Draft 5.2
May 29, 2026

The Pain and the Glory

 

People often ask if I have a favorite Outdoor Idaho program. That’s a little like asking a father which child he loves most. The honest answer is that it probably depends on the day.

After more than 300 programs, there are naturally a handful I’m especially fond of — shows where the writing clicked, the photography rose above expectations, and the editing somehow stitched it all together into something better than we all imagined it could be.

But often the programs I remember are the ones that demanded the most from us physically and mentally.

Hour-long productions like “50 Years of Wilderness,” “Idaho Headwaters,” “Land of the Lost River Range,” “Beyond the White Clouds,” “The River of No Return,” “Sawtooths on My Mind,” and “Into the Pioneers” weren’t just television projects. They were endurance tests.

Every now and then I’ll stumble across one of those old programs airing late at night, or online somewhere, and I’ll catch myself saying to no one in particular, “You know, we didn’t do too badly on that one.”

I’m especially proud of the shows that required extraordinary effort from the entire crew — the productions where everyone suffered a little for the final result. One of those was “Idaho Headwaters.” If any Outdoor Idaho production earned its blisters, it was this one.

The concept was straightforward enough. Travel to the birthplace of some of Idaho's most beloved rivers and report on them. In other words, keep working your way upstream until the river disappeared into a meadow, seeped from beneath a rock, or simply ran out of water.

The hour-long show featured the origins of several major rivers, including the Snake, the Boise, and the Selway.  

The beginnings of rivers are usually hidden in the most beautiful and least visited parts of the West—sacred places, really—landscapes that remind us what is still worth protecting. Their remoteness  preserves them, but for us that usually meant long, exhausting journeys into seldom-seen country. 

Years before “Idaho Headwaters” became an official Outdoor Idaho project, I had been hunting above Mores Creek, near Pilots Peak lookout when I stumble onto what I assumed was the creek’s source. This was one of the waterways that helped make Idaho City a gold mining boomtown. I had stopped to watch a fawn when I noticed water trickling from beneath a small pile of rocks. I followed the tiny stream as it gathered itself and flowed downhill toward Highway 21 and Mores Creek.

When “Idaho Headwaters” finally made it onto our production schedule in 2015, I thought it would be fun to include a short segment about the headwaters of Mores Creek, especially since I knew exactly where it was. The next time I headed into the area, I brought videographer Jay Krajic instead of my .270 Winchester. I assured Jay this would be an easy shoot.

Of course, we never found what I had remembered.

What we did discover nearby was an old mining cut carved into a hillside. Out of that cut flowed a tiny stream, despite no visible water source above it. Could Mores Creek have multiple headwaters? Hydrology, it turns out, can be surprisingly complicated.

That uncertainly reminded me of another Outdoor Idaho crew—John Crancer and Jay—who were riding horseback toward the south entrance of Yellowstone National Park in search of the true headwaters of the Snake River.

For more than a century, maps incorrectly identified the Snake’s source near Wolverine Creek inside Yellowstone. Later geological work proved the true headwaters began outside the park, in a maze of springs and fallen timber near the Continental Divide.

"That’s where we were headed,” said John Crancer. “Our guide said we were at least thirty miles of hard riding away from the Divide. That's where the Snake begins its 1,000-mile journey westward. That was our planned destination."

For twelve hours John and Jay followed their guide and the packhorses through stunning, untamed wilderness, the kind of terrain that few will ever experience. Grizzly bears and wolves were real possibilities. With darkness approaching, the group made camp that first night in a meadow alongside the ever-shrinking river.

"We figured we could reach the most remote upper headwaters the next day," said John. "But our guide lost his bearings, and we followed the wrong tributary. After a long day in the saddle, we ended up on a sparkling stream that wasn’t actually the Snake’s source headwaters."

Hydrologists may appreciate the complexity of river systems, but that's little comfort when you're lost in the wilderness and on a strict timetable with the guide and his horses. 

"We finally realized we had mistakenly crossed into Yellowstone Park,” said John. “We knew the source of the Snake was just east of us, in the Bridger Teton National Forest. All we could do was backtrack to a spot near our original camp and try again.”

By then frustration was mounting. Knowing both John and Jay, I’m sure they were not thrilled with their guide. Still, John later joked that at least they weren’t members of the Lewis and Clark Expedition, forced to eat one of their horses at "Colt Killed Creek."

Two days into the trip, they faced another two very long days of riding just to reach the car they had shuttled to a trailhead in the Bridger Teton Forest. 

