Chapter   “Old Man River” 

Draft 4.5.3
February 6, 2026

It was not a triumphant beginning to river running. In fact, I honestly thought I was going to die.

Early June in 1984, and my buddy Jim Acee and I had never been on a Class IV river in a large inflatable raft before. But who could resist seven days on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, deep in the largest contiguous forested wilderness in the Lower 48. When our mutual friend Steve Stuebner invited us to join him and some friends on what magazines had called “the best river trip in the world,” how could we possibly refuse?

There would be no video cameras on this trip. It had nothing to do with Outdoor Idaho. It would be an adventure. But looking back at it now, that trip shaped the Outdoor Idaho series in profound ways for years to come, more than any carefully planned production meeting or edict from management ever could.

 

We launched our 100-mile adventure in central Idaho during high water flow, under a mix of wind, rain, hail, and snow. Years later, when reminiscing about the trip, Jim and I compared notes and were surprised by how closely our fears aligned.

On the first three days of the trip, my first thought upon awakening was that today I would probably die. The cold, soaking waves that crashed over the raft tubes weren’t getting any smaller, and the water wasn’t getting any warmer. Plus, we were poorly prepared for cold-weather boating. We were wearing tennis shoes instead of booties, cotton underclothing, and raincoats instead of waterproof splash jackets and wet suits.

Jim confessed to me that he, too, thought he was going to die and fulfill his mother’s nightmare.  His mother had a recurring dream that he would drown, so she seldom let him go near water. Consequently, he never learned to swim well, a problem when you’re on a river trip.

On the afternoon of day three, the sun came out, the temperature shot up, canyon wrens were singing, steaks were on the grill, and happy hour was in full force. Just maybe, we would survive and start enjoying this trip.

But even with good weather, fear of the larger rapids downstream loomed over us.

I’m sure there are still fingernail marks in the wooden seat of Steve’s boat, I told him. When we hit the huge waves of Rubber Rapid, every instinct in my body screamed, You do not want to swim one of the worst rapids on this river!

What surprised me most, I admitted, was how quickly I adopted the same fatalistic attitude I’d developed years earlier in Guatemala, when I ran out of money and still had to figure out how to get home. The Lord will provide, I’d told myself then. Oddly enough, it helped.

Jim was not impressed with my philosophy. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” he laughed. “That’s how people die.”

                                         ---------------------------------

 

I suppose what doesn’t kill you just postpones the inevitable.

Immediately after that June trip, Jim purchased a raft. I purchased one, also, with friend Greg Harley. We called our boat the Rei-ley. We were hooked, but particularly Jim.

The adrenaline of that first whitewater experience propelled Jim and me into other river adventures: the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon in Arizona; the Rogue, Owyhee, and John Day in Oregon; the Green and San Juan in Utah; and the Yampa headwaters in Colorado.

 

As Outdoor Idaho began exploring the Selway, Salmon, Snake and the desert rivers, Jim was invariably the one we turned to. He was not a professional Idaho outfitter, meaning we couldn’t pay him for his services. Of course, I never complained. That just meant more dollars for video tapes and gas and the occasional cheap motel.

For nearly four decades, we relied upon his organization and leadership skills, which he had honed as an instructor at the National Outdoor Leadership School. NOLS is a non-profit outdoor education school with a focus on outdoor skills, leadership, safety and environmental ethics. 

He got so good at his “job” that we took to calling him A.R. Acee.  Anal retentive, we’d joke. Always ready, he’d retort.

But Jim was a good sport about it all and even assisted with numerous off-camera activities for several Outdoor Idaho shoots not related to river-running.

This old man of the river has retired from boating the difficult waters, and his mom would be so relieved. He has yet to drown. But maybe someday, perhaps in his bathtub.

 

It wasn’t long before television viewers were watching full-length Outdoor Idaho programs with titles like “The Whitewater State,” “River of No Return,” “Salmon River Lodges and Legacies,” “A Middle Fork Journey,” and dozens more shows where rafting played a major role.

I didn’t realize how many shows involved rafting until my friend Richard Holm complained that every time he turned on Outdoor Idaho on TV, we were floating down yet another river. I believe his exact words were that we had gone overboard.

That’s when it dawned on me that most of those shows were really about the value of public lands. In my mind, the ideas were inseparable: public lands, exceptional rivers, and whitewater rafting.

                                  --------------------------

I quickly learned that Idaho contains more river miles than any other state in the lower 48. Depending on who’s counting, the total hovers around 100,000 miles of rivers and streams, with roughly 31,000 miles classified as major whitewater—and nearly 900 miles protected under Wild and Scenic River status.

 

One thing a rafter becomes fluent with is the International Scale of River Difficulty, that ranks river rapids from gentle Class I flows to “un-runnable” Class VI drops like Shoshone Falls. Think of it as a shared language of expectations, letting boaters know what lies ahead—and what happens if they blow it.

As any river guide will tell you, the number one rule is to respect the river. Given how quickly things can change -- especially after a rainstorm or wildfire -- it’s never a good idea to nonchalant the water.

