He laid Big Sally flat. Step one: Inspect. He ran his palm over every inch of PVC—found a pinhole leak near a seam, a frayed strap, a pebble lodged in a valve. “That pebble would’ve sunk you at the first eddy.”
Step five: The repack. He rolled the raft from bow to stern, squeezed out residual air like rolling a sleeping bag, then nestled it into the bag with the repair kit, pump adapter, and a laminated checklist. “Now,” he said, “when you’re thirty miles from a takeout and a rock snags your floor, you’ll know exactly where your patch is. Because you put it there.” raft repack
One rainy Tuesday, a young, cocky guide named Maya rolled in. Her raft, Big Sally , was a mess—sand in every fold, leaves glued to the floor, and a faint, sour smell of forgotten river water. He laid Big Sally flat
“Sit down,” Leo said. Not mean. Like a coach. “That pebble would’ve sunk you at the first eddy
Step two: Clean. Not a hose spray, but a gentle scrub with mild soap. Leo talked as he worked. “Dirt is an abrasive. Every grain grinds against the fabric when you drive over washboard roads. You’re not washing the raft. You’re giving it years back.”
“I need her repacked for a four-day permit on the Rogue,” Maya said, tossing the limp, heavy bundle onto Leo’s bench. “Just shove it in the bag. Fast.”