Old Man River

I thought I knew what fear felt like, until Staircase Rapid on the South Fork of the Payette River decided to teach me. We had lined up on river right, exactly where we were supposed to, but we lacked forward speed. I was backstroking going into the rapid. I obviously had not yet learned that a raft needs to be moving faster than the water when it hits a rapid.

As the raft dropped into the chute, the current grabbed the bow and the first standing wave rolled over the tubes like a collapsing wall. Friend Greg Harley and I disappeared overboard instantly. Seated behind us were two women and a young child. The women knew to hang on. Years later, Jenny Laper recalled “seeing my seven-year-old daughter fly past me straight into the whitewater. Descending Staircase remains one of the most terrifying moments of my life.”

Years later her daughter Eden remembered it 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.”

Moments like that teach a rafter to respect the river and learn its language. One part of that language is the International Scale of River Difficulty that ranks rapids from gentle Class I flows to “un-runnable” Class VI drops like Shoshone Falls, shorthand that tells boaters what lies ahead and what might happen if they get it wrong. Rainstorms or wildfires can change conditions quickly, especially flash floods’ debris-infested “blow-outs.” Water manageable yesterday can behave very differently today. As any river guide will tell you, the number one rule is simple: respect the river.

My 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, some homework required, but the grading is on a curve. Idaho’s rivers contain hundreds of them.

Class IV is college. These rapids added spice to many Outdoor Idaho trips. They often sparked animated breakfast discussions about scouting lines, approach angles, rock dodges, and how to pirouette off certain boulders to avoid deep holes capable of flipping a fully loaded raft. Examples include Ladle Rapid on the Selway River, Granite Rapid in Hells Canyon, Big Mallard on the main Salmon, and the very Staircase Rapid that had ejected me into the Payette.

The most obvious Idaho example of Class V rapids race along the North Fork of the Payette River. Anyone driving Highway 55 toward McCall has probably wondered how it’s even possible to survive that river’s steep, fast, high-risk, raging torrent charging 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. People routinely pull cars off Highway 55 to watch the carnage.

In fact, this is the site of a three-day extreme whitewater event each June, featuring top international kayakers vying to be crowned King and Queen of the North Fork. Some might say that injury is not just part of the experience, it’s the business model.

I’m a little embarrassed that we talked world-class Idaho kayaker Rob Lesser into running that stretch for our 1998 show “The Whitewater State,” 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 earns him a Ph.D. in physics.

I once 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 from Highway 17, high above the canyon, Big Falls looks death-defying. No one should run it. Apparently, a boatload of co-ed rafters unintentionally did and lived to tell the story. That ended their rafting for the day. They preferred a steep granite scramble out of the canyon to reach the highway. I can imagine the drive back to Boise—disbelief, silence, blame, and a newfound respect for portage signs.

Years ago I hiked down to Big Falls myself with a fishing pole and my dog. I remember losing my lure to either a big fish or a big rock. If Big Falls is death-defying, the hike out of that canyon is its not-too-distant cousin.

I quickly learned that Idaho contains more river miles than any other state in the lower 48. Depending on who’s doing the 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.                           

The Outdoor Idaho crew visited the mainstem Salmon River often, fishing for stories as much as for scenery. Producer John Crancer and videographer Jay Krajic uncovered a delightful story of 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 privately-owned ranches that had been “grandfathered” into the River of No Return Wilderness. Wayne rowed his clients from lodge to lodge, where full-course meals and comfortable beds awaited them. It was whitewater rafting with room service.

“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, but it slowed things down a lot, since interviews take time.”

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, allowing Outdoor Idaho to claim the honor.

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 television. It was hard not to laugh as Wayne recounted one rowdy night on the river. “The co-eds acted like they were a thousand miles from their reputations,” marveled Wayne.

Over time the lodges were purchased by people uninterested in hosting strangers. Wayne saw the handwriting on the wall and sold his business. In retirement, he turned to writing. His book Indomitable Women of the Salmon River Canyon chronicles the lives of tough, resourceful women who carved out lives along the River of No Return. Wayne knew some of these women personally and meticulously researched the others.