"To make matters worse," said Jay, "John slid off his horse and hit the ground. It had been a long day, and his stirrups weren’t tightened enough after twelve hours in the saddle. It didn't help that I laughed."                                              

They only had the horses and the guide for two more days, not long enough time to continue their search by climbing to a higher elevation. "What's really frustrating," said John, "is that we later determined we were only about two miles from the actual source of the Snake.  We needed satellite GPS instead of paper maps to keep the guide on the right route.”

But from my perspective, the trip was still a success. They had reached one of the truly extraordinary landscapes in North America.

"After more riding along the Continental Divide,” said John, “we reached Two Ocean Creek. Here we found the 'Parting of the Waters,' with half the creek flowing east toward the Atlantic Ocean and the other half flowing west to the Pacific.  We may not have reached the Snake's ultimate source, but we documented the incredible country that gives rise to Idaho's largest river."

                                                                 *** 

The Selway River presented another challenge. The famed 100-mile river begins high along the Idaho-Montana border, again in some of the least visited terrain in the Lower 48. Beginning in the Bitterroot Mountains, the Selway eventually meets up with the Lochsa, to form the Middle Fork of the Clearwater River. 

It is the only river in America to receive immediate inclusion in both the National Wilderness Preservation System and the Wild and Scenic Rivers System.

“The Selway’s not for sissies,” outfitter Steve Burson warned us as we loaded our gear onto mules. “This is the most rugged country in the Lower 48. Very few people today have the skills to come in here on their own.”

We couldn’t disagree, especially after spending the day on the back of a mule, on a narrow dusty trail, at 9,000 feet, surrounded by black charred trees for most of the 22 miles, and no water anywhere.

The Outdoor Idaho crew had rafted the Selway River several times, but no one we knew had experienced the headwaters of the Selway. We weren't sure what to expect, but Steve and his two guides had convinced us they knew right where it was.

Also joining us was retired Forest Service district ranger Dave Campbell and his wife Debi, from Missoula, Montana. I had asked Dave to join us because he was used to defending the Forest Service's "Let it Burn" policy. During his 30 years with the federal agency, he had made decisions on at least 30 fires but remained a staunch advocate for letting wildfires burn. He held that philosophical position even when it wasn't popular, which was usually in June, July, August, and September. 

Outfitter Steve Burson thought the "Let it Burn" policy was wrong-headed, especially during drought years. Most of his permit area had already burned. Jay and I had experienced the effects of that policy riding up through it. I was pretty sure it wasn't what people imagined back in 1980, when Congress declared this land official Wilderness.

I figured their philosophical disagreement might add another layer of complexity to the story, but I warned both men that our show would not allow much time for a full-throated debate about wildfire policy. It would, however, show that Wilderness is rarely as simple as people imagine it from afar.

What a relief it was, after ten hours on mules, to see the outfitter's base camp, with lush trees and a tiny creek running through it. Even the mules seemed excited. As I was walking off my backside pain, Debi Campbell came up to me and whispered that she would rather die than get back on the mule. I could feel her pain, but we still had a full day's ride just to get back to civilization.

Still, the journey proved worthwhile when Steve and Dave knelt beside a tiny stream emerging from beneath a rocky hillside. “It comes right out of the rocks,” Steve said, filling a metal cup with water. “I believe this is the Selway’s source.” Dave raised his cup in agreement. “Here’s to the Selway,” he said, “the crown jewel of wild rivers in the Lower 48.”

At least on that one point they agreed completely.

When the trip finally ended, our faces were black with soot, the only open restaurant in town was Pizza Hut, and we spent the night sleeping in a city park in Hamilton, Montana.

                                                              *** 

The hazardous washboard road into the 1860's mining village of Atlanta would be enough excitement for most people, but we still faced a 16-mile hike to Spangle Lakes, in the Sawtooth Mountains. We were in search of the headwaters of the Middle Fork of the Boise River. No wonder we only met one hiker on the trail. It was all uphill.

At one point on the trail, Outfitter Darl Allred had to very carefully maneuver his packhorses through a bog choked with submerged trees. I had called the Forest Service office before the trip and was assured there were no major trail problems. Apparently no one had heard of the swamp.

For more than an hour Darl carefully guided the horses through 200 yards of knee-deep mud and hidden obstacles.  He had determined he couldn’t climb above it or drop down below it. Many horse packers would have turned around, fearful of a horse breaking a leg. "Every year here in the Sawtooths there's a horse or two that goes down, For most people, the trip would have been over right here, at this bog."  

