Francisco Martínezcuello
To the Newbie Green River Guide
The picture I took of you is geotagged, marked by the same satellites used to track troops, targets, and guide bombs, as well as spy on citizens both foreign and domestic. At first glance one can’t help but be in awe by the depth and beauty of the canyon, formed by tectonic stress, anticline, tributaries, and deep time. It’s easy not to focus on the yellow rubber raft that you, the sole passenger, and captain, traverse the rapids with all our luggage, supplies, and food. The left oar sticks out parallel to the water’s surface, slicing air, while the right one cuts through the river. You’re slumped over, head bowed, wearing full kit—donned life jacket with white helmet, shoulders rolled as if you were in a firefight.
It’s the last day of our four-day expedition, in early September 2019—the last Green River tour of the season. By the time you extract the vessel near Vernal, Utah you had paddled 44 miles through two states, by yourself. The sense of accomplishment summed up momentarily by your smile and deep breath. Your polarized sunglasses reflected our stares.
We were introduced at the Lodore Ranger Station (40.727300 N, -108.887000 W) in Colorado, right next to the launch ramp. You were subordinate to four senior river guides laying out our soon-to-be issued gear uniformly—you later learned that in the military we call it covered and aligned—on the dirt road. The gear included a life preserver, helmet, tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, and sophisticated GPS-enabled camera.
My squad was made up of thirteen veterans spanning in ages that represented at least three wars and conflicts. We flew into Salt Lake City airport from nearly each CONUS time zone on the fifth of September. Us vets spent that evening inside a lower-level hotel conference room floor at the University of Utah. We were given instructions by PhDs and psychiatrists from the university studying the healing power of nature on veterans. Yet again, part of another experiment like Edgewood Arsenal, where thousands of volunteer service members were exposed to chemicals ranging from mustard gas, sarin, LSD, and PCP, or more recently anthrax vaccination trials. We filled out forms like we did prior to deploying to combat zones—identifying next of kin, allergies, medications and signing waivers. We carefully answered mental health questionnaires the way Charles Blondin tightroped across the gorge below Niagara Falls, so as to not seem “too crazy” or suffering from stigmatic mental health disorders.
Prior to launch, you and your fireteam of guides droned on about standard operating procedures and safety briefs which we failed to pay attention to just like we did when we were in uniform. Some of us took last minute head calls, one of us used an oar as a phallus and thrusted the air violently while the rest laughed like we did when we were indoctrinated at our old units. A sense of familiarity. Unfazed, you divided us vets evenly into four rafts; your raft was loaded with our luggage packed in waterproof nylon bags. In order to be a full-fledged river guide you had one requirement left, navigate safely alone and keep your craft right side up through all eleven named rapids ranging in class I-III. A crucible, to earn your stipes.
We launched into the river. Each guide commanded their respective raft—barking commands at us to paddle in sync. You were surprised by our lack of hesitation and strict obedience to orders. We quickly executed each command—speeding up, slowing down, forward, backward, turning when directed. We did not pay attention to your safety brief and yet we easily passed the man overboard drill when our guide jumped into the chilly waters dramatically calling for help. The lesson was not lost on us—when you feel like you’re drowning, just ask for help. I sometimes wonder what I would do.
I don’t remember much after that initial interaction. I took a lot of pictures, previewing them on the screen. Overly critical about my method—disappointed when there was too much light or not enough. Keep it steady, I thought, in between breaths, slow, steady, squeeze—every photo a kill shot.
I captured the smallness of us, among the rocks, against time. I thought about the strength of water, eroding the earth a foot every thousand years. The river reducing the rocks to sediment and taking the remains with it.
I took selfies with my crew before and after each rapid to capture the adrenaline the way I used to on patrol. Aggression and speed was our center of gravity, punching through the rapids. The swirling waters making noise, the way water leaves a faucet. We fought the current with our paddles as if we could ever defeat it.
Your approach was different. Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. Calculating the path even if it meant taking a longer route to avoid underwater obstacles or shallow waters. You shifted your weight, turned the vessel, navigated backward when necessary to stay afloat, to pass your test. Your discipline is patience.
It wasn’t all easy for us. I remember you got stuck between a couple of boulders and asked for a gentle nudge to break free. My crew particularly enjoyed trying to flip you over and you let out a nervous laugh when we failed.
On the fourth day it got cold and rained a lot, which made for beautiful waterfalls along the cliffs. The winds were so strong, trees nearly uprooted. You and the rest of the guides considered canceling the remainder of our trip, which would’ve meant you’d automatically fail. We took a longer lunch, a soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich with waterlogged chips on the menu, to see if the winds would calm just enough. I could sense you were uneasy. It was as if nature was mad at us. We were unwelcome and I wonder if at that moment you felt what it was like to be a vet. But the wind gusts were not as strong after an hour.
I shivered. I haven’t felt hyperthermic since Afghanistan. I couldn’t stop shaking, my pictures were blurry—except for the ones I took of three bald eagles perched like sentinels on a ledge, providing overwatch the way we used to in Iraq. I stopped shaking enough to snipe a picture of one in flight.
It was prior to our departure when I noticed your bloody hands. You wrapped medical tape to prevent your calluses from ripping. It didn’t work. Two of the vets were medics and offered their expertise which you politely declined. I wondered about the weight of shame and pride, how a civilian would react to receiving care from Army medics who shoved trach tubes into their best friends during a firefight or after an IED blast. How trivial you might think ripped hands would be. But blood is blood.
You kept rowing. You put your head down—a complete disregard for obstacles, unlike before. Steering straight to minimize distance. Breaking all discipline.
A couple of weeks after our trip, a psychiatrist would check in on us vets with a phone interview. We had a homework assignment, to pick the one picture that is most memorable and talk about why it was so impactful.
I thought about being out in the elements, and how cold I was those four days, but it was nothing compared to the pain we inflict on each other or ourselves.
Your picture is geotagged, Benny, but I don’t need grid coordinates, lats and longs, or a cardinal direction to find Lodore. I do not need a guide anymore.
“Like many veterans, I struggled transitioning out of the military, but I started going to therapy a few years before I retired. It was during this time I realized how important mental health was and my therapist recommended I start to take on new hobbies instead of staying indoors—which is why I got a motorcycle. I also started to do more outdoor activities, and I saw an ad on social media about a Veterans River Study being conducted by the University of Utah. So, I signed up and it was a four-day trip where veterans rafted and camped on the Green River. We had a lot of homework—take pictures, journal, take daily psych tests. This experience really helped me, because it was the fall of 2019 and it was wild to think just a few months later, we would all be collectively isolated. It was during the pandemic when I wrote the first draft and cried thinking about Benny. I still get emotional every single time I read the last two sentences of the story. There are so many ghosts floating down the Green River.” —Francisco Martínezcuello
Francisco Martínezcuello is a graduate of the UC Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism. He was born in Santo Domingo, República Dominicana and raised on Long Island, New York. His passion for storytelling began as a teenager and continued throughout his 20 years of Marine Corps service. He is an Into the Fire Writing Retreat Scholarship Recipient, a Virginia Center for the Creative Arts Fellow, and a contributing co-editor of the veteran anthology, Incoming: Sex, Drugs, and Copenhagen. Francisco’s literary work has been published in Hippocampus Magazine, Iron & Air Magazine, The Line Literary Review, Hobart Pulp, Split Lip Magazine, River Teeth: Beautiful Things, Collateral Journal and the Dominican Writer’s Association. Publications and social media are posted on his website: www.themotorcyclewriter.com.