A Sport, and a Tradition, Missouri Misses

I've been lucky enough to get the chance, and the experience, over the last five years to participate in some of America's most amazing whitewater boating. I've been privileged to travel across state lines on rivers, in canyons, that very few people knew even existed. I've been given the chance, time and time again, to sleep in an ancient mining town that is only accessible by water. And I've been honored to get the chance to work among, and learn from, some of the country's greatest whitewater guides.

One of which, sadly, is no longer with us. Last weekend was the two year anniversary of Darrel Bogenrief's tragic death on a whitewater trip between Durango and Silverton, Colorado. Darrel passed while trying to save a customer from drowning in a class five rapid. His courage transcended all expectations of boatmen. He went above and beyond rescue protocol in an attempt to save the life of a man he knew for only three hours. And if he wouldn't have gone as far as he did, nobody would've blamed him. But that was Darrel, a guide who put everybody in his boat far above himself. And it cost him his life. And I doubt he'd have it any other way.

Despite hardly knowing Darrel, I'd no doubt consider him a companion, a fellow boatman, and a friend. I've heard his stories, heard his jokes, and read his words in notebooks buried deep in mountain rock in places only a select few know about.

So this past weekend, on a memorial trip honoring Darrel on the day of his death, I was privileged to get the experience of a lifetime. For the first time in two years, the guides who were with Darrel the day of his death resurfaced on the boating ring. Guides who'd long lost the motivation to travel back to Silverton, Colorado to run the same rapid that took their best friends life were on the mountain again. The same guys, all four of them, who grew up together, went to high school and college in Denver together, lived together, and eventually moved to Durango together in order to pursue a sport all of them loved. These guys, the same who were in boats helping Darrel with a fatal rescue, gained the courage to get back in the boat and face the emotional nemesis of Ten Mile Rapid on the Upper Animas river.

For one reason. It was Father's Day. And Darrel's dad, "Bogey" decided it was time to conquer that rapid. He decided it was time to pay respects to his son, his love for boating, and to the river that took his life. And he was bringing the good old boys back with him. It was Father's Day. And Bogey wanted to be with his son. And there was only one way to do it. Get on the river and get through Ten Mile Rapid, the last rapid his son ever ran.

Can you imagine the emotion?

There's a touching memorial to Darrel high above Ten Mile, deep in the woods, buried underground. His life jacket, his helmet, a picture, and a bottle of his favorite. For the first time since Darrel was taken, the old friends and the dad gathered around the memorial. All alone, as somewhere Darrel watched, and they poured one out for him, as per tradition.

I couldn't imagine the emotion in the boats behind us, the emotion in our own was touching enough. Later on in the day, I got the honor and privilege to speak with Bogey. Obviously, you're not sure what to say in a situation like that. A good friend put it bluntly, "walk up there, introduce yourself and say 'it's good to see you up here, Bogey.'"

So I walked up there. "Bogey. My name's Dave. I didn't really know Darrel but I just wanted to let you know that I'm glad to see you up here. It means something to all of us."

"You ever been up to his memorial, Dave?"

"No I haven't sir. I figured I'd leave that to his close buds."

"Do me a favor. Next time you're up here, take a hike over there and tell him I said hi. Don't be afraid. He was just like the rest of you guys. He's a boatmen and just like all the other boatmen he's part of your heritage."

That's when it hit me. Two guys I hardly knew, Bogey and Darrel, somehow made it so simple. Honor your past. And live on.

It was possibly the most touching words ever said to me. Maybe the coolest thing ever said to me. There I was, standing in the middle of mountains, in a place I knew so little about, on a river that could have its way with me at any time. And an old, wise man telling me how to stay on top: respect the sport, Dave.

It's a lesson that relates to all sports, all across the world. Whether it's hustling out a groundball or sliding a little harder in the half court defense. Or paying your respects to a lost friend who paved the way for so many of us lucky boatmen.

Honor the sport. Love the sport. Respect the sport. And go hard.