Bungholes and Bodacious Bounces

OF AMERICAN RIVERS outside Alaska, the undammed Salmon, the River of No Return, is one of the longest entirely within a single state, and probably the most unabused big one, chiefly because its lower two thirds passes through the least accessible large tract in the contiguous forty-eight, a fiercely mountainous region where roads cease and humans thin to almost nothing along a chasm deeper than the Grand Canyon and second only to Hell’s Canyon not far distant; for 180 miles the Salmon gorge is more than a mile down. It is the only river Lewis and Clark turned away from. Meriwether wrote of Sacagawea’s brother explaining the terrain:

 

I now prevailed on the Chief to instruct me with rispect to the geography of his country. This he undertook very cheerfully by delienating the rivers on the ground. But I soon found that his information fell far short of my expectation or wishes. . . . He placed a number of heeps of sand on each side which he informed me represented the vast mountains of rock eternally covered with snow through which the river passed. That the perpendicular and even juting rocks so closely hemned in the river that there was no possibilyte of passing along the shore; that the bed of the river was obstructed by sharp pointed rocks and the rapidity of the stream such that the whole surface of the river was beat into perfect foam as far as the eye could reach. That the mountains were also inaccesible to man or horse. He said that this being the state of the country in that direction that himself nor none of his nation had ever been further down the river than these mountains.

 

Not fully trusting Indian geography, Clark followed a “wolf path” over the high and broken north bank for fourteen miles only to reach a vista running to a horizon of ridge after ridge of rough metamorphic rock uplifted into a chaos of ten-thousand-foot mountains. He said:

 

This river is about 100 yards wide and can be forded but in a few places. Below my guide and maney other Indians tell me that the Mountains Close and is a perpendicular Clift on each Side, and Continues for great distance and that the water runs with great violence from one rock to the other on each Side foaming & roreing thro rocks in every direction So as to render the passage of any thing impossible.

 

Clark, who not once recorded a disparaging word about his friend, named this most difficult of rivers, the impossible one, the Lewis, and the Expedition bypassed it to go north into mountains that nearly killed them before they reached easier descent on the Clearwater. A century later, a settler said the Salmon gorge looked like “Creation chopped it out with a hatchet.”

We planned to put in immediately above the mouth of the Lemhi, at the island under the Main Street Bridge in the county-seat town of Salmon, and follow the morning shadow of the Continental Divide twenty-two miles to North Fork where the river turns west to assume broad bends and a generally direct course toward the Pacific. The rock-riven river drops more than three thousand feet from our starting place to the mouth, a distance of only 130 air miles. Pilotis said, “This isn’t a river—it’s a wet elevator.” If we could stay off boulders and get through sixty-some rapids, the least of them greater than anything we’d yet encountered, the hard current would give us a swift float. On the international rating scale, rapids on the Salmon range up to 4 (“difficult”), with the exception of the one nearly at its mouth, a mean constriction with the seemingly playful name of the Slide which in high water can become a class 6, “a substantial hazard to life.” I asked a fellow, What’s it like? “Roughern a stucco bathtub.” Because of our assigned departure date, we could not wait for the water to subside even though we knew the final rapid was at that moment impassable by boat or on foot. If the Salmon didn’t drop sufficiently before we reached the Slide, we’d be trapped there until it did.

The ominous nickname River of No Return refers not to self-destruction but to the inability of early-day boats to ascend againstcurrent and rocks; a scowman might dare his way down, but he couldn’t fight his way back up. Other than my wish to follow westering American history, it was the Salmon that made me decide months earlier not to cross America west to east and thereby gain twenty-five hundred miles of down-bound Missouri River. From the late nineteenth century to the Second World War, big wooden scows carrying cargo (and an occasional tourist) to gold mines and a few homesteads all ended up as tunnel shoring, barroom floors, brothel walls, outhouse seats. With the advent fifty years ago of powerful, lightweight vessels, especially the jet boat, the Salmon became a River of Grudging Return because what it lacks in depth and width and open channels it makes up for in velocity and turbulence, and its comparative narrowness is a poor measure of its power, its beauty a subterfuge for potential havoc. Our chart book warned, “The Salmon is not a place for the novice boater. Accidents can occur in seconds, but rescue can take many hours. The cost in both lives and dollars can be enormous.” Of the rivers we’d used or would yet use, the Salmon had by far the fewest travelers but, I suspected, the highest fatality rate.

