Veterans Travel to Snake River for Recovery

It was dark. The sky was black velvet with stars scattered about like diamond chips. I could sense the bear more than see it. Quicker than anything else its size it was in the tent with me. Grabbing my arm with its mouth it jerked me around like a child holding a rag doll. Violently. Rapidly. Up and down.

The shaking didn’t stop…until I woke up. I looked around. It wasn’t a bear. It was the flight attendant tugging on my shirt sleeve as she told me, “Please return your seat to its upright position. We’re about to land in Jackson Hole”.

Over the past four years, about 150 Vietnam, Iraqi and Afghanistan vets have descended on the Snake River in Wyoming. The mission? Several days of fly fishing on the largest river in the west. The purpose? To give veterans who had been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) an opportunity to “de-stress” in a safe environment.

The cost of the trip is absorbed strictly by private donations and doesn’t cost the veteran anything – except a few days – to participate in the trip. The only three things the vet has to do to qualify for the trip is to have been Honorably Discharged from the military, have PTSD as a diagnosis in their medical file and to successfully complete a thorough physical before getting to Wyoming.

Since I met the first two criteria – and knew I could pass the third – I contacted Rivers of Recovery, the organizers of the trip. I was interested in going along and wearing two hats.

One hat would be as a veteran. Diagnosed with PTSD in the mid 80s, long before the idea of the affliction became well known, I still have the occasional nightmares. I still jump when I hear sudden, unexpected, loud noises and I still set with my back to the wall when I go out to eat. And for a variety of reasons, I still sleep on a mattress on the floor. Lying in a regular bed keeps me so far from what feels safe; I end up staying awake most of the night.

The other hat I would be wearing would be as a photographer. Trying to capture these men as they stepped out of their lives and stepped – for most participants – into a new experience.

The first night we just relaxed around the fire at the fishing camp, just upstream a bit from the Palisades Reservoir which straddles the Wyoming/Idaho state line. After dinner it was just six old veterans doing what veterans do. Setting around, talking, gently probing, and trying to figure out could these other people be trusted. I was to find over the course of the next couple of days that they could not only be trusted, but would end up living in the backcountry of my soul for years to come.

Getting up early the next morning, we were shuttled about ten miles to a spot below the dam which creates Palisades to the boat landing. After deciding who would be fishing with who – two vets to a boat – each pair was assigned an experienced fishing guide that would show us where the best nooks and crannies to catch Cutthroats, Rainbows and Browns.

Drifting along with the current and alternating river banks our morning was spent casting, watching the strike indicator, reeling in the wet fly and re-casting. Since I had never fly fished before, it was a challenge to change from fishing with a standard rod and reel to fishing with a nine foot pole and a spool that was only used to hold the fishing line – not reel it in and out. But after a few minutes, I accomplished it and I could reliably put the wet fly within a two foot circle of where I wanted it to go. Settling into an easy rhythm I could soak up the scenery around me. Without giving much thought to the new mechanics my arms and hands had learned as the boat drifted downstream, I found my mind drifting back to other rivers in other times and places where the “excitement” was not the anticipation of catching a trout.

But my mind also drifted to my buddy Rick in the bow of the boat. Rick was a Marine in Vietnam, but not just a run-of-the-mill infantry type Marine. He was Recon. That special breed of Marine who would leave the safety of the firebase late at night and go several hundred feet into the jungle to probe for the enemy.

I’ve known Rick almost since I arrived in Asheville – he was one of the first people I met when I moved here. As the bonds of our friendship grew, strengthened and deepened, we slowly opened up to each other and shared hopes, dreams – and yes – fears. Things that people who pass us on the street would have no idea existed in our souls – and would be horrified if they knew.

As Rick fell into the same pattern as I did – cast, wait, take the line in – I could see the tension and stress melt off of his face like the snow melting from the Tetons just beyond the river. As if following the prescription of the water, the current of our the conversation swirled, got animated and quieted down only to repeat itself over again.

After eight hours on the river we were at the boat ramp. Time to tally our catch, load the boat on the trailer and head back to camp. Ken – our camp host and a Vietnam Vet himself – was in charge of the cooking. While he fixed a great dinner of burgers, steaks and salmon, the six of us lit a fire and settled in with coffee.

My conversation with Rick which had begun on the river continued and expanded to include the other 4 vets. While we sat in the growing darkness the conversation again drifted. From the calm waters of talking about our home lives, family and friends to the turbulent white water of our time in the service. As one guy talked about lost friends the river of tears flowed. The rest of us nodded in silence – empathizing with the loss that he felt and being reminded again that there is no shame when a Warrior weeps. In the quiet that followed we silently wrapped our hearts around the vet and let him know that while we did not know his friend, we shared experiences and places and we would “We Honor This Man”.

Each of us looked at all the other faces that were lightly lit by the the campfire and knew that everyone of us were brothers. Not with shared mothers and fathers, but rather shared experiences, hopes and fears were our common ancestors.

Slowly and individually each of us made our way to our tents. I crawled into my sleeping bag to watch the embers of the fire die as I fell asleep and dreamed again. This time not about a grizzly bear invading my space, but rather Rainbows, Cutthroats, Browns, five new friends – and a lady waiting for me when I got back to Asheville.


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