Luckily for us, Darl was an expert horseman, and the animals had seen this rodeo before. They seemed surprisingly comfortable jumping over the slippery, submerged logs, with Darl leading them through the bog one at a time. It was hard work, and Darl's pants and shirt were soaked and dripping with mud, but he knew to bring an extra pair of clothes for the interview.

We decided to camp nearby, grateful we had avoided disaster. Outfitter Darl had earned everyone’s respect.

I had first visited Spangle Lakes as a twelve-year-old boy, during a fifty-mile backpacking trip that began in Grandjean instead of Atlanta. As we approached the lake decades later from the opposite direction, I wondered whether I would recognize the giant rock where my friend Greg Brown and I had caught brook trout using grasshoppers from Ten Lake Basin.  

But a funny thing occurred. That giant rock had shrunk, and the fish seemed smaller, too.
The water, however, was still as crystal clear as I remembered, and the fish were still biting. The good things hadn't changed much at all.

                                                                  *** 

Television is collaboration or it is nothing.

A producer may shape the story, but viewers remember the images. And often it’s the editor — sitting alone in a dark edit bay for days or weeks — who transforms raw footage into something memorable. Outdoor Idaho survived for four decades because of people who were exceptionally good at all three. One of those people was producer Sauni Symonds.

"A haunting and mysterious world lies under Idaho." That's how we introduced our 1993 program “Under Idaho” to folks above ground. The show explored lava tubes, mining tunnels and deep limestone caves, including Papoose Cave in the Seven Devils mountain range.

Several of us worked on the program, but it was my colleagues, Sauni and Pat Metzler, who went the furthest down under, hauling bulky cameras, weak lights, and enormous batteries into Idaho’s largest cave.  

“I believed it was a grand adventure,” explained Sauni, “and I wanted to be the producer who nailed Papoose Cave.

Back in 1993 things our antique equipment often let us down, especially in harsh environments. We sometimes wondered if we should stick closer to home. “Our cameras were very clunky and light-challenged,” explained Sauni. “The batteries to run the lights were huge and heavy, and those lights were not very strong.  We had to drag all the gear through dark, wet tunnels, up and down ladders, in the dark.

"And the dark was overwhelming. One climber prepared us by saying, ‘it’s darker than you've ever experienced in your surface life.’ I quickly came to believe him. But we were able to make a story with still photos taken by the cavers over the years.  The photos were excellent. Film and strong strobe flashes made a huge difference.” 

Photos can certainly tell a story, but the crew was after video down under, and Sauni was not someone who gave up easily. “It always nagged at me that we could have had a better story with better TV gear.”    

Years later advances in camera technology convinced Outdoor Idaho to try again. By 2015, lightweight DSLRs and GoPros could capture images impossible to record in 1993.

“The cameras were super light-sensitive, we had multiple lights and lots of very small batteries,” said Sauni. “But the challenges of the dark were still there.  The cavernous, pitch-black cave again swallowed the light. Papoose Cave was unforgiving.”  

 

We seldom revisit a story, unless a public affairs angle has substantially changed the story. But we made an exception for Papoose Cave, just like we made an exception for our “Backcountry Pilots” show. Too many of the pilots had died after it first aired. We figured it was improper to keep re-airing that program. Hence, fifteen years later, we produced “Flying Idaho.” After a few years, we had the same problem with that show. Neither one of those two shows are currently re-airing.

Cavers nationwide consider Papoose one of the most dangerous caves in the country and one of the most geologically significant. It descends to a depth of 800 feet below the surface of the earth, with documented passageways that extend for more than three miles.

After its discovery by a group of hunters in 1959, the Forest Service installed a locked gate at its entrance, allowing only expert climbers to enter.  A good thing, because almost immediately Papoose requires ropes and special equipment to survive a 50-foot drop-off. As one expert climber told Sauni, "It's a very challenging environment. Not many people are capable of going into this cave and coming out in one piece." 

For our 2015 show “Middle Earth,” a group from the Gem State Grotto were our guides and took Outdoor Idaho crew members Sauni and Troy Shreve to a depth of 500 feet. They worked their way through tight squeezes and complex passageways that could keep a novice lost for weeks. One false move could mean cascading through an ice-cold waterfall or dropping dozens of feet onto hard limestone rock. 

Expert cavers carry three lights to guarantee plenty of redundancies. They also notify other cavers before entering Papoose. “In Papoose, the silent killer is hypothermia,” said Sauni, “with an average temperature of 36 degrees and 98 percent humidity. It’s virtually impossible not to get wet, something I discovered with my first rappel into the cave.”

