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The River
For interesting reasons, I applied in January to recreation.gov’s river lottery and in February won a permit to float the Snake River from Hell’s Canyon Dam to Heller Bar, 80 miles and five days of wild river. About the time I drew the permit, though, the reasons I applied evaporated, leaving me with no river knowledge — high and dry before I even got on the water. With the exception of a day on the St. Joe years ago, I’d never been on a river adventure. Still, I had the permit. Friends assured me it would be fun, but I had no idea what I was doing, so I cast around for folks who did, and I found some. In fact, when we launched, I was the only one who’d never been on a white-water trip. At least, I know who to invite. At first, lots of folks were willing to join up, but as time passed, so did many of them. Time. Money. Kids. Jobs. Other flimsy excuses. Twelve. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Eight. We leveled out at seven folks and three rafts ten days before launch and those made the trip. The river was lovely, even as it tried to tip us over, which it did one of our craft, first day. The duo in the red raft took a dip, but survived it nicely, and even salvaged dinner. I learned about white water and how to move through it; read the approach, row in bow first, ride the wave train, do your best to get the folks in the front wet. We cast ourselves through Class II, III and IV stretches, Captain Randy at the oars in big water. Brother Chris took us through some Class III. I learned to Council website at tristatecouncil.org.
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by Sandy Compton
row and managed some stretches of Class II without disaster, though my raft mates were somewhat nervous about that one rock. We missed it, to their credit, for they were silent through the passage. They learned that when they simultaneously gave me advice, it only served to confuse me. I was happy to have them learn that. The river is ultimately interesting, and it can be a bitch when it wants, for it will turn in and around and back on itself without warning, even in calmer water. Sometimes, water to starboard travels at a different rate — and in a different direction — than water to port. Rowing can be an exercise in frustration. I lost my temper beyond quick redemption when the river pulled me into an eddy and wouldn’t let me row out, try as I might. I later realized I could have allowed the river to take me gracefully back to the current; let me out of the eddy without a fight. People ask if I had fun. I tell them that it was good. There is much history in the brown, broken hills rising above the relucent river; abandoned camps and cabins left from golden dreams and hardscrabble hideouts. Silence overlays the canyon, companion and accomplice to the white noise of the Snake and its tributaries; hissing, swishing, gurgling, rushing, roaring through the igneous shards they themselves have created over the eons; driving ever deeper into the basalt and granite, cracking and grinding stone into ever smaller pieces, even unto the sand we sleep on each night. It rains. We get wet and cold. The
The Scenic Route Sandy Compton’s book The Scenic Route, as well as his many others, is available online at bluecreekpress.com, or at Vanderford’s Books or The Corner Bookstore in Sandpoint.
mrcomptonjr@hotmail.com sun comes out. We get sunburned. The river stands on edge and we ride through it, oars at the ready; a stroke here, a full pull there, subtle as a fast run through trees on skis. The water turns flat, and we row for an hour, two hours. We bring too much food —Pringles for God’s sake — gear we never use; beer we never drink. We have plenty to eat, sleep dry each night, never run out of beer. On the third day, we row all morning in the rain to Pittsburg Landing. Cold and wet and ready to stretch, we pull the rafts to shore by mutual understanding with no discussion. We clamber out as another raft pulls in. The man rowing looks like us; raincoat on the verge of failure, water dripping from his hat brim, soaked from the waist down, peaceful. His three companions, dressed in identical blue rain suits, immediately jump out and begin swirling around; unloading, relieved to get off the river, it seems; maybe not so happy to have been on it. I wonder if this is the scheduled end of their trip, or if they are leaving early. When we push off, it is still raining. An hour later, the sun appears, and we begin to warm and dry. I think about the folks in the blue Smurf suits. Given time, I think the river would bring even them out of their eddy. For more of Sandy Compton, visit www.bluecreekpress.com. His books are there, at Vanderford’s and the Corner Book Store in Sandpoint, Cabinet Books in Libby, and at amazon. com
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