River-Horse: A Voyage Across America (63 page)

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 Mallard
would 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!”