There is a house in Idaho that has more stories and memories within its walls than a library. It's funny to look at a house and actually feel that you know something about it; something that most people don't know. The people occupying the house don't know what you know. They can't picture or feel what used to be.

The little garage, which has two cars in it now, was actually filled with boats, oars, and other rafting equipment. The backyard and gravel driveway used to be lined with coolers. The inside of the house, which is now cutely decorated and filled with pictures, used to house more than ten people every summer and be empty during the winter. The kitchen floor used to have a crack from the sliding glass door to the middle of the floor and was "patched" with duct tape. Beer, wine, and soda lined the dining room walls in anticipation of the coming trips.

My brothers and I grew up in that house. Twice a week we were called to the gorp snack production line. The summer went by in waves: one trip leaves, one trip comes back, one trip leaves. Guides came in and out and every so often, when the stars lined up perfectly and the trip schedule permitted, everyone would be home off the river. The barbeque would be pulled out from the garage and the party would begin.

I haven't been inside that house for years now but I don't need to because I know what that house was and what it still is. When I drive by, as I do every now and then, I still see my parents, myself, my brothers and all the guides I grew up with on the deck next to a smoking barbeque. The house was and still is a guide house, and there is something special about that.

By Will Volpert