I slept on the J-Rig, lying as straight as possible so as not to fall off of the coffin box. I ran through all the nighttime bear-proofing protocol in my mind, making sure I hadn’t missed anything and touched the bear spray by my head as if it were a talisman. In the dark, the Tetons looked squat and humble, comforting rather than imposing like a child’s paper cutout. Unable to roll over there was nothing to do but stare straight up. Meteors burned through the atmosphere and left trails of light, satellites circled slowly and very suddenly, I was asleep.

"I'm not ready to leave," Jeannie said the next morning. She leaned back in the kayak and gently lily-dipped her paddle. The water was what my father would call "piss-calm" and from our position on the East side of the lake we had a full panorama of the Tetons. One wispy cloud was snagged on top of the Grand Teton, its presence signaled more to come and the air smelled like wet granite.

"I'm not ready either," I said. My belly was full of McRivers and I stretched my legs out in the kayak, enjoying a sweet release in my lower back. Our bodies ached from lifting and tossing heavy bags, from paddling and hiking, from sleeping on the ground, and from exposure to the elements. But no one complained. They had accepted it as part of the experience; proof that they got themselves from point A to point B without a motor.

Mark and Josh sang "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall" to completion and I had thought of 99 ways to sink their kayak by the time we reached the boat ramp. Everyone beached their kayaks with ease and exited without a single wobble. They beamed at each other, radiating confidence and comaraderie.

Their faces were relaxed, but the sight of their cars reminded them of their proximity to hot water and plumbing. Along with that came wireless, email, work, school, a half-forgotten life that would slowly become their whole world again and Jackson Lake would be a distant memory.

I could not guide them any further. The purview of my authority was limited to the borders of the National Park and suddenly I too was assailed by confusion and doubt. I should have become a bank teller, I'd definitely have a bed if I was a bank teller.

I was distracted by Gina pinching my elbow, "I think I want to be a river guide," she said, ignoring her mother's request to put on shoes.

"Right on!" I said and Becca gave a hip swivel of approval. There's no way in hell I would be a bank teller.

I wish every 20-something could have a job like this. I wish every millennial desperate for work and sacrificing pay for experience could enjoy a summer of confidence and responsibility (not to mention great tips). In the end, we are still barely scraping by, still eating three-day-old lasagna and sleeping in our cars, but we have something that can't be earned anywhere else and that is a sense of self-sufficiency and empowerment.