 

My personal sweet spot has always been Class III rapids: challenging enough to demand skill but forgiving enough to remain fun. Think of them as high school rapids, with homework, but grading on the curve. Hundreds of these rapids populate Idaho’s rivers.

Class IV is college. These are the rapids that added spice to Outdoor Idaho trips. They often required animated breakfast discussions about scouting rapids, approach angles, rock dodges, and how to pirouette off certain boulders to avoid deep holes capable of flipping a fully loaded raft.

Some Class IV examples are Ladle rapid on the Selway River, Granite rapid in Hells Canyon, Big Mallard on the main Salmon, and Staircase rapid on the South Fork of the Payette River.

The only time I ever got thrown out of my raft was in boulder-strewn Staircase rapid, on the south fork. One of the river lessons I had not yet learned was that a raft needs to be moving faster than the water when it hits a rapid. I had studiously lined up on “river right” but had no forward motion as the raft dropped into the rapid. The wave rushed over Greg Harley and me and catapulted both of us out of the raft.

Seated behind us in the raft were two women and a young child. Years later, Jenny Laper recalled that "seeing my 7-year-old daughter fly past me straight into the whitewater descending Staircase, remains one of the top terrifying moments of my life."

Her daughter, Eden, viewed the experience somewhat differently. “Etched most vividly in my memory is being rescued by two gallant older boys who pulled me from the river and carried me to safety."

                                   -----------------------

 

Regarding Class V rapids, the most obvious one is on the North Fork of the Payette River. Anyone driving on Highway 55 toward McCall has wondered how it’s even possible to survive that river’s fury.

Even today, I’m embarrassed that we talked kayaker extraordinaire Rob Lesser into running that Class V rapid for our 1998 show, “The Whitewater State.”

Throw your adjectives at it: steep, fast, high-risk, a raging torrent of water that charges over giant granite boulders, creating huge holes and pour-overs with names like Jacob’s Ladder, widely considered one of the most dangerous rapids in the world. Cars routinely pull over off Highway 55 so people can watch the carnage.

In fact, this is the site of a three-day extreme whitewater event in June, featuring top international kayakers vying to be crowned King and Queen of the North Fork. Injury is not just part of the experience. It’s the business model.

 

And to think that we asked Rob to run Jacob’s Ladder not once, but twice! On the second run, we told him we’d be focusing on his face, so he needed to smile when he dropped into Landslide and Juicer. 

Running the North Fork once is considered graduate-level work. Running it twice—with a smile—deserves a Ph.D. in physics.

                          ---------------------------

 

I heard about someone completely flunking out of river school by missing the “Big Falls Portage Here” sign above Class VI “Big Falls” on the upper South Fork of the Payette. Even viewing it from Highway 17, high above the canyon, Big Falls appears death-defying. No one should run it.

Apparently, a boatload of co-ed rafters unintentionally ran the rapid and lived to tell the story. That was the end of their rafting for the day, however. They opted instead for a steep granite scramble out of the canyon to reach the highway.

 

I’ve hiked down to Big Falls in high school with a fishing pole and my dog and then climbed back out to the road. If Big Falls is death-defying, the hike out of that canyon is its not-too-distant cousin.

I can only imagine the discussion in the car afterwards, as they drove back to Boise: disbelief, silence, blame, and a newfound respect for portage signs.

 

                                        --------------------------------

 

The Main and Middle Forks of the Salmon River offer no shortage of Class IV and even a few Class V rapids, made nastier by recent rockslides and wildfires that sent boulders and whole trees tumbling downstream to wedge themselves into already-difficult rapids.

The point was driven home when one rafter finished a Salmon trip and promptly sold his raft and all his gear. Sold everything, on the spot. Sometimes a single mistake in whitewater is enough to convince a person that pickleball is the better long-term activity.

 

 For the Outdoor Idaho crew, however, the Salmon River and its storied tributary, the Middle Fork, were places we visited often, fishing for stories as much as for scenery. Producer John Crancer and videographer Jay Krajic uncovered a story that immediately hooked them: an outfitter who had figured out how to spend a week on the Salmon River without ever sleeping in a tent.

 

Outfitter Wayne Johnson, owner of Salmon River Rafting Company, had struck a deal with the owners of several beautiful lodges tucked along the river corridor. Wayne rowed his clients from lodge to lodge, where full-course meals and comfortable beds awaited them. It was whitewater rafting with room service.

Along the way, Old Man of the River Wayne entertained his guests with stories gathered from decades of guiding. He knew where to stop for photos, which side-hikes were worth the effort, and when to let the river speak for itself. It was the perfect trip for east coast clients eager to escape city life but not quite ready to rough it.

 

“Wayne is a walking history book and knows all the Salmon River stories,” said former colleague John Crancer.  “Combining that knowledge with the rustic lodges and the Salmon’s beauty gave the Outdoor Idaho crew an amazing river trip.”
 
“Wayne was very gracious with us being there,” said videographer Jay Krajic. “A lot of the people on the float were return guests and they knew we would be on the trip.

“I was able to shoot anything I wanted or felt I needed. It slowed things down a lot, but interviews take time. And it could be a real trudge to shoot from the shore because of rocks and poison ivy.

