and agree to a pick-up time at Little Hole.  Mostly on guided trips I could keep everybody dry except for wet shoes but on one trip there was a lady who spent the whole time whining and constantly applying more and more make-up.  She was having none of the outdoors experience until the raft accidentally found the only wave on the whole stretch and sort of rinsed her make-up off all at once.  Boy, I had to work hard to get the raft into that one little wave.

By far the most unusual trip was a father-daughter pair who wanted to float the 7 miles on their own.  You probably have a mental picture of this couple.  Your picture is wrong.  The daughter was 67, the father 91.  They had no previous experience on a river.  But I rented the raft (not smart on my part) and as I prepared to launch them from the ramp just below the dam I made darn sure that their life jackets were properly and securely fastened.  The pick-up time was set for 3 hours later, about 5 p.m.  The 91 year old guy wasn’t too limber as he climbed into the boat and I was considerably nervous wondering for a second if the daughter had nefarious plans.

At 5 p.m. I was at Little Hole, peering up the river.  Around the bend came the rented raft, with just one person sitting upright.  Wading out into the shallows I grabbed the rope and asked the daughter, “Where is your dad?”  Her answer was short.  “Daddy’s gone”.  

What?  She further said that her father had fallen out of the back of the raft about 3 miles upstream and she hadn’t seen him since.  This was bad.  That water was really, really cold.  The daughter didn’t seem upset.  On the other hand, I was.  I got the daughter out of the raft, sat her on a rock in the warm sun, and hadn’t a clue about what to do. 

In less than ten minutes my anxious staring up river was rewarded by a bobbing head with orange life jacket.  As fast as I could move I got out into the water and snagged daddy.  He was, in order, alive, wet, cold, quiet, and unruffled.  He wasn’t speaking much.   I got him out of his wet shirt, warmed him up with a dry towel, and loaded him into his daughter’s car and waved a cheerful goodbye, at least cheerful to me.  To this day I do not know how he survived and the phrase, “Daddy’s gone” still floods my memories with the trip of that pair. 

I have been tossed into a river by big white water.  Being in the raft is better.