 

The Salmon, Baker to Snake Confluence, 260 river miles

 

On a Tuesday morning in early July, we assembled beneath the bridge to meet our outfitter, don life vests, and get in his twenty-two-foot Hypalon raft, a flexible boat stiffened by a steel frame. Under fair skies we set out on a kind of shakedown cruise before all of our contingent joined us at the entrance to the so-called primitive area where stone vies with water for mastery of the gorge. Our helmsman was Bill Bernt, a former Nebraskan by way of Missouri, now a two-decade resident of the Salmon country, a forty-seven-year-old who knew the river and its lore—a craftsman of cataracts. For a few days I was de-skippered and could sit back to take in the territory and enjoy the first leg of our coast to the coast. Again, because of a frequent certain sameness hour to hour, I will push along the narrative with my logbook:

 

TUESDAY, DAY ONE

 

B[ill] B[ernt] lanky, boy’s face still showing beneath weathering; thinning hair almost always under hat to keep pate from western sun; in college studied “something that had to do with angiosperms and gymnosperms, and I’ve forgotten much of even that.” Speaks slowly, calmly, precisely, western drawl; calls his outfitting company Aggipah, shortened version of Shoshone name for the Salmon, Tom-agit-pah, “Big-fish-water.” He guesses current at seven mph. Almost immediately we pass through several standing waves that raft tries to bend itself to fit, water we begin calling jolly rollers or, where accompanied by a “pit,” holey rollers. BB sits amidships to work long oars, not for propulsion but only to keep us pointed downstream. Morning full of Lewis’s woodpeckers, another species Corps of Discovery brought into American ornithology; in all my travels, never saw this bird before—now a couple every mile. Eastward high cliffs of sedimentary rock; on west sky-shredding metamorphic rises; stones close to river covered with yellow lichens like mirrors reflecting sun. Motorless, we can talk where rapids don’t drown us out, hear birdsong and rattle of cottonwoods. Too easy to be real travel. BB: “Count on it to change.” Indeed: soon after, blue sky dies and turns black as if decaying, wind cracks down hard, brings sheet rain, and we scramble ashore forhalf shelter of tall outlier called Tower Rock. Half hour later proceed on; to starboard is U.S. 93, one of the loneliest federal highways in America, but not here with houses and more going up; goodbye old valley; at last, relief of hay meadows; along banks magpies flit and natter in serviceberries. Average annual rainfall about eight inches, virtual desert we’re floating through. Pass big cottonwoods holding heronry of 150 nests, gawky birds gawking as do we; one lets fly squirt of excreta that could sink canoe. Nature’s opinion of us. Valley narrows to limit human works; on hills beyond grow shrubby and twisted mountain mahogany, wood so heavy it won’t float. P[ilotis]: “Widely used in the early days for Salmon River submarines—if only the water had been more than six feet deep.” Arrive North Fork late afternoon; will enter Wild and Scenic section tomorrow. Compared to past ones, day so uneventful feel I’ve been on Sunday outing, not transcontinentaling. P: “Why do you think our passage must be continual travail? You’ve got to adjust to going downhill. Quit uprivering. Just follow the drainage down.”

 

WEDNESDAY, DAY TWO

 

Adage here: “The river peaks when the roses bloom.” Someone tell it: Petals are dropping. I ask BB how far unsteered raft might go in this water: “One got loose a few weeks ago and traveled fourteen miles before it got hung up. An untended boat can do embarrassingly well.” Especially if not loaded down. At ten A.M. we make big turn west; each mile now deeper into wilderness. Pacific, here we come. Gravel road along bankside stops on below after forty-six miles; I wished it ended sooner; P: “Sure of that?” Escaped European plants, common tansy and knotweed, creeping into canyon, making problems for natives; another metaphor. Tansy, strange tansy: its oils can promote menstruation, but tea from steeped leaves can help prevent miscarriage (Make sure Doc gets it straight). Beautiful spread of virgin’s bower draping over banks, and actually forming bower; also called traveler’s joy, don’t know why; Indians chewed peppery stems to ease sore throats and crushed roots to place in nostrils of horses to invigorate them. Long pool named Deadwater requires oaring through; slow passage makes P groggy—needs a snootful of traveler’s joy. Photog[rapher] apprehensive about big rapids ahead. Relax, I say, a river can smell fear. Dump Creek Rapids mild, tune-up for what’s coming. BB points out logjam in sidewater where canoeist drowned last week. Cliffsslowly closing in and forested where not purely rock or too steep; creeks entering every couple of miles. Only beauty keeps canyon from being forbidding. Try lunch stop but mosquitoes drive us on; eat in raft: homemade antelope and elk jerky and fresh grapes—excellent. See occasional derelict gold diggings, but most signs of humanity are CCC projects from thirties: pack bridges, narrow road, campsites. Pass below high vantage where Wm. Clark looked westward and knew the Salmon was not Northwest Passage, but for us this dark jagged, ragged, snaggled, scraggled, cragged, and haggard gorge is a NW Passage. What were Clark’s words? [“Those rapids which I had Seen (the Indian guide) said was Small & trifleing in comparrison to the rocks & rapids below at no great distance & The Hills or mountains were not like those I had Seen but like the Side of a tree Streight up.”]

