Robb Report

<< previous next >>

Blown Away in Idaho (Robb Report, June, 1997)
by Lynn Tryba

I was fearful, alone in a dark tent, waiting for the next gust of wind to come howling up the canyon. When it arrived, I braced my feet against the tent to keep it from blowing into the air. In between outbursts, one of my neighbors shouted assurances that as long as I stayed inside, the tent wasn't going anywhere.

Yeah, right. Hours later, I woke from a fitful sleep as an invisible force bulldozed my dome home three feet down the beach.

So I wasn't in the best mood when I climbed out of my tent early the next morning. The wilderness surrounding Idaho's Salmon River, so awe-inspiring the day before, now just seemed formidable. Heck, people could get killed out here, I thought, as I surveyed the steep canyon wall on the opposite side of the river (the Salmon runs through the second deepest canyon in the country). It slowly dawned on me that the only way out of all this nature was down a body of water known affectionately as the "River of No Return."

Packing my equipment, I wondered why I had signed up for a camping trip instead of one with lodge accommodations, as both types are offered by Salmon River Outfitters. Then I remembered. The nightly wine tastings. Clinging to this image like a life preserver, I boarded a rubber oar-raft with some fellow travelers to meet the rapids.

Rapids are rated from Class I to Class VI, the latter being as close to impossible as possible. The 80-mile stretch of Salmon we covered during those six days in July contained mostly Class IIIs with the occasional Class IV. Travelers are given three choices of transportation: oar-rafts (navigated by experienced guides only), a paddle-boat (everyone pitches in), or inflatable kayaks (you're on your own).

One woman recovering from surgery spent the entire trip snapping photographs from an oar-raft. Others preferred the camaraderie and challenge of the paddle-boat, and really adventurous souls took to the kayaks. Not being the most daring person, I grew deeply attached to the oar-rafts. All I had to do was hold on tightly and scream. It was good therapy.

Navigating a paddle-boat is very different from riding in an oar-raft. When the water is calm, oar-raft passengers pretty much sit there, chat, attempt to absorb the endless beauty, try to identify strange birds, and take photos of wildlife. It's only when the guide says, "Get a handhold" or "Brace yourself" that you become hypnotized by the scary-looking water ahead. For a few intense seconds, the boat gets hurled up and then slammed down again and again. You yell wildly, get wet, and then laugh like idiots and bail out the raft if necessary.

When you're in a paddle-boat, going over rapids becomes a lot more serious because the outcome of the run rests partially on your inexperienced shoulders. You sit directly on the sides of the craft and the only things helping you stay there are a sense of balance and a pocket on the floor in which you cram a foot.

Our guide, Daniel, trained our crew well, teaching us to respond to a series of commands designed to save our butts. For example, "Left turn!" means everyone sitting on the left side of the boat paddles backward while everyone on the right paddles forward. This may seem simple, but you'd be amazed at how the fear of being violently hurled into white-water can turn you into a blockhead.

Sometimes as we passed through a difficult stretch, Daniel would yell "Harder! Harder! Harder!" as if we weren't getting it quite right, and all I could think was "Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!" as I reached over and furiously stabbed away at the churning water. Sometimes the waves pushed us up so high, I was only paddling air.

I think I yelled more when I was on the oar-raft. I didn't have time on the paddle-boat.

OH, THE PEOPLE YOU'LL MEET

Nowadays, people can't build homes along the river because it is protected wilderness, but a few historic homesteads still exist. Steven Shephard, the owner and guide of Salmon River Outfitters, introduced us to some genuine individuals living along the river, people who are also his friends. After all, he's been running the Salmon for 17 years.

Newt Haigh, a strapping middle-aged man, lives with his wife, Sharon, and their two dogs on a wooded ridge high above the river. The couple shares a virtual Garden of Eden containing fruit trees and a carefully tended garden. Last summer Newt was growing six varieties of garlic in addition to onions, tomatoes, asparagus, strawberries, and blueberries.

As you might expect from someone who chose the wilderness as his home, Newt is a character. He once wanted to see how long he could go without visiting town. After seven years, a bad tooth finally did him in.

Newt and Sharon make crafts together. Newt mills his own lumber from dead trees on the property. He cuts out the shapes of various animals and objects that Sharon later paints. If you want something, leave your address. Newt will send it to you. If you like it, then you can mail payment.