 “It was smoky during our trip, so the views weren’t that great, but the light could be magical in some situations.”

Over time the lodges changed hands, purchased by people uninterested in hosting strangers. Wayne saw the handwriting on the wall and sold his business.

In retirement, he has turned to writing. His book, Indomitable Women of the Salmon River Canyon, chronicles the lives of tough, resourceful women—many from the 1960s and 1970s—who carved out lives along the River of No Return. Wayne knew some of these women personally and meticulously researched the others.

 

Wayne would occasionally join the station’s fundraising festivals to help “pitch” an Outdoor Idaho program like the 2011 “Salmon River Lodges and Legacies.” With Wayne live in the studio, his donated river trips sold out in minutes. His generosity even knocked “Celtic Woman” off its perch for the most money raised, something that mattered to some of us perhaps more than it should have.

Afterward, I’d take Wayne to the nearby Riverside Hotel along the Boise River, to toast a job well done, with his favorite Scotch.  He didn’t need a raft to keep us entertained. Wayne had plenty of stories that he wisely chose not to tell on statewide television.

                                    -----------------------------------

 

Another Old Man of the River was Bill Bernt. He could rival Wayne in stories, simply because no one had guided on the Salmon River longer than Bill.

We met him at an annual Outfitters and Guides gathering. His daughter approached us and suggested her dad had a story to tell. Bill was suspicious at first but eventually relented. The story would involve grown children Stephanie and John, as well as Bill, who was wrestling with the decision about turning his river guide business over to them. It struck us as a perfect fit for our 2016 program “The Outfitters.” We also used part of Bill’s interview in our 2019 “State of Change.”

 

Being a cheapskate, I asked Bill if he’d cut us a deal. I’d use my own raft to capture video of him guiding clients through the major rapids. The agreement: he’d only charge us for food.

I then asked Peter Morrill, one of the creators of Outdoor Idaho who later retired as General Manager of Idaho PTV, if he wanted to volunteer on a trip down the River of No Return. His job was to document the journey with a television camera. I promised Peter great food. I also promised—perhaps unwisely—to keep him dry through all the Class IV rapids.

The Dutch oven food was great, the out-of-state clients were entertaining, the river flow was perfect. But some of the interviews with Bill, Stephanie, and John never made it into the show. I figured some discussions between family members deserved to unfold on their own schedule, and not on statewide television.

 

After the trip, Bill paid me a compliment for my rafting skills. He was being generous, considering that success was pretty much guaranteed. He was leading the way through difficult Class IV rapids, and I was 60 feet behind, with a drenched Peter Morrill.

I will note that Bill’s two grown children were exceptional boat captains who understood and respected the river. But Peter and I had seldom seen anyone as proficient behind the oars as daughter Stephanie.

Watching her work a loaded raft through difficult water was a reminder that experience, calm judgment, and quiet confidence often matter more than muscle or bravado.

It was one more lesson the river was happy to teach.

                               -------------------------------

 

A favorite stop-off along the Salmon River -- for both outfitters Bill Bernt and Wayne Johnson -- was historic Campbell’s Ferry.

In the 1900’s, gold miners bound for the Thunder Mountain gold fields had little choice but to cross the Salmon River here on their way through what is now a north to south route across the Frank Church wilderness.

Ferry master William Campbell was only too happy to help them, for a price. Fifty cents per person and a dollar per head of stock.

The miners grumbled, as miners always do, but not loudly enough to turn back around and miss Idaho’s final big strike.

 

Over time the crossing became known for more than its history.

The real draw, for some of us, was owners Doug and Phyllis Tims. They had transformed Campbell’s Ferry into a genuine oasis: green lawns, fruit trees, and a small museum that welcomed river travelers as friends. Campbell’s Ferry has become one of the last remaining ranch sites open to the public.

Doug, a former outfitter and true Old Man of the River, believed that river knowledge, like good whiskey, was meant to be shared.

 When Doug and Phyllis finally decided it was time to give up the ranch to new Idaho owners, we took the occasion to spend the day with them. In the interview they talked about the frustrating, 17-years and 4-months process of creating a plan with the U.S. Forest Service. Doug even knew the exact number of days – 6,327 -- he wrestled with the federal agency. The covenants were quite specific, all designed to preserve the historic flavor of the special place and protect it from development.  

 The segment Peter shot and Pat Metzler edited remains one of my favorites. It was rich with history, quietly generous, a little bittersweet, and deeply human.  It fit perfectly into “The Next Chapter,” one of the last Outdoor Idaho programs I produced, and the one I still think about when my thoughts return to the Salmon River, the undammed heart of Idaho.
       ---------------------------------------------------------------------                    

 

One hundred seems to be the magic number on the Middle Fork of the Salmon: 100 floatable miles, roughly 100 rapids, and—on a good trip—100 cutthroat trout.

The Forest Service strictly limits launches, assigns campsites, inspects fire pans, and groovers -- or portable toilets -- to keep the river pristine. The system reduces jockeying for camps and ensures that each group leaves behind nothing but memories and perhaps the faint, lingering aroma of bacon.

