I rolled in late, my car struggling up and over Teton Pass. Chafing brake pads stunk up the car. Jackson Hole was hot and the tourist crowds were already thick with sweat and ice cream. I was glad to keep heading south, away from the swarms. At the OARS (Outdoor Adventure River Specialists) boathouse, I was greeted by my boss, a short and stocky rugby player. He was limping.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

“My physical therapist says I’m too strong for my frame,” he said, hucking a loaded bag of tents into the truck.

Set back in an industrial complex at the base of Wilson Canyon, the boathouse was barely organized chaos. Both bay doors were wide open and the cavity was cluttered with piles of camp chairs, dry bags, Paco pads, rocket boxes, cans, and coolers aligned in rows. Becca and Ty had already begun packing for our five-day trip.

“Talkin’ bout, talkin’ bout Ty Guyyyyy,” crooned Becca as she filled plastic water bottles with coffee grounds. Nearly 6 feet tall, she was lean and lanky and lived out of her Vanagon in the boathouse parking lot. She and I had been rookies together the previous year. Ty Guy was new to me, but his smudged glasses, bearded grin, and puppy-dog nature earned him a quick hug. 

My brain clicked quickly into rigging mode. Packing giant coolers full of vegetables, pre-cooked bacon and pints of half-and-half, I marveled at how easy it was to slip back into this job. Here, my worth is measured by my efficiency, my approachability, and my strength, not by past internships or my college GPA. I’ve never had a gym membership, and I can barely do one pull-up, but I can row a raft faster than my male colleagues and carry two full, metal rocket boxes at a time.

It’s not just the physical aspects of this job that keep me coming back—although I’ve heard the Tetons called ‘addictive’ by more than one outdoor junkie. I can think of no other job where a young woman in her 20s can find the kind of respect and authority that this work affords. Each day, I’m responsible for the safety and comfort of my clients. When lightning strikes, it doesn’t matter if they’re doctors or lawyers or producers or financiers—they’re going to look to us for guidance and protection, and they’re going to listen closely our instructions. It’s a heady feeling after working an endless series of entry-level jobs where my education and experience were constantly questioned and doubted. I’ve learned to speak with confidence, and to talk to anyone about just about anything. Above all, I’ve learned to trust my instincts.

When the rigging was done, Becca and I smoothed our hair and put on skirts (showering is a luxury reserved for extreme circumstances) for a pre-trip meeting with this trip’s participants.

The 12 clients sat patiently in a booth near the continental breakfast bar of their hotel. As trip leader, Becca explained the itinerary: a day and night in Yellowstone, with visits to Old Faithful, the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, and Grand Prismatic Spring, then three nights on Jackson Lake and a scenic Snake River raft on the last day.

“Question!” said Mark, a single father of two young boys. “Will we know what the weather will be like each day so we can pack in the morning?”

Becca smiled and tried not to sound harsh. “No,” she said.

“But, can we see what it might do, later on?” he continued.

“No, listen,” said Becca, “The Tetons are completely unpredictable. I’ve seen it change from sun to a storm in five minutes and then back to blue skies. There’s no way for us to know what’s on the horizon when we’re paddling so close to the base of the mountains.”

The group tittered uneasily. I gave them my warmest smile. “There’s not much we haven’t already seen, weather-wise,” I said. “We’ll take good care of you."

Back at the boathouse, Becca and I rehashed our first impressions, trying to anticipate problems, but it was almost as hard as anticipating the weather. The only thing to do was finish my beer and crawl into my car. My alarm was set for six, as it would be the rest of the month.