The Salmon is one of the longest undammed rivers in the west. After heavy winter storms and spring thaws, volumes of water and debris flow down. As a result, the river changes, providing wild beauty and sport even for those who know it well.
For almost an hour, the rubber raft bounced through chop, the run long and safe enough for Quinn to find his rhythm and Ruby to overcome her anxiety. At the ranger station at Corn Creek, there were several rafting parties sorting and loading. River guides and passengers waved as they floated by. No rangers in sight.
They heard their first roar of white water eight miles south of Corn Creek. A sound that made them want to leap ashore. Ruby turned to Quinn for reassurance but his eyes were fixed on a narrow horizon that had dropped and vanished. Within seconds, they were sucked into the crashing current.
“Hold on!” he shouted.
Ruby seized a web of hoopie and braced herself.
Quinn’s limited task was to keep the craft from drifting out of center. Using the bow as rudder, he aimed into the tower of waves and gripped the oars. White water crashed over them, boulders rose on either side but without mishap, they shot through Rainier rapid into a serene green pool.
The roaring water was behind them. Only luck and the forgiving force of river had brought them safely through. Quinn had no illusions. He brooded how he’d manage the challenges of Devil’s Teeth, Salmon Falls, and Big Mallard.
“Your turn,” he smiled from his captain’s post, tossing Ruby the bailing bucket.
A mile farther, they saw an empty camp. Quinn angled the oars to maneuver them into an eddy, then rowed upstream to the beach. Two logs, a fire pit, and willows made a cooking area. A rock overhang provided shelter in case of rain. A bank of scree sloped up to a Douglas fir for privacy.
“Home,” he sighed as childhood feelings of playing house with Ruby Ryan rushed through him.
They pitched camp and watched parties of rafts, kayaks, and dories drift by to campsites farther downstream. Ruby marveled at the flat-bottom, colorful wooden dories, popular for river travel since the nineteenth century. Although less maneuverable and dull by comparison, the rafts were serviceable and dependable, hand-powered with paddles or oars. The only reminder of combustion engines were the noisy jetboats downshifting, bouncing over rapids, leaving trails of exhaust behind.
The clear river and pristine white sand, the forests on the sides of the mountains, the high ridges aflame at sunrise and sunset, the place belonged to Quinn’s father. It was the gift of place that his father and grandfather had passed down to him.
Upstream, a moose cow and calf dipped their heads into the river. The giant mother sashayed through the water and crossed to the other bank while the calf tottered on shore, watching her go and return. The mother repeated the exercise but the calf held back. When Quinn honked a poor imitation of a moose call, the cow turned toward the sound, then indifferently led her calf away.
“You ass!” Ruby said, their laughter exploding between the canyon walls.
They tumbled across the sand and slipped into the puddle-warm water at the shoreline. Ruby unpacked tuna, baked beans, green apples, bread. If they ate sparingly, their food would last a month. In their sleeping bags under a carpet of stars, she groped for Quinn’s hand.
“Eternity and infinity have affinity,” she said.
“Right,” he muttered, already asleep.