Above us grave of H. C. Merritt who drowned in 1884 while passenger in supply scow. Stop to walk at Shoup, once gold-rush village, now only couple of buildings remain; place heavily salvaged in 1941 for armament metal; gold to guns. BB says last hand-crank phone system in U.S. here until recently. On again, deeper into narrows, on beyond Clipper Bullion Mine, richest around: sixty-five million tons of mountain torn out for thirteen pounds of gold, about enough to decorate neck of NFL wide receiver. Ever darker, more serrated cliffs of metamorphic gneiss, their age spectacular billion and half years although canyon only (!) about forty million years.

Line of white across river is Pine Creek Rapids echoing up gorge; I think nothing of it till BB quits talking, his silence more disturbing than roar of river. Then he says only, “Get hold of something.” I’ve looped line around steel frame and will try to ride through on bucking stern bronco-buster style; want to feel river, feel the surge and rip, get rid of passive passage. BB pulls hard to set up for drop, water louder, boulders now visible, and jumbled river looks like tops of thunderheads, rising, changing color, water trying to become air, rock trying to resist becoming water. Current grabs claws into raft, point of no return; bow drops about four feet, seems to pause atop standing wave then stern drives it forward into hole, our heads snapping back—crack-the-whip. Second pause, then everything repeats, and third one; pounds hell out of me till rowdydow lies at our backs and raft quits crumpling, straightens atop tailwaters, and on we go. We do as novices do after first good banger, laugh with joy and relief. Real transcontinental passage! P: “So that’s what it’s like to go down theRockies by water.” BB: “A little bit.” Six bighorns make impossible walk down nearly vertical rock face to drink from river—amazing feat/feet. Ahead Dutch Oven Rapids, double set looking worse than last but prove only commensurate. A mile beyond, canyon now shadowy in late afternoon, we pull ashore near Panther Creek. Made twenty-seven miles—seems like ten. P: “I like this downhill stuff.”

In evening, conversation about sign we saw a few days ago: HUNGRY? EAT AN ENVIRONMENTALIST. Such antagonism, often manufactured by big self-serving corporations or Farm Bureaus, makes solutions ever more difficult. The Salmon received Wild and Scenic designation through compromise, including controlled use of jet boats. Photog: “I agree with looking for common ground, but in this place it just seems that people should have to earn their way in. Jets are too easy.” When I fall asleep, I’m imagining difficulty—the Slide.

 

THURSDAY, DAY THREE

 

I fear, above anything else on this river, losing my logbook; better I should go under than this most important object in my life. Entries in waterproof ink and journal bagged in plastic and boxed in aluminum where it stays while on river as I rely on pencil and pocket notebook; if I saw logbook go down I’d dive for it—stupid but necessary resolve. Morning of gentle rapids; stop at old homestead now cherry orchard where owner lets us climb and pick; one “wild” tree gives sweetest fruit. P: “The wild is always sweetest to you whether it’s—” Cease! Along riverbank large serviceberry; blueberryish, seedy but pleasing, exotic taste like something out of Asia. Indians desiccated fruits and mixed them with dried bison meat to make pemmican. Spot first dipper of voyage, little loonies that walk underwater to feed. P thinks river may have dropped slightly from yesterday. Realize running out of water is no longer concern! Lake Creek Rapids give such mild bounce, I ask to start going through the heart of drops, and so we do next one, Proctor Creek Rapids. Oarsman lines us up to “thread the needle.” Keep her dead-on now! He does. Thump into standing waves, fall into big hole, unexpected pit, and I go flying forward, crashing into P, then bouncing up toward side. P reaches desperate arm out to grab me and yank me back into raft; saves me! Then second drop trounces us until we’re a tangle in bottom of boat; river quiets; both P and I hurting, begin to unsort ourselves: This is my leg. That’s your arm. No, that’s mine. Whose knee is this? I don’t care, take it. Too skinny for me. All right, maybe it is mine. What about this hand? The one with the bleeding finger or the bent thumb?

