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 p
ounds 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.