Some of my happiest trips have been on the Middle Fork. I can’t say I ever personally used an outfitter, which means I always put up my own tent. I certainly wasn’t going to ask A.R. Acee to help. 

 

One hot summer day on the Middle Fork, we decided to set up chairs in the shade, far above the beach, leaving our boats baking in the sun. Good boating technique is to let some air out of the boat tubes when boats are directly in the sun. But that afternoon making gin and tonics was our priority.

As we chilled in the shade, a shocking BOOM! disrupted the festivities. We all looked to the sky, expecting to see a plane that had just broken the sound barrier. Then a second BOOM!

Glancing at the boats, we could see the front of the Rei-ley collapsing on the sandy beach. Both front tubes had exploded. Everyone began running down the sandy beach, not to the Rei-ley, but in a supreme act of self-interest, to their own boats.

 

This is when anal-retentive, always ready Jim saved the day. He pulled out his sewing awl and stitching thread from his repair kit. The outer wrap of the Rei-ley had exploded, allowing the inner tube to expand and not explode.

A simple but time-consuming stitching job commenced, with Robert Minch taking the lead.  To make sure it held when inflated, we cinched twenty rafting straps of different colors around the repaired outer tube wrap. For the remainder of the trip, the group referred to the poor raft by the hurtful name of the FrankenMinch.

But in this case, all’s well that ends well. A visit to the AIRE Rafts store in Boise put the Rei-Ley back together again.

Still, every time the AIRE owners see the Rei-ley on TV, they are genuinely embarrassed. It was a first-generation boat, they remind me, and we make them more streamlined and better now, they say. It’s definitely time for a new boat.

I’ll think about it, I tell them. But we all know what they say about first loves.
                                               ----------------------

 

Outdoor Idaho trips were always different from the other trips. For example, when anyone joined an Outdoor Idaho river trip, Jim would lay down the rules. That took some getting used to, especially for people whose only experience had been with outfitters.

“This is how it works,” Jim would announce. “Lodging is on the ground—or in the cheapest Bates-like motel this side of the Mississippi. There’s plenty of fire food, especially bacon. And in the morning you’ll probably hear someone yelling, ‘Come and get it! Only half a pot of coffee left and three strips of bacon!’”

“Don’t think Hollywood,” Jim warned. “There’s a lot of fun, but there’s also suffering on an Outdoor Idaho river trip. And plan to put up your own tent.”

                                          ----------------------------

 

I didn’t fully appreciate the bonds the Middle Fork could forge until my second trip, when I was asked to officiate at the wedding of friends Greg Harley and Jan Sutter.

I’d come to know Greg when he was living in Idaho City. At one point, much to my delight, he suggested we buy a raft together. We named it the Rei-Ley. When a mutual friend drew one of the Middle Fork’s much-coveted permits, the raft was naturally one of several rafts ferrying the wedding party nearly ninety miles downstream, into Impassable Canyon and to a place once inhabited by a hermit.

The final stretch of the river earns its name. Towering, near-vertical granite walls hem in the water, funneling it through high-consequence Class IV rapids that leave little room for error.

The canyon’s most famous resident was Earl Parrott, now known as the Hermit of Impassable Canyon. Before the Depression, Parrott built a cabin high above the river, kept a garden, hunted game, did some prospecting, and lived largely on his own terms. He constructed a series of homemade log ladders that he strategically placed to allow him to descend nearly a thousand feet to a small shack he built along the river’s edge.

He was “the archetypal hermit, the genuine thing,” wrote Cort Conley in Idaho Loners, with “a garden that looked like an exhibit at a state fair.”

Conley quoted from diaries of people who had met Parrott in the 1930s: “Says he used to go two years without seeing anyone, but now hunters disturb him every few months… Used to go seventy miles for supplies. Now goes ten miles to CCC camp and bums a ride to town… Don’t like radio. Would rather hear the coyotes howl.”

 

An impassable canyon and a solitary hermit might not seem obvious symbols of wedded bliss. But the wedding party’s destination lay near Nugget Creek, at a hidden grotto a quarter mile from the river, tucked away from the granite of Impassable Canyon. A waterfall spills from the cliffs above. On a hot day, it’s a perfect refuge from the summer heat: green, cool, quiet. It’s also a wonderful place for a wedding.

 

The ceremony was especially memorable for me because it marked my debut as a mail-order minister—thanks to Greg Harley, who arranged my ordination for a mere twenty-five dollars. The most distressing part of becoming a minister came later, when I delivered the signed marriage certificate to the clerk’s office in Idaho City. Just thinking of me as a minister caused hysterical laughter among some of the clerks.

 

Once friends learned I could legally officiate at weddings, requests followed. My last memorable wedding took place in the Boise County courthouse in Idaho City.

As the bride and groom walked up the aisle toward me, I noticed the father of the bride following close behind, brandishing a shotgun. They later assured me it was all in good fun. Still, I skipped the traditional question asking if anyone objected. I wasn’t sure if the gun was loaded.