Half mile farther, rapids with name I didn’t catch. Set myself more securely. Rollers, too goddamn big to be jolly, carry us up, give that horrible pause; all I see ahead is yawning black hole, a grave if I ever saw one. Nerve fails and I dive to bottom of raft where P and I again bounce like beans in a hopper, all of us drenched. Raft bounds into easy afterward, and P says, “Wet your pants, cowboy?” How would I know?

Seated again, determined not to dive anymore, I ask, Can a poor helmsman turn a class 3 rapid into a 4? Perhaps. Photog, working to enjoy white water, says, “What if we miss the slot at the Slide?” Chance for one of my favorite quotations: “Only the curious, if they live, have a tale worth telling.” Somebody else: “Live little, change little.” P: “Live lots, change your lot with the dead.” Somebody: “What is this, a competition of homilies?”

Just past beautiful canyon of Middle Fork of the Salmon, otter watches, plunges to cover. Fountain Creek pours long and lovely white tail/trail of water down high cliff. P: “Want to shoot that little drop, buckaroo?” Reach Corn Creek where road ends and serious rapids begin, but that’s tomorrow. Take rooms at lodge across river. By early evening, rest of contingent arrives for next five days of descent; we’re now a baker’s dozen ready for grand inaccessibility.

 

FRIDAY, DAY FOUR

 

Near cabin is Butts Creek (never mind name—one of prettiest rills I’ve ever seen); follow it up slope; in mountain mahogany, watch thrifty little orb weaver take her web down, roll it into tidy ball, tuck it under small branch. We now have two more helmsmen for two more inflatable rafts: fifteen-foot “paddleboat” (requires us to use paddles) and twenty-two-foot sweepboat (steered by long, rudder-like oars fore and aft, modification of nineteenth-century Ohio River flatboats). Sweeps used here on scows years ago; although our version mainly for supplies, P and I will take it today to get sense of how such things rudder through big rapids. Like its predecessors, it’s unwieldy and at risk between rock slots and tough to coax out of slack water (so we hear).

Under way into the big Seldom Seen, and soon into rapids—Killum (too mild today to deserve name) and Gun Barrel (shoot through). Near Legend Creek take break under cliff and climb a ways to see wall of orange-red pictographs of two mounted men and several dots and arrows. P says haltingly, “Let’s see, yes, yes, aha! ‘Two horsemen four days away—on warpath.’ Oh, excuse me, we’re not supposed to know how to read these things yet.” First people in canyon about eight thousand years ago, although figures here, as horses prove, no more than c. three hundred years old, yet, finger marks in iron-oxide paint clear as if drawn last week. What did scribe think of the gorge? What is this red message? A river song?

Roll on until reach rivulet pouring hard and clear into the Salmon; no beaver dams higher up, so send man to fill jugs; assume it’s giardia-free; better be—we’re not purifying water, and this no place for illness. Deep canyon only about hundred yards wide now, river less than half that; hotter, drier north slopes (facing south) have ponderosa; cooler, moister south side with firs; area never seriously logged, no clearcuts visible. Along steep cliffs mountain goats move as if aerial creatures; wonder they haven’t evolved wings. Move through two slackwaters so slowly tiger swallowtails alight on shoulders, heads—burly Photog looks to be wearing yellow bow. In faster water, dragonflies whip up and stop cold atop us for little ride; makes me feel welcome. River wordless but not silent like infant who hasn’t learned to speak. P: “Is there anything else in inanimate nature so companionable as a river?” Ask that when we head into the Slide.

Now on our starboard is Pacific time zone although we won’t really enter it for another five or six days. Sit back in easy water and feel pull of ocean, one of finest sensations I’ve known on voyage. On the Missouri we moved always with sense “this could be our final mile,” but not here, not with certainty of gravity at our backs and promise of at least four more months of open water once we leave the Salmon. Now we measure days not by miles but by next big rapid or degree of shadow in deep gorge; dusk and dawn here seem to last for hours and midday but a moment. Life in a narrow realm.

