A true story:
I was guiding a group on a two-day trip down the Upper Klamath River near the Oregon California border. This wild, isolated stretch is one of the most demanding in the West, with more than thirty major rapids including the infamous Hell’s Corner Gorge. Pine clad ridges towered above granite canyon walls, and the river carved its way through them like liquid muscle. To guide here required respect, skill, and teamwork.
The group comprised of 11 strong and confident men in their thirties to fifties. They had hired me as their lead guide, with Eril, a younger man still learning the river, as my assistant. He was lean muscled and eager but not yet seasoned on the Klamath River..
On the gentler sections of the river, before the major rapids, I had trained my crews rigorously in safety drills and simulated rescues. That preparation proved invaluable, because as we entered the Class III rapids, we were suddenly caught in the middle of a real emergency. Two rafts from another group had overturned, one woman was injured, and the scene demanded swift, coordinated action.
My crews responded with courage and precision. We hauled swimmers from the current, rescued the injured woman, applied first aid, and ferried her to shore. Remaining alert, we pushed on through the gorge, steering carefully through the largest rapids. Each run was clean, and after some wild rides we were through.
I felt bonded with the men; proud of them. Their strength and composure had impressed me. I mused that this trip would be noted for camaraderie and respect. I was so wrong.
As we drifted on the calm waters leading to our pullout we were tired but content. This was rafting and companionship at its best! Later, when camp was set up, Eril and I prepared the evening meal accompanied by the good-hearted storytelling as the men recaptured the excitement of the gorge. As night fell, the mood shifted. While sitting around the fire, with bellies full, the hard liquor came out.
At first the talk was light and easy, but before long it took another turn. I overheard one man declare that this was, after all, a stag trip. We’d had no idea and were profoundly shocked. I dreaded what might follow. Before long pornographic pictures were passed around and the jokes about women grew louder and more crude. They laughed and nudged one another, urging me to join in.
I sat quietly, feeling uneasy. Only hours earlier we had faced danger together, acting with courage and trust. Now the same men were slipping into something darker, their words turning sharp and corrosive. They poured me drinks, insisting that my Aussie image would be tarnished if I refused. It was a familiar pressure, the kind I had known as a boy growing up in rural Australia; join in or be cast out.
My heart pounded. I recognised these crossroads; I had seen them in classrooms, buses of footballers, and locker rooms. To go along would betray everything I believed and taught. I spoke calmly but firmly, telling them I could not condone that kind of talk. Sexist jokes and language, however casual they may seem, are seeds that grow into disrespect and, too often, violence against women.
I reminded them of the courage and teamwork they had shown on the river and said that my joining in now would dishonour that spirit. I offered another idea, that we celebrate their mate’s marriage in a way that reflected the same respect and camaraderie we had shared on the water, the kind that honours everyone involved.
I had given it my best, but they brushed me off. Some laughed, others jeered. A few called me a spoilsport. My colleague Eril, looked uncomfortable, caught between me and the group, unsure what to do. I could not blame him. The men were bigger, louder, fuelled by alcohol, and locked into the rituals of a stag night.
As the evening wore on and the celebrations became more grotesque, I gathered my bedding and carried it upriver to a quiet meadow. The stars shone bright above, and the gurgle of the current echoed through the valley. From a distance I could still hear their laughter. I felt a mix of emotions; the ache of exclusion, though self-chosen, and the quiet relief of staying true to myself. That night I chose the company of stars over the comfort of conformity.
At dawn I returned to camp to prepare the boats. As I walked down the track, a sense of unease tightened my stomach. Something was wrong. When I reached the rafts, my fears were confirmed. Life-size blow-up dolls were lashed to the bows, bobbing obscenely in the morning breeze, turning the river into a stage for mockery.
I felt sick. The river had always been sacred to me, a place of beauty and balance, but the sight was grotesque. I was both disappointed and angry. I called the men together and told them the dolls must be removed, period. If not, the trip would end here, and we would all walk out.