 

But back to the Middle Fork grotto. Some of Greg and Jan’s friends couldn’t join the wedding. They had their own Middle Fork raft trip a few weeks later. The newly married couple wanted them to be part of the celebration, so they left a bottle of champagne in the grotto, at the base of the waterfall.

 When one of the rafters, Joe Crowly, found it. He popped the cork and took a bold swig. The carbonation detonated on contact, and champagne blasted from his nose and mouth. So much for a celebration.

Some of us saw it as the penalty for missing the ceremony.

                                             ----------------------

 

Perhaps you’ve seen the video clip. We’ve certainly aired it enough times, in Outdoor Idaho promotions and in numerous shows: two women standing on the side tube of a raft that is pinned and half submerged against a massive boulder, in Class IV Haystack Rapid.

The strong current had driven the 15-foot, heavily laden boat up against the boulder, its left side wedged high on the rock, its right side still half-claimed by the rushing current. 

The raft was now completely vertical, Ann Joslin and Susan Shannon hanging on. Other boaters watching might easily believe the women had done this before, climbing effortlessly to the top tube as the rest of the raft became half sunk under the water. Ann and Susie made it look like a textbook “high side” maneuver.

 

Outdoor Idaho television viewers watching the video for the first time had no idea what would happen next. Perhaps even the raft itself was trying to decide. Would the boat topple backward and crush the women beneath it, letting the river swallow boat and bodies and carry them downriver?

Or would the women outwit the raging river, forcing the raft to begrudgingly slide off the rock and back into the water?

For a suspended moment, both options seemed possible. And then, the river made a choice. Almost casually, the boat eased down the face of the granite boulder and rejoined the river, to the applause of fellow rafters preparing to pull them to shore, if needed. The women  had outsmarted another Middle Fork rapid and were rightfully proud of their accomplishment.

 

What the TV audience didn’t see or hear during all this was me on shore, yelling to the videographer on the bluff to “Keep rolling! Keep rolling!” while other boaters in our group were rushing downstream to rescue the women.

Television viewers didn’t hear me, but the two women heard me, and soon I heard from them. They were not impressed with my priorities and didn’t take kindly to being reminded of the oft-used phrase when filming river trips: Bad Rafting Makes Great Television.

I told the women they had just made great television.

 

Friend Jim Acee understood, because the same thing happened to him in our 2007 autumn program “A Middle Fork Journey.” Jim had managed to get himself stuck in Class IV Tappan Falls, maybe 50 feet from shore, near our campsite for that evening. He had been “running sweep,” and by the time he arrived at camp, we already had the camera positioned to capture footage.

Jim couldn’t have been pleased seeing us so close to him, gathering wide shots and close-ups, for almost a minute, until he eventually freed himself, and rather elegantly, at that. 

“I was outsmarted by the rapid,” offered Jim, back at camp. “I am a pretty good technical water rafter, and it's nice to be kept honest occasionally and screw up. That gives everyone else a chance to cheer because they like it when you screw up.
 

“Besides, bad rafting makes great television, especially with Outdoor Idaho, and that increases my chances of making it into the show, instead of winding up on the cutting room floor.”

 

The likelihood of making it into the show improved when I decided to devote an entire program to my favorite river. And why not? I’d done the same with the Sawtooth Mountains, not once, but several times.                      

                                       ------------------------------

 

The Middle Fork has always been good to me, which may explain why I like it so much. I understand the risk of publicly praising something you love. It can be self-defeating when it brings in more people. But the Forest Service had a tight clamp on daily numbers, and I wanted to show our Outdoor Idaho audience why Idaho is such a grand and wonderful place, worthy of our affection, so long as we remember to treat it properly.

 

Every river guide has a favorite Middle Fork rapid: Velvet Falls, Hell’s Half Mile, Haystack, House of Rocks. My personal favorite is Powerhouse, largely because it isn’t over in a few heartbeats. I’ve never been able to memorize its half-mile stretch of continuous whitewater. Three distinct, back-to-back sections demand full concentration to avoid the rocks, ending with a high-speed move that drives boaters hard toward a cliff wall.

There’s a genuine sense of accomplishment in surviving Powerhouse unscathed.

 

                                   -----------------------------

Our 2007 program, “A Middle Fork Journey,” was filmed during a low-water September shoot. The turnaround would be quick, with a mid-October premiere. Because it fell outside the official season, securing the trip was relatively easy, a good thing, since part of our group elected to hike down Camas Creek to the river.

 

For the hikers – Kay Johnson and Norm Nelson – it was an eight-mile descent, over two days. Fishing was a priority on their trip. For the rest of us, the rafting distance to camp was twenty-five miles, a two-day float. Just as we boaters were pulling into camp, the hikers appeared on the trail. We had arrived at exactly the same time. To me, that was a good omen.

That afternoon, everyone sat for mandatory interviews and a videotaped group discussion. Videographer Pat Metzler placed each person against a different backdrop, creating the illusion that we had conducted interviews in multiple locations.