Stop at pleasant beach of white quartz sand by mouth of Little Squaw Creek. Set up tents, bull snake crawls from under logs, examine it, release it; pour out half cup of Old Mister Easy Life; supper, no mosquitoes; sit listening to newcomers tell what’s been happening in cities; lie back on warm sand to watch starlight slip down the deep night, count meteors.Overhear passionate P in discussment: “Of course William Carlos Williams could have written ‘The mind can never be satisfied,’ but there’s no poetry in that. The poetry is in what you call ‘wordy’: ‘It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.’ Don’t you hear the difference? I’ll bet you’re a Republican.” Steady, I say. Photog quiets things by announcing his favorite song is “Celery Stalks at Midnight.” Then he says, “Did anybody ever hear the Toad Suck Symphony play? They’re very good.” Last thing I remember is meteor number five and the way long river trips quite knock one off one’s chump.

 

SATURDAY, DAY FIVE

 

During summer, six thousand people go down “Main” Salmon, but we’ve seen only dozen or so. Permit system works well and so do regulations that make campsites seem almost pristine: except for useless notions, we carry out everything we bring in, from ashes to dejecta; we do not bathe with soap in river; even drag a branch over footprints when we leave. Gorge nearly free of floating detritus, including elsewhere-omnipresent Styrofoam; also cattleless. BB says wherever number of cattle goes up, big game goes down—guaranteed. Photog, inventing: “I hereby found upon this spot habitat —Hunters Against Bovines in the American Timberlands.” We are in area where USFWS reintroduced gray wolves a few months ago; much grumbling in Lemhi Valley about it and praise for rancher who illegally plugged a wolf; mantra there is “Shoot, shovel, shut up.” Yet we saw time and again certain favored painting of wolf approaching its quarry and entitled Woe the Prey! Mythic fascination with what they otherwise kill and hide.

Onto river under continued excellent skies—how long can such perfection hold for us in open rafts? I move to paddleboat, snap on required helmet; each person slowly matching expectations to vessel proper to fulfill them; moving over to big sweepboat are those who put too high a price on exhilaration. Under way, mild water. Stop at hot spring once used by scowmen; climb rocks to semi-natural cauldron and, six at a time, get in. Water, although cooled by second spring, at first so hot it’s uncomfortable; men make interesting faces when they feel their ballocks about to be cooked, surely some atavism to preserve generations. Soak out Atlantic anxietudes. Photog: “This is the first time you’ve gotten us into hot water that I’ve liked.”

Return to cold rapids, standing waves we can paddle through, wetted but not thrown; then Bailey Rapids where sweepboat cannot set up in time and gets pulled through sideways. Little oarsman pitched down, struggles to feet only to catch wildly swinging rudder across jaw that puts him down again; rises slowly, gamely, automatically, and grabs control as boat emerges; terribly close call. Worst part of watching friends go through bad rapids is being helpless to prevent accident. Soon after, we pull up at narrow sand ledge for night, supper of grilled chicken, rice, salad, stories. Cap Harry Guleke, a century ago one of first to descend river and perhaps greatest of Salmon scowmen—his motto, “Until a man is afraid, he’ll be all right”—went downstream to assist injured person and returned some weeks later. Asked how things went, he said, “Done what I could for him.” What was that? “Buried him.” We’re a hundred miles down the No Return.

 

SUNDAY, DAY SIX

 

Before breakfast seven of us hike toward rumor of fine waterfall. Route goes up edge of forested canyon, trail only eight inches wide; no place for misstep; one fellow turns back, but seventy-eight-year-old V—[of the Doctor Robert] continues but can’t keep pace. Bringing up rear, I find him standing dazed, stung by hornets when he stumbled against ground nest; lumps on forehead, neck; says he’ll pause and maybe return to camp; I go on; way gets worse in boulder field with rocks size of haycocks. Hear yell from behind; go back to find V— has taken tumble; bleeding but determined to see alleged waterfall; wait with him then on we go, up big rocks, using hands to climb; rumor turns to splendid cataract of three drops into pools. Our other hikers there. In 4,500 miles we’ve had no accidents until we became thirteen people; feel I’d overstep myself were I to set down guidelines, but what if I don’t? I say only to stay together on return. They don’t.

Stop to watch moose; hear birdsong somewhere above, telltale notes. Can it be at last? The one I want to see most? Scan ponderosa with binocs—yes! Most brilliantly colored western songbird—western tanager! M. Lewis first to describe it, coincidentally, one he saw not far north of here. More participatory history.