Life on the Salmon suits Newt and Sharon's self-sufficient personalities well. Their lifestyle choice may seem eccentric from the outside looking in, but then again, the outside doesn't matter much on the Salmon.

We also met Reho Wolfe, an eighty-something woman who lives alone along the Salmon during the summers. She had moved her seven children from their home in town to the river in the 1940's to educate them through correspondence course. A criminal charge of contributing to the delinquency of a minor and causing habitual truancy was filed against her, but Idaho's attorney general later dismissed the case. Reho, a resilient woman who lost one child to the river, led a group of rafters on a walking tour in which she pointed out various herbs she uses as her only medications.

ENTERING PARADISE

Halfway through the trip, most of our group of 26 had succumbed to the magic of the Salmon. Doctors, executives, and other productive types had happily traded in the stresses of the rat race for the minor discomforts and thrills of life as river rats.

Inconveniences such as taking showers with pails of river water and using the great outdoors as a restroom paled on comparison to the natural pleasures we were experiencing: soaking in the 100-plus-degree water of Barth Hot Springs, gazing at night skies splattered with legions of stars, floating by Indian pictography on canyon walls, and being watched by wildlife such as deer, eagles, moose, and bighorn sheep.

Besides, Salmon River Outfitters was spoiling us rotten. After all, the company did not get written up in Food & Wine, Bon Appetit, and Gourmet magazines for nothing. The crew consistently whipped up delicious meals consisting of temptations such as buttermilk walnut pancakes with real maple syrup for breakfast, chicken salad croissants for lunch, and shrimp marinara for dinner. Dessert could mean a decadent serving of sweet red raspberries laced with hot fudge and Grand Marnier.

The same day we met Reho, we made camp at a cove called Rhett Creek. To the left were bare canyon walls, to the right, more canyon walls, these covered with a thick forest of ponderosa pine. The area contrasted sharply with the territory we had passed through the day before. Wildfires had scorched the land, leaving nothing but the charred skeletons of trees. Our guide called them toothpicks.

Somehow, miraculously, in addition to the gourmet food, cases of Idaho Rose Creek wine, and the actual wineglasses used by Salmon River Outfitters, the crew had managed to fit low-slung beach chairs onto their pack raft. These they arranged for us in an arc on the powder white beach facing the river.

The crew had been happy to land at Rhett Creek, and the reasons why soon became clear. I watched as Daniel paddled a kayak upstream, reaching a pocket of water a few feet offshore where the current kept his craft stationary. Although he kept paddling and paddling, his kayak never progressed, as if he was on some sort of watery treadmill.

Some of the group trekked upstream, strapped on life jackets, and allowed the powerful current in the Salmon's center to float them downstream toward camp. The eddy offshore made an excellent, calm swimming area for folks like me.

A lot of wonderful things happened to me at Rhett Creek. One couple gave me a flashlight, which meant I could rummage around my tent at night, reading or writing in my journal. Someone else let me use his "sun shower," an amazing invention that lets you warm a bag of water in the sun and use it for a toasty shower. I cannot describe how unbelievably good hot water feels on the skin when you're on a long camping trip.

Virginia, one of the more experienced travelers, had brought along tonic water, which she stored in the large cooler the crew carted along for our vices. She had poured gin into a plastic bottled and stashed some lime slices in a plastic bag, both of which she kept in her duffel bag. I had chosen not to bring any alcohol, thinking I wouldn't want to imbibe after doing something as wholesome as paddling a pristine river all day. I fantasized that I wouldn't want to let sugar, caffeine, or alcohol pass my lips.

Yeah, right. One of the most enjoyable aspects of a Salmon River Outfitters trip is that, while it can be challenging, scary, exciting, and rustic, it also contains many civilized moments. My coffee cup full of gin and tonic, which Virginia so generously shared, made me much happier than I cared to admit.

That night, after another soul-satisfying meal complete with wine and dessert, we gathered around the fire on the beach. The more musically inclined played guitar while the rest of us crooned along happily. Bold stars crowded into the black sky, making the stars back East seem dim and blurry in comparison, as if I'd been viewing them my whole life without my glasses on. The trauma of the first night had long ago receded, and this night, this perfect night, I found myself blown away in a completely different, wonderful way.