 

The educational mission of Outdoor Idaho was on full display in “A Middle Fork Journey.”  We guided viewers through irreplaceable cultural resources, including the ancient pictographs etched into canyon walls along the river, dating back 8,000 years. The rock art was created by the Tuka-Deka, or Sheep Eater people. They were ancestors of today’s Shoshone-Bannock Tribes and lived along the river as hunter-gatherers until the Sheep Eater War of 1879.

 

We also explored the effects of wildfires on the river, including smoke so thick it blocked the sun during part of our journey. The program also incorporated rare film of early river runners and giant Chinook salmon from the 1930s.

 

Few individuals have rafted the Middle Fork more thanoutfitter Jerry Hughes. We asked him what it was about the river that so enchanted him. 

“There is probably no other river in Utah, Oregon, and Idaho that combines as many neat characteristics as the Middle Fork,” Hughes told us. “It’s a wilderness area, so there are no motorized uses on the water. Ninety-five percent of the time the water is crystal clear. It’s a blue-ribbon trout fishery and a challenging boating trip loaded with backcountry history and natural hot springs. It’s an unbelievable combination of great characteristics and things to enjoy.

“I think about it every day. I dream about it, too. I just adore it.”

                                    -----------------------------------------------

 

 One Memorial Day weekend videographer Hank Nystrom and I drove up to the Lochsa River, near the town of Lowell, in Idaho County, following scenic Highway 12. It’s where the Lochsa River meets the Selway to form the Middle Fork of the Clearwater, a convergence well known to whitewater boaters.

Spring runoff brings rafters and kayakers from all over the state, eager to test their mettle against a lineup of world-famous rapids at their peak, with names like Grim Reaper, Bloody Mary, Pipeline, and the incomparable Lochsa Falls.

 

Every whitewater enthusiast knows Lochsa Falls: the massive rolling waves, the cold, pushy water, the way the rapid seems to wait patiently for mistakes. We set up just downstream of the falls, close enough to feel the spray, ready to document rafters and kayakers as they streamed into view.

Right on schedule, the river delivered. About every third raft or kayak flipped directly in front of the camera. Before long, we could read the water well enough to spot trouble early: an approach just a little off, a line taken at the wrong angle. The boaters didn’t know it yet, but in that instant they had made themselves famous.

One group of rafters, clearly determined to secure their place in an Outdoor Idaho program, clustered at the very back of their raft, virtually guaranteeing their fate. When they hit the big wave, the raft executed a flawless backward flip, depositing everyone into the river and sending them swimming for the closest eddy. We got it all on video. Their dream had come true.

The drive to and from Boise was long, but neither Hank nor I questioned the quick trip. We had captured enough close-ups and wide shots to fuel promos -- and several Outdoor Idaho programs --for years.

And along the way, we’d assured a handful of paddlers their brief moment of glory.  

                                      ---------------------------

Nothing has done more to showcase the beauty of the Owyhee Canyonlands than the cameras of Outdoor Idaho. We started early, back in 1991, with a program called “Spring Fever.” Our trip leader, Phil Lansing, was eager to show the world the quiet wonders of the East Fork of the Owyhee River.

At the time, that gentle stream was under threat from an ill-conceived proposal by the U.S. Air Force. Their very first proposal called for dropping live ordnance. Air Force officials backed off that fairly quickly, but conservationists continued calling it a “bombing” range vs a “training” range. “The reason we did that,” one conservationist told me, “is that it pissed off the proponents and stirred up opposition to their proposal.”

 

 

So it was more a publicity stunt than a literal threat, since the only things falling on animals and rafters would be wind streamers, although several opponents of the bombing range said the planes also dropped flares and bundles of aluminum chaff to jam missile guidance.

Referring to it as a bombing range also angered then Governor Cecil Andrus, who did not want Idaho to lose the Air Force Base to another state. That concern mattered little to conservationists, who argued the range could—and should—be moved elsewhere in the desert. In the end, that’s what happened.

From Outdoor Idaho’s perspective, the controversy also marked our first journey down a canyon river by canoe.

That canoe trip, followed by a four-day raft trip down the Bruneau River in 1993 for “Desert Chronicles,” cemented our growing love affair with desert canyons.

Dr. Keith Taylor—considered by many to be the first person to run the Jarbidge-Bruneau River in a kayak—and raft builder Alan Hamilton of AIRE led the Bruneau trip. Together, they guided us through the canyon while offering a historical perspective that few could match.

 

                                     ---------------------------------

Neither one of those trips was an outfitted trip. The same was true of a lower Owyhee River excursion. It’s a trip that still makes me smile.

Just before we reached camp for the night, above Class IV Montgomery Rapid, a rattle snake attempted to climb aboard the Rei-ley. Apparently, yelling at a reptile intent on boarding a raft is completely ineffective. It takes a well-timed swat with an oar to persuade the snake that the brown river isn’t so bad.

 

The next morning, Montgomery rapid awaited. We were still working on our first cup of coffee when Jim gathered everyone around. We knew something important was coming because he was on his hands and knees, stick in hand, drawing in the sand. It took a moment to realize he was sketching the rapid, his version of a pre-run briefing.