Return to camp, breakfast of eggs and asparagus that horrifies Photog whose culinary acme is mashed potatoes. Set out into day promising to be continual rapids, including Big Mallard, second only to the Slide in threat. High water turns lesser ones into jolly rollers that merely drench; “coxswain” calls to paddlers “Right!” or “Left!” to align raft for drops. Above Big Mallard, pull ashore to dispatch Photog and J[ohn]B for photos of our passage. Give them time to climb high bank, then we push off. Hear roaring around bend; noise with unseen cause more alarming than when source evident; finally see rapids ahead. Oh no, view is worse: two great rocks to shoot between, wall of water, river gone vertical, battling stone for dominance; we’re innocents wanting only passage. Uneasy chattering, then we fall dead silent, adjust helmets, boatman tries to align with slot, paddlers ready for commands, current locks on, tension of commitment, into standing wave, up, pause, ahead black hole, worst I’ve seen, all around water confounded, down the bejeezis we go into thundering pit, spines slammed, necks whipped back, center of maelstrom, raft twisting, contorting, waiting for kick-out, only sound of roaring water, then up, charging forward again into daylight. Saved! Oh god! Into another vortex that holds water higher than sides of boat. Raft more vertical than I thought possible, down again, ditto, ditto, ditto, then onto tailwaters, emergence, sunshine, alive. Eventually, P: “That, friends, is one reason the Northwest Passage is a fiction.” Pause to watch sweep come through—logbook aboard—down, up, and out, once more safely; away from rapids they look like kiddie play. Ashore to pick up Photog and JB, but they don’t appear. Impatient member grumbles about waiting: “Let the oarboat take them.” Thinking of my indecision of morning and injuries, I say we’re not moving until they turn up. Muttering. Finally I get out and start up bank of jeopardous boulders treacherous as rapids in front of them; could snap leg clean off in here. Men nowhere to be seen. Return to boat—not there either. Waiting. “We’re wasting time!” P speaks for me: “So would you waste a life?” Back over rocky shore. See glint off helmet, go toward it. JB sitting blankly, not speaking, ashen. Photog says JB fell headfirst down bouldered bank. Ask: Can you wiggle your fingers? Does so. Raise your arm? Does. Stand? No answer. What’s your name? What year is it? Who’s President? Slow answers. Down to cold river to soak my shirt and wrap around his head and neck; begins to revive, talks sentences, lifts legs. Stay here. Return to raft and two of us cordelle it upstream, terrible task over rocks, current against us; put JB aboard; he’s considerably unnerved. On downriver to shady lunch stop; he revives further and goes into talking jag; calms slowly. Who would have thought walking around Big Mallardwould be more dangerous than rafting through it? What if he hadn’t been wearing helmet? Dead probably. Someone: “How long would it take to get a guy out of here?” Another: “In this place, he who dies slowest has the best chance.” P: “Enough!”

Again to river: onward, downward, seaward. Elkhorn Rapids almost equal to Big Mallard; on farther, high water turns Growler into purring rollers. At Ruff Creek pull up for night on another fine, if narrow, sand strip where we swim until 65-degree water too much; strike out against current to see what it’s like—I manage only to stay in place. After much paddlework today, P says, “I feel my hands turning to fins.” Supper is trout we carried in; two anglers have caught only three squawfish and one old tire, probably from abandoned mining camp. As stars appear, I tell an intimate story to my friend who worries about his memory, then say, Forget it now. He: “Easily done.” Made only nine miles today.

 

MONDAY, DAY SEVEN

 

Years ago old cargoman took big wooden scow down the Salmon. One rapids after another tore it up, forcing him to cannibalize it for repairs; by time he reached Riggins he was in boat “without hardly room for his butt.” Day uneventful although we stop often, once at gold mine abandoned sixty years ago but recently bought by jerk who hauled bulldozer to his pocket of private land within Wild & Scenic segment and began tearing things up, threatening to subdivide acres, all with idea he could scare government into buying him out; feds ignored him, and now dozer sits rusting, trapped by River of No Return. Reach Mackay Bar and old ranch, now lodge served by pocket airstrip; a few of us rent house there; showers, beverages on porch where P says, “That last rapids we’ll face, it keeps turning up in odd corners of my mind. A while ago the part of my brain that helps me dress found the Slide under a clean shirt.” Yes, I confess too, I got a glimpse of it behind the bathroom mirror. “What’s happening to us?”