 

Wayne’s rival in stories, was Bill Berndt, another Old Man of the River. No one had guided on the Salmon River longer than Bill. We met him at the annual Idaho Outfitters and Guides gathering. His daughter Stephanie approached us and suggested her dad had a story to tell. Bill was suspicious at first but eventually relented. The story would involve his grown children Stephanie and son John. Bill was getting ready to retire and was wrestling with whom to leave his river guide business to. It struck us as a perfect segment for our 2016 program “The Outfitters.”

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. He’d only charge us for food. I then asked Peter Morrill, one of the creators of Outdoor Idaho, 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 entertaining, the river flow perfect. Some of the interviews with Bill, Stephanie, and John never made it into the show. Some discussions among family members deserved to unfold on their own schedule, and not on 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 through difficult Class IV rapids, and I wasn’t too far behind him, with a drenched Peter Morrill shooting video from the Rei-ley.

Watching Bill’s daughter Stephanie maneuver a loaded raft through difficult water was a reminder that experience, calm judgment, and quiet confidence often matter more than muscle or bravado, one more lesson the river was happy to teach. Rivers have a way of teaching the same lesson over and over until you get it right.

                   

A favorite stop-off along the Salmon River for both Bill Berndt and Wayne Johnson was historic Campbell’s Ferry. In the 1900s, many gold miners bound for the Thunder Mountain gold fields crossed the Salmon River at Campbell’s Ferry 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 fifty cents per person and a dollar per head of stock. The miners grumbled, as miners always do, but not loudly enough to turn around and miss Idaho’s final big gold 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 with 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.

The segment Peter shot and Pat Metzler edited remains one of my favorites. Rich with history, quietly generous, a little bittersweet, and deeply human, it fit perfectly into our hour-long “The Next Chapter,” one of the last Outdoor Idaho programs I produced. I still think about that show when my thoughts return to the Salmon River, the undammed heart of Idaho. The Salmon provided some of our richest river stories, and no surprise. Rugged, stubborn, resourceful people have called the canyon home for centuries. 

 

The Salmon was not the only Idaho river to keep our cameras busy. Every whitewater enthusiast knows Lochsa Falls’ massive rolling waves of cold, pushy water, how the rapid seems to wait patiently for mistakes. Hank Nystrom and I 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. Perhaps it was an approach just a little off, a line taken at the wrong angle. They didn’t know it yet, but the rafters were making 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 nearest eddy. We got it all on video. Their dream had come true. Their effort even made it into a generic promo.

 

Few things have done more to showcase the beauty of the Owyhee Canyonlands than 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 instead of 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.” 

Perhaps it was more a publicity stunt than a literal threat, since the only things falling on animals and rafters would be wind streamers, and according to several opponents of the bombing range, flares and bundles of aluminum chaff to jam missile guidance. Referring to it as a bombing range also angered 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. Two generations of river runners joined forces to help us explore the 40 miles of desert canyon. To many the Bruneau is the most stunning canyon river in Idaho.

Dr. Keith Taylor is considered to be the first person to run the Jarbidge-Bruneau River in a kayak with his friend Walt Blackador back in the early 1970s. “It’s an interesting experience to try to run something where you didn’t know where you’re going,” said Keith. The other legend joining us was raft builder Alan Hamilton of AIRE. Several of us were in AIRE kayaks; the others were in AIRE catarafts. “With our equipment,” said Alan. “We can get into places like this and still have all the amenities.” It’s true, we ate incredibly well, had a fire pan allowing us to have nightly campfires, and even a toilet. No one could tell that we had ever spent three days in the Bruneau canyon.

Together, the two men guided us through the canyon while offering a historical perspective that few could match. It was not an official outfitted trip, but we felt safe, even going through what’s called Five Mile Rapid.

A later trip down the lower Owyhee River in 1997 for “A Path Less Traveled” was also not an outfitted trip. Just before we reached camp for the night, above Class IV Montgomery Rapid, a large 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-placed swat with an oar to persuade the snake that it needs to get back into that brown Owyhee River water.

Montgomery Rapid awaited the next morning. We were still working on our first cup of coffee when Jim Acee 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 howled as he explained the best line for us to take when we approached the rapid. We appreciated the tutorial, although 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 Jim’s boat. Asia was apparently 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, Asia’s small-dog life vest 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 closer attention to upcoming waves. And to Jim’s briefings.

