Floating the Mighty Free and Easy (Cont.)

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Outside Magazine November 2001

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Floating the Mighty Free and Easy (Cont.)

FORT BENTON, MONTANA, was one of the truly tough towns of the old West. At the turn of the last century, it was, according to one newspaper, "a scalp market, the home of cutthroats and horse thieves." Armed robberies, gunfights, and lynchings were common, almost daily, occurrences. The U.S. Army saw the town as "a whiskey trading post for hostile Indians." And indeed, there is a recipe for "Indian whiskey" at the local museum: "To muddy Missouri Water add 1 quart of alcohol, 1 pound of rank black chewing tobacco, 1 handful of red peppers, 1 bottle Jamaica ginger, and 1 quart black molasses. Mix well and boil until strength is drawn from the tobacco and peppers." Firewater indeed.

In 1868, irate citizens of Fort Benton lynched their own town marshal in an effort to make the streets safe for extreme drunkenness. It seems someone had been stealing from passed-out
inebriates distributed about in the muddy streets of an evening. Townsfolk complained to the marshal, William Hinson, who said (regrettably, he may have thought later), "What our town needs is half a dozen hangings." A vigilante sting operation sent out a decoy drunk one night, and it was discovered that Hinson himself was the thief. The next day, the citizens told Marshal Hinson they knew who'd been stealing them blind, told him they were going to hang the fellow in half an hour, and asked him to bring a rope. And thus Hinson's last official act was supplying the noose for his own execution. The hanging site is right next to the present-day Episcopal church, and most citizens, I imagine, would be happy to point it out to you. I don't know. I didn't get to stay in Fort Benton very long because I was late. So was everyone else.

Bobbie Gilmore, a kayak guide, had come from Whitefish, Montana, hauling a trailer full of sea kayaks. My old pal, photographer Joel Rogers, came from Seattle with two of his friends, David Fox and Scott Wellsandt. Linnea Larson and I were driving in from the other direction, and we all got to Fort Benton at about the same time, which was several hours later than we'd planned. It was a graceful little town of shady neighborhoods and old brick buildings fronting the river. The Grand Union Hotel, once the finest accommodation between Minneapolis and Seattle, had been nicely refurbished. Wise travelers might have checked into the hotel and gotten a leisurely start in the morning. We packed up the kayaks in a frenzy of sweat and began having fun right away.

We paddled 45 minutes, until it was almost dark, set up our tents, prepared dinner—I don't recall what, it may have been Joel's quesadillas—and sat around the fire, catching our breath. There were no artificial lights anywhere and the stars were bright enough to cast shadows. It was a time for thoughtful comments on the journey ahead.

"You know," I said, settling back with a drink, "it takes a real moron to forget his sleeping bag."

"You forgot your sleeping bag?" Joel inquired.

"Isn't that what I just said?"

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