 

TUESDAY, DAY EIGHT

 

Morning. Someone calls into room, “Did you know Nikawa spelled backwards is Awakin?” Throw boot. River full of long backeddies we enter to wait until sweepboat comes along; currents gently haul us upstream right next to the hard charge down of main river; weird sensation, seems impossible. Metamorphosed canyon walls cooked brown by ancient subterranean fires; a few stands of Pacific yew (Taxol), more ponderosa. Along north bank is Gospel Hump Wilderness. P: “What’s a gospel hump?” Somebody: “Ask one of those de-churched evangelists.” Rapids mild, helmsman lets me steer paddleboat through. Pleasure of white water lies in its navigation; otherwise it’s theme-park ride—almost. Dried Meat Rapids our oarsman calls Dead Meat because five people drowned here thirty years ago, including helmsman named Lucky; but for us Wet Meat is more accurate. Hot day produces water fight. After twenty quiet miles, we make camp on triple terrace beach at Johnson Creek; take nippy swim. Around evening campfire—our fire in large metal pan so we don’t mark sand—our baker’s dozen, on last night together, bestow on me Trogdon Memorial Peckerwood Award (unspecified whether for conduct or frequent use of term); trophy is driftwood remarkably like Lewis’s woodpecker (jokes about that and Clark’s nutcracker); all sign it; lucky they didn’t find one shaped like posterior of horse. Night so lovely we sleep outside tents, under rotation of stars, beneath clock of heavens; all around small conversations dying out slowly like embers until only river speaks, and I remember old riddle-song:

 

You passers-by

who share my journey,

you move and change,

I move and am the same;

you move and are gone,

I move and remain.

 

WEDNESDAY, DAY NINE

 

Pack for departures; quickly under way and soon out of Wild & Scenic portion. Only five miles to our point of separation but way is hearty rapids, fitting farewells to those leaving; soak all peckerwoods down. Arrive Carey Creek at head of west-end road; reorganize gear and four of us move to another oarboat, this one fitted with small outboard motor for run from here to Clarkston. Goodbyes.

Four of us, plus BB at helm, continue on; pass accurately named Fall Creek—drops five thousand feet in five miles—now that’s a wet elevator. An hour out, the Salmon deepens and slows enough to use ten-horsemotor for first time, and we putt through warm afternoon, country much more open, vast treeless hills, no longer gorge but valley, gravel road again alongside, a few dwellings, great wilderness behind. We all feel a letdown, especially when we pass island some screw-you-world guy keeps sheep on in winter; when spring rise comes, it flushes manure— E. coli and giardia—right on downstream; such poisoning still permitted. Past Music Bar, name having nothing to do with harmonics; rather, years ago German miner Fritz Music lived near; so fearful of serpents he walked the seven miles to town with metal stovepipes clanking around his legs. Explain to P how snake is ancient Indian symbol for river.

Water makes sweeping curve toward little Riggins atop steep and high bank; find rooms, showers, and supper where BB says, “We had one old raft we’d pump up in the morning to get it going, pump it again at lunch to keep it going, pump it at bedtime to keep it from sinking.” P: “There’s my life in a sentence.”

 

THURSDAY, DAY TEN

 

From Riggins, the Salmon runs about fifty miles north before making broad loop topped by six-mile horseshoe, then continues due south to confluence with Snake River. Photog asks will we meet the Slide today, and BB: “Don’t rush it. Give it time to drop.” Every hour should help. Photog: “I just want it over with.” If we rush it, that’s exactly what could happen. Below Riggins, pass under “Time Zone Bridge” and enter Pacific clock; small cheer goes up. Water easy although many jolly rollers; to starboard for about thirty miles runs U.S. 95; people wave from car; reminds me of I-90 along Erie Canal—seems I’ve lived many lives since then. On the Salmon I descend like Cleopatra in her barge; sit royally atop baggage which I fashion into soft throne; or, in slack water, sometimes stretch out on locker box; take notes, pictures, speak little, just delight in such happy pace down miles toward ocean. From shore, oyster plants releasing parachute seeds, and in places on hills hackberry and mountain mahogany, but also invasive yellow-star thistle, exotic taking over whole slopes through root inhibitor lethal to other plants; nasty spines prevent even cattle from eating it.

