Rivers, Sex and Money

     If guiding rivers is like sex, then getting a tip is like an orgasm.  I was baffled by this connection until I guided passengers on a boat.  Prior to that, I watched with fascination and horror as the experienced guides obsessed about tips.  First, as the passengers arrive at a meeting place they are judged quickly and quite viciously as to their ability and willingness to tip.  All actions and words on the river are focussed on generating or maintaining a tip.  Some slimy guides drop hints all day long about tipping.  I'm suprised that some don't tape a message across the front of the raft saying something like "If you liked the ride, tip your guide".  When goodbye's are said at the end of the day, I watched as the guides hung about the passengers pretending to be interested in further chat.  As soon as a tip is given, or it becomes obvious that one will not be forthcoming, the guide quickly quits the act and retreats.
     Of course, the whole purpose of tipping is "To Insure Prompt Service".  So one could argue that the focus on tipping is not insincere and misplaced, but true capitalism in action. And, just as capitalism is often practiced in this country, the parallels between the pursuit of sex and the pursuit of a tip are obvious and undeniable.  Indeed, some would say that from an evolutionary point of view they are inseparable.
     River guiding is a tough and low-paying business.  Tips constitute at least 30% of a guide's income from the work, and it is untaxable income.  My first work locally was with a company with a poor reputation for safety and efficiency.  Their vans are old and break down on a daily basis.  A day in the life of their guides seems to go like this:
Go to bed at 2 AM.
Get up at 6 AM.
Smoke a bowl.
Load gear.
Meet customers at 10 AM for a 9 AM meeting time.
Schoomze for tips.
Get people and gear on the river.
Schoomze for tips.
Run rapids.
Stop, make lunch, let guests eat first.
Go behind rocks and smoke a bowl.
Get people and gear on the river.
Run rapids.
Get people and gear off the river.
Wait for shuttle driver to arrive 45 minutes late.
Get people back to their cars.
Schmooze for tips.
Say goodbye.
Bitch or brag about tips received or shunned.
Smoke a bowl.
Unload gear.
Drink beer.
Smoke a bowl.

     I've resolved to not do any more work with this company, but like a lover I shouldn't be sleeping with any more, I'll probably cave in if they promise me a slot on my favorite local Class IV  river and if they beg.  There's another company I have been working for, but they don't need me as much because they are well-run and safe and everyone wants to work for them.  Plus their local operation is small, and if I wanted more work with them I would have to move to Mt. Shasta for the summer and live out of my camper.
     So I looked on with derision at the whole tip game until I started guiding passengers.  I'm not guiding rivers for the money; I'm doing it for the pleasure and privilege of being on the water.  With passengers on the boat, I tried to share the joy and excitement I feel about the canyons and the river.  Then came the end of the trip and the goodbyes and somebody pushes folded bills at me.  You don't look at the money as you put it in your pocket, but you do.  Discretion is somehow expected here.  You notice the outer bill is a twenty.  You express appreciation and shake their hand heartily.
     The rush comes on almost unexpectedly, like (I imagine) heroin in a vein.  Like biting into a cheeseburger.  Like driving a new car off a car lot.  Like new love.  Like an orgasm.  The wisps of guilt that try to build are quickly swept away in the wind of unfolding bills once the guests have driven away.  Wow!  $65 dollars for a few hours work. This is the first income I have received in a year and it feels good.  I begin to imagine I deserve it.  More than deserve it, I expect it.  I'm a river god and they damn well better appreciate how good I am.  The other guides look on in what I imagine is jealousy and contempt.  I have my arm hooked around the neck of a buxom blond, no, several buxom blonds, and their names are both Andrew Jackson.  I can handle them in any way I please.  I can buy beer or not buy beer.  I have power.  What a rush.
     But later, driving home, there is that inevitable let down. That sugar low after the high.  That get on to the next woman after the last.  That American liberal guilt.  Do it too much and you will get hooked.  Rationalize.  Justify. Buy a cheeseburger.  That's better.  Pure processed cheese product (pasteurized).  Maybe smoking a bowl would help too, but I wouldn't know. At least now I understand.