The wind was howling as he explained the best line for us to take. We appreciated the tutorial, though at the time we figured the rapid couldn’t be much worse than the sandstorm raging around us.

Jim would often bring his dog, Asia, on some of our river trips. We realized early on that she was no ordinary dog. Having been taught not to pee in Jim’s boat, Asia would wait until another raft got too close, at which point she would jump onto that boat, respond to Nature’s call, and then jump back into her boat.

But apparently, Asia was not listening to the Montgomery rapid tutorial. Once we pushed off, a few of us noticed a small orange shape drifting downstream, nose barely above water.

Asia was usually a master at riding high on the back of the raft, but a large bump had knocked her from the raft. We yelled at Jim, but it wasn’t until Asia floated past him that he realized his dog was doing better in the Class IV rapid than he was.

Fortunately, the small-dog life vest Asia was wearing kept her afloat enough for a safety kayaker to rescue her at the bottom of the rapid. For the rest of the trip, Asia paid close attention to upcoming waves.

 

Back at the station, when Pat Metzler began editing the segment for our 1997 “Path Less Traveled/ 1998 “The Whitewater State/ 2016 “Owyhee Adventures/??, (find which one)
we discovered our microphone had captured more wind than voice. For continuity, we needed usable audio of Jim explaining the rapid in the sand.

We called him and explained our dilemma. He wasn’t too concerned until we told him he’d have to come into the station to relive that moment with the stick.

We were on deadline, so we let Jim watch the footage only once. Then we ushered him into the audio booth and directed him to start talking. “Just relive the moment,” Pat advised. “You can do this.” 

The result surprised all of us.  We had salvaged a scene shot in a windstorm, twenty miles from civilization, and no one could tell the difference. It was unsettling how easy it was.

I remember thinking: if we can do that with the barest equipment, imagine what Hollywood does every day as a matter of course. Never trust movies or television, I told myself, though I suspect I already knew that.
                                             ---------------------------------

 

It was when colleague John Crancer hooked up with outfitter John Barker of Barker River Expeditions that things notched up tenfold.

John Barker’s escapades on the rivers of the Owyhee Canyonlands were legendary. One of them we managed to capture on video.

In fact, I consider it the most exciting 20 seconds of river footage Outdoor Idaho holds in its possession. There would have been more, but in all the chaos, videographer Chuck Cathcart had taped over the scariest part of the river disaster, and it’s lost forever. As you read John’s account, it’s understandable how a mistake like that could occur. What video we do have made it into several of our programs and is still talked about today. (mention the particular shows?)

John Crancer remembers that trip well. In fact, I doubt he’ll ever forget it.

Unlike other canyon trips, getting to the put-in of the Jarbidge River is the easy part, on decent 4-wheel drive dirt roads that wind along the Idaho-Nevada border. Like all the canyonlands rivers, the Jarbidge “window” is transitory: here today and gone in two or three weeks, depending upon the snow level in the mountains.

This is truly a secret place that few will ever visit. It compares favorably with Zion National Park, with narrow canyons in some places as deep as 800 feet. The boats for the excursion need to be special and small, for tight, technical maneuvering.

For this Outdoor Idaho trip, the current was satisfactory, so the first day on the river involved a steady whitewater flow of tight turns and obstacles to reach their first camp.

John recalls that first night of the 5-day trip. “Lying in our tents in the middle of the night we heard a distinct, low rumbling downriver. It would be an ominous harbinger of things to come.”

 

The next morning, after two hours of uneventful rafting, the group reached a slack-water pool. “This is not supposed to be here,” Barker remarked.

What they soon realized was that the rumbling the night before was a massive rockslide that temporarily blocked the entire flow of the Jarbidge.

By the time they had reached the slide, the river had broken through to form a narrow, extremely rocky rapid on river left.

 

“The rest of the channel was filled with huge boulders,” recalls John, in a conversation with me after the trip.  “We would have to portage most of our supplies and then try to line the rafts through the jumble of rocks and rushing water.  While our first boat was gingerly guided down the channel, the second boat didn’t fare as well.  Instead of staying in the churning shoot, the boat bounced right and quickly became lodged in a narrow crack between two huge boulders.  I thought to myself, we are never getting that boat out!”

But outfitter John Barker seemed unperturbed. Apparently, these were problems he’s used to dealing with. He swam across the river below the slide and scurried onto the rocks on the other side, then leaped his way to the distressed boat. He then skillfully removed the frame of the raft and began jumping intensely on the tubes that were trapped between the boulders.

According to John, outfitter Barker jumped and pulled on the boat for several hours. Then he and his brother attached some long ropes to the D rings of the raft. At that point the entire group started tugging from different directions. 

Slowly, the tubes began to wriggle in the rocks. Then, to great applause, the raft was freed, although much worse for wear.  It then took tedious patching and repairing to resurrect the craft into something that would float.

But before they could get all the gear and passengers back onto the water, they still had two more rafts to transfer past the slide.  They lined the next boat through the carnage, something that was time-consuming and tricky. By now, hours had passed, and the group was running out of daylight.