Snack at Hammer Creek; 92 degrees; on again; river sloshes us cool at right intervals as if it knows our need. Rollercoaster Rapids leave us laughing. Into Green Canyon, first of four splendid gorges—Cougar, Snow Hole, Blue—each one successively more austere and magnificent, fuliginous stone having tinges of color; grand gifts of gravity-driven water. Into Demon’s Drop, curling waves and good pounding, then series of rapids with names better than their challenge, at least in high water: Lorna’s Lulu, Lower Bunghole (where else?), Bodacious Bounce (especially if you don’t hit it right), Half-and-Half (half the time you make it), Gobbler (eats your lunch). But Snow Hole is different, partly because motor quits twice on approach and BB has to grab oars at last second; sharp drop, huge boulders, deep pit. Holey rollers help interrupt miles—could have used a few on the Missouri. Stop at long sandbar to unkink legs; near here, Chief Joseph and Nez Perce in 1877 crossed as cavalry chased them north, conflict that eventually led him to utter perhaps most famous of Indian sentences: “I will fight no more forever.” Sudden smashing wind rips down narrow defile like cannonball in gun barrel, blasts us with blinding sand, then gone as swiftly; a shock of wind. P: “Was that Chief Joseph or the cavalry?”

Make camp near Skeleton Creek, a name we trust not prognostic; last night we hope; tomorrow the Slide, only six miles below, perhaps final block between us and Pacific. Having shed baker’s dozen contingent, our reduced company made seventy-three miles. For future transcontinental crossers, DoggeRule of River Road:

 

Fine be a pair,

and four be fair,

but more beware.

 

FRIDAY, DAY ELEVEN

 

Sleep under stars again and rise dewed over; to river to check rock placed at water line as I’ve done last few nights; the Salmon dropped a few more inches; no better morning message. Decamp and enter multiple but easy moils that get us ready for big one. Blue Canyon is steep black walls free of vegetation; stretches out cold and lonely, lovely like beautiful corpse. Listening for the Slide to announce itself.

BB unusually quiet except to say twenty thousand cubic feet per second of water passing through will send us back upriver to wait it out; do we have enough food? Sheer walls prevent portaging or lining raft down. Nobody shoots hard rapids flawlessly every time, yet we trust in ourcraftsman-raftsman. Slide lies only three miles from very end of the Salmon—theatrical suspense; drama increases as we hear it, hidden around bend, echo up canyon; hear it even better when motor abruptly quits again just above thundering. BB rushes forward to oars, nearly sending me overboard, his pell-mell revealing what his wordless calm covers. He strokes hard to pull into backwater. Tie up so he can clamber over boulders to scout passage. As he loops line around rock, I ask, Did you kill that motor to make good drama? No. He gives smile that, were it any grimmer, would be a scowl. What if motor quits when we enter? “That would be drama.” Can’t believe timing—the luck, she is still running good?

The Slide a result of collapsing canyon wall forty years ago constricting river to about half its width—now a fire hose trying to shoot through keyhole. Does good job of standing river on end. Unnoticed, P and I climb high above to see rapids and observe BB who studies a long time, turns away only to come back; studies more; starts toward raft, stops, returns again. I say, It’s that third look that bothers me. P: “More drama?” Don’t think so, I’m sorry to say.

At boat we wait for bad news. BB: “In low water you can run plumb through, but this is the highest I’ve ever known it, about seventeen thousand cfs.” A couple hundred cfs in this channel would float canoe. And? “Just low enough to give it a try.” A try? I think, A try is something where alternative to failure isn’t death. Photog to BB: “Are you sure about this?” I answer for him: Let’s go.

Motor still dead—bad word. Oar into center of river, negotiate for position, get set as current locks on; decision made like parachutist’s first step out of plane; rapids of no return; lying behind us now only our deeds done, and ahead maybe nothing more than Judgment Day. To myself: Too-nuts! Raft begins to shimmy, standing waves hump it, violate it; coming on fast white dread of water bashing hell out of boulders, working to grind them down and unconstrict passage; rivers eat mountains, not vice versa. Sucked forward fast, barely miss nasty flipper wave, bump and bounce; pitch, yaw, and roll at same time, then skim easily onto tailwaters; we’re barely dampened. BB’s cautiously masterful steering is perfect except for negating ten days of expectations and chance for dramatics. Feel like one who just died in sleep and wakes on other side: “That was it? That’s what I dwelt on for a lifetime?” P oxymoronically: “That’s the happiest letdown I ever had.”

BB sends me to oars while he tinkers with motor. On to Sluicebox, Checkerboard, and Eye of Needle; I head smack into centers, drenching us, “wahooing it,” as BB says; just trying to bid proper farewell to River of No Return. He glances up, says casually, “That green ridge ahead is Oregon.” Sentence overwhelms me. Oregon? I remember shouting to workman at Third Avenue Bridge on Harlem River, We’re bound for Oregon! Now it’s there, it’s there, we are goddamn-the-hell there! Between us and Pacific only two more rivers, fully navigable; no Snow Imperatives. We’re alive and we’re down-bound.