Back at the station, when Pat Metzler began editing “The Path Less Traveled,” 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 a little audio booth and directed him to start talking. “Just relive the moment,” Pat advised. “You can do this!”  The result surprised us all.  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.

                                                                       

When colleague John Crancer joined forces with outfitter Jon Barker of Barker River Expeditions, things notched up tenfold. The Jarbidge River is part of the Bruneau-Jarbidge Rivers Wilderness area. We managed to capture on video one of Barker’s legendary escapades on the Owyhee Canyonlands rivers. I consider it the most exciting 20 seconds of river footage Outdoor Idaho possesses. There would have been more, but in all the chaos, videographer Chuck Cathcart had accidentally taped over the scariest part of the river disaster. As you read John’s account, it’s understandable how a mistake like that could occur when you let someone review what was recently shot. What video we do have made it into several of our programs and is still talked about today.

John Crancer remembers that trip well. In fact, I doubt he’ll ever forget the rockslide that temporarily blocked the river. Unlike other canyon trips, getting to the put-in of the Jarbidge River is the easy part, on decent dirt roads that wind along the Idaho-Nevada border. Like all the Canyonlands rivers, the Jarbidge “window” is here today and gone in two or three weeks, depending upon the snow level in the mountains.

A secret place few will ever visit, the Jarbidge compares favorably with Zion National Park, with narrow canyons as deep as 800 feet in some places. 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 the first camp. John Crancer recalls that first night of the five-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,” Jon Barker remarked. They soon realized that the rumbling the night before was a massive rockslide that temporarily blocked the entire flow of the Jarbidge River. By the time they 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,” recalled John Crancer, 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 chute, 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!”

Jon Barker seemed unperturbed; apparently, it was a problem he’s used to dealing with. He swam across the river below the slide, scurried onto the rocks on the other side, and leapt 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 Crancer, 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 the worse for wear. It then took tedious patching and repairing to resurrect the craft into something that would float.

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.” Crancer and the others all watched in amazement as the outfitter bounced from boulder to boulder and careened down the rushing chute. 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 Crancer’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, one of my other boatmates, 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 saying to no one in particular, ‘Well, I guess we’re going to run it.’ Seriously, 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 at the trailing rope, to no avail. I was the only one left in the boat.

“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.

“Jon Barker responded quickly. He jumped from shore 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 and 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.”

The men onshore now attached Barker’s rescue ropes to the pinned raft and caught more ropes hurled 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, held in place by the ropes. 

John Crancer continued with his story, but the smile on his face disappeared as he re-lived 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. It was Jon’s turn to be rescued, so we 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, something the group did not mind at all.

 Not surprisingly, outfitter Jon Barker doesn’t use footage from that 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 gets its strength from rivers. There are gentle, non-threatening rivers for the entire family. In eastern Idaho check out Warm River, Teton River, the Portneuf River, and Henry’s Fork. Up north enjoy a peaceful day trip on the Kootenai River, Clark Fork River, St. Joe River, and the Moyie River. Then there’s the Boise River. Each summer 150,000 people spend 2-3 hours floating the six miles between Barber Park and Ann Morrison Park in the capital city. The army of inner tubers have no reason to paddle. The water flows from the bottom of Lucky Peak Reservoir and is always refreshingly cold.

Rivers like the Jarbidge, the Bruneau, Hells Canyon of the Snake require skill, experience, and even a little luck. Expert boatmen have learned to pay attention in these Class IV rivers. Many people rely upon outfitters to get them through these multi-day adventures. River running has become the fastest-growing segment of Idaho’s outfitting business. Outfitters have told me it usually takes three days for the human transformation to occur. That’s not just a sales pitch for a longer trip. They’ve watched it happen too many times to doubt it. It certainly happened to me.

The word I use is awe. The kind of awe that comes from full immersion in an extraordinary landscape, far from pavement, traffic, and skyscrapers. Its mindfulness sweeps away mental clutter and daily worries, gradually synching the body’s rhythms with the river and the canyon walls. I traveled to Idaho’s rivers looking for adventure, and later, stories for television. Who knew an Idaho river could be such a powerful agent of change? Somewhere along the way, without quite realizing it, the rivers were working on me.