For a long moment no one moved. Some laughed again, daring me to back down. One man, the Vietnamese son of a US soldier, stepped forward aggressively. The night before he had bragged about taking men on sex tours to Vietnam. Now he argued bitterly that the dolls should stay. Several men carried hunting knives on their belts, and though no one threatened me directly, I could feel the menace in the air.
My chest was tight, my pulse racing, but I stood my ground. I repeated with all the strength that I could muster, that the dolls must go. Silence stretched. Finally, with muttered curses, they relented. The dolls were cut free and pushed aside. We ate breakfast quickly and packed camp in uneasy silence.
As we launched, I worried about how the tension might affect our safety on the river. I asked Eril to check and double check, every knot, every strap, every buckle. My fingers trembled as I worked. Leading a raft trip on the Upper Klamath River demands quick thinking and clarity, but the conflict had left me dulled; feeling heavy.
We drifted in the current for a while until something unexpected happened.
Four of the six men in my raft turned toward me. Their voices were quiet, almost embarrassed. “Thanks,” one said. Another added, “Yeah, mate, we weren’t happy about it either.” A third spoke softly, “I was disgusted.” Encouraged by those who had spoken, the two others nodded, and conversation began to flow as we drifted on calm water. They spoke of wives, sisters, and women they loved. In the end they all admitted they had felt uncomfortable but had not dared to speak up.
Their honesty stunned me. I wondered how many men in the other raft felt the same. It struck me then that the loudest voices rarely speak for everyone; they often silence the quiet majority, who may need only one voice to remind them that standing apart can be the most courageous act of all.
That trip has stayed with me for years. It taught me again how powerful groupthink can be, and how lonely it feels to resist it. The pressure to belong is strong, and the cost of speaking up can be ridicule, exclusion, even danger. But silence has a deeper cost. Something inside you withers when you betray what you know is right.
On the Klamath I chose respect over belonging. My crew quietly thanked me for it. They had wanted to resist but needed someone to go first. That was enough. It reminded me that leadership is not about being popular; it is about standing firm so others see they can too.
I led that trip in the late 1990s, and my account has since appeared in magazines around the world. Of course it needed a quirker to drive it home.
Sexism on a River Rafting Trip
Eleven men on the Klamath run,
wild white water, heat and sun.
Rapids roared, our paddles true,
the river bonded our makeshift crew.
We pulled some rafters from a raging flow,
worked as one, our bond did grow.
I thought these blokes were strong, were true,
but night revealed a darker view.
The fire was lit, the liquor poured,
their talk of women I soon abhorred.
They called me soft, but I held my line,
better alone than serve their shrine
At dawn the rafts were dressed in shame,
blow-up dolls in a sick cruel game.
Knives on belts, the tension near,
yet still I stood, my choice was clear.
Later, when drifting in the morning light,
four men turned, their tone polite.
“Thanks for the stand you made today,
you showed our group there’s a better way.”
Copyright by Pip Cornall.
This is a true story and may be used with permission from the author to further violence prevention work against women. Pip, coming from a background in Physical Education and Outdoor Education, has worked with the Australian Sports Commission to help sporting organisations address issues of harassment and abuse in sport, including cases involving high-profile Olympic athletes.
He has delivered workshops in Australia and the US on male violence prevention. Pip has served as a conference convenor for the NSW Department of Juvenile Justice, worked with young offenders in Oregon and taught conflict resolution in Oregon schools.
These experiences eventually took him to the Senate and Congress in Washington, DC, where, as part of a delegation representing all American states, he met with senators and congressmen to promote the Department of Peace initiative, a program aimed at reducing all forms of violence both nationally and internationally.
Pip has published several small booklets; Sustainable Masculinity and Kicking a Goal for Masculinity. His latest book is soon to be released and there is a film or animation to follow.
Pip may be contacted at ManGood.com