“This is where outfitter Barker really surprised me,” laughed John. “He made the bold decision to get the last boat through by running the rocky waterfall that was the channel.  To me, it seemed even crazier than his mid-river raft rescue.”

They all watched in amazement as the outfitter bounced from boulder to boulder and careened down the rushing shoot. Incredibly he reached the calmer waters below the slide, unscathed and upright.  Between that run and the miraculous raft rescue, they could now continue their expedition down the Jarbidge.

The group still hadn’t gotten to the one mandatory portage, the un-runnable Class VI Jarbidge Falls. It’s a strenuous portage, but the guides had successfully hauled the other boats and gear around the falls and were waiting for John’s boat.

Here’s John’s version of what happened next.

“All the other boats were already securely on shore below the falls. Other rafters were stationed above the falls, waiting to catch our lead rope and pull us to shore for the portage. As our raft approached, my other boatmate, who was an older, retired guide,  unfortunately completely short-armed the throw.

 

“As our crucial lifeline swirled in the water, we swiftly floated past the takeout above Jarbidge Falls. I still remember the guide on the oars yelling, ‘Well, I guess we’re going to run it.’ Nobody runs Jarbidge Falls. 

 

“Before long, we were in a maelstrom of rocks and whitewater. In what seemed like slow motion, the violent waves began to flip our boat. My fellow passenger up front was the first in the water.  He was followed by the oarsman who frantically grabbed the trailing rope, to no avail. 

“I don’t know how, but mid-flip I was able to leap from the capsizing raft onto a large boulder in the middle of the raging rapid.  The rushing water quickly pinned the raft sidewise on the same boulder.

“Outfitter John Barker responded quickly.  Now on the shore, he jumped into the water and swam across the swift current below the falls to reach the far side of the rapid.  There, the retired older guide was clinging to a rock shelf and the waves were pounding him. He was in need of a quick rescue. Barker hopped over jagged rocks and pulled him out of the water.  Rescue one was complete. 

“The oarsman had somehow escaped the worst of the rapid and popped up in the river.  Other guides on shore threw him a lifeline and pulled him to safety.  Rescue two accomplished. 

“Back on the boulder, about ten feet from shore, I was wondering how I was going to get out of this mess. Barker scrambled to a ledge well above my boulder.  Over the din of the rushing water, he yelled that he was going to get a running start to hurtle the channel between us. He yelled that I should catch him as he landed. 

“I braced the best I could to get ready for the flying Barker.  I was thrilled when he made the jump and didn’t knock us both off the rock and into the rapid.”

As John is telling the story, I’m thinking how fortunate I was to miss this trip!  The men onshore now attached Barker’s rescue ropes to the pinned raft and caught more ropes hurtled to them from the shore. Once in place, the rest of the party pulled in unison, trying to free the pinned boat.  After several excruciating attempts, the raft flopped into the water upside down, but it held in place by the ropes. 

John continued with his story, but the smile on his face had disappeared as he relived the experience.

“I needed to jump from the boulder to the bottom of the raft about six feet away. This was a one-shot deal.  For Barker, no problem.  For me, hurling my 200 pound body through the air was a bit of a challenge.  But summoning my best leaping ability and with a good dose of adrenaline, I jumped.  Flying in slow motion superman style, I landed spread-eagle on the wobbling bottom of the boat. 

“Now all that remained was to pull the boat and me to shore. With the muscles of the entire group straining, the raft slowly edged toward dry land.  Finally, after great exertion I reached the safety of the shore.  We then floated the raft back toward Barker and the boulder and repeated the drill.”

Whew! The men had tested the fury of Jarbidge Falls and had survived. After a few repairs to the rafts, they were on the river again. The rest of the journey was uneventful with no further complications or excitement. They did not mind.

 

Not surprisingly, Mr. Barker doesn’t use footage from this particular Outdoor Idaho adventure to lure customers to his outfitted trips. But for my money, I’d happily travel with someone who can handle the worst Mother Nature throws at him, turn it into a grand adventure, and still bring his passengers home, relatively unscathed.

                                     ------------------------------

 

 

Idaho is defined by its rivers. There is something for everyone. Rivers like the Jarbidge demand total focus; their challenge and unpredictability tap a primal human urge for adventure and exploration.

The rush of adrenaline is certainly part of the appeal. But adrenaline isn’t the whole story, and it doesn’t begin to explain why river running has become the fastest-growing segment of Idaho’s outfitting business.

The word I use is awe.

It’s the kind of awe that comes from full immersion in an extraordinary landscape, far from pavement, traffic, and skyscrapers. It’s a mindfulness that sweeps away mental clutter and daily worries, gradually syncing the body’s rhythms with the river and the canyon walls.

Every outfitter will tell you it takes at least three days for the transformation to begin. I don’t think that’s just a sales pitch for a longer trip. They’ve simply watched it happen too many times to doubt it.

Spend a week on an Idaho river, outfitters say, and people begin to act differently—and even look different. They’re less stressed, more joyful, more open to decisions that might have seemed impossible back home. These are major decisions, like changing one’s job, repairing or ending a relationship, moving to a different state, getting a dog.

Who knew an Idaho river could be such a powerful agent of change.