 Years later, while reminiscing about our various underground adventures, Sauni admitted that “Middle Earth" was one of the shows that kicked her backside, physically and mentally.

“When ascending the underground waterfall on ropes to leave the cave, my ascender mechanism got jammed. So, as I’m straining to push myself up the waterfall, my rubber boots and coveralls filled with water, increasing my weight by what felt like 20 lbs. That effort resulted in a shoulder injury that took years to heal. It made me realize that what we were doing back then was not only exciting but downright dangerous.”

It was downright frustrating, too. Ever the perfectionist, Sauni realized she would need even more usable footage to tell the lengthy story she wanted to tell. So Troy went back to Papoose to gather even more footage. 

“Still, we used every image we secured,” noted Sauni. “Unlike so many shows, absolutely nothing landed on the cutting room floor." The end result was wonderful. It won numerous awards, including an Emmy nomination.

Still, said Sauni, “those were the kinds of shows that I always wished we had a bigger budget for, to hire a production team with experience in that kind of difficult environment.”

Years later, Sauni remembered the experience less as glamorous television than sheer endurance.

“In many ways, it was the most punishing show I worked on,” she said. “But we did what we could on a shoestring, and I’m proud of that.”
                                                                  ***

May 29, 2026
Draft 1.7.4

 

“I’m surprised in 40 years that no one died. And if someone did die, it probably would have been me.”

Jay never talked like a conquering mountaineer. He talked like a cameraman with a job to do. “I was doing my job and that overcame any kind of fear I had. I really like challenges. Besides, I just thought nothing bad’s gonna happen to me. In fact, that became my mantra while climbing on near-vertical cliffs with a camera: nothing bad’s gonna happen! Nothing bad’s gonna happen!”

That was until expert mountaineer Tom Lopez accidentally unleashed a football-sized boulder that came racing right for Jay’s head. “We were up around 11,000 feet, just below the summit of Bell Mountain, and I heard ‘Rock!’  I looked up, and I looked around, and there was nowhere to go. There was a wall on one side and a drop on the other, and it was coming really fast. I just hoped it wouldn’t hit something and ricochet.  I leaned over and fell down on the ground as it missed me by inches. Yeah, that was a pretty scary moment.”

                                                          ***

Climbing mountains was nothing new for the Outdoor Idaho crew. beginning as early as 1989, cameraman Peter Morrill and I followed llama owners Jay Rais and ?? into the Lost River Range near Challis. They hoped to be the first to take llamas to the top of Mt Borah, at 12,662 feet.

The llamas performed admirably until 11,200. That’s the start of Chicken-Out Ridge. The animals balked. Perhaps they looked down and saw the near vertical drop-offs. They aren’t mountain goats, after all.

Perhaps the llamas understood just enough English to know that Chicken-Out Ridge was where even brave souls turn back, rather than face the steep exposed narrow rock rib that requires precise footwork with no margin for error.

I just know my respect for llama intelligence grew as I watched their stubborn insistence: they had seen just about enough of Idaho’s tallest mountain.

One of my fond memories of that trip is making it to the summit and seeing a little lake down below. A bear was swimming across the lake. We used the video near the end of our 1989 program.

Twenty-nine years later, Jay and I and a small group of adventurers bushwhacked into that small lake below Borah summit for our hour-long “Land of the Lost River Range” program. No bear this time at Shadow Lake, but we could definitely make out climbers on the top of Borah that afternoon. I’m sure they wondered who those people were yelling up at them. They had to hear us, because we could hear them.

“Hey, I liked Chicken-Out Ridge,” said Jay, matter of factly. “I thought it was fun. Borah may be the easiest of the 12ers. It’s certainly the most trailed.”

Jay had begun work on our 2020 hour-long program “Idaho’s 12ers.” Of the nine mountain peaks higher than 12,000 feet, Mt Borah is the most famous. Each year hundreds of people attempt to summit, but first you have to get past Chicken-Out Ridge.

“I have seen climbers who left camp at 5 a.m. so that they could get back to their cars before dark,” said Jay. “After a 5,200-foot elevation gain over 4.25 miles that took them most of the day, they eventually reach Chicken-Out Ridge. It freaks them out. It’s just too scary. The Ridge is the end of their climb.

“For me, even with a large camera slung over my shoulder, I found Chicken-Out Ridge exhilarating.”

                                                      ***

Jay figures he summitted 18 peaks for Outdoor Idaho, and of course he has his favorite climbs: Castle Peak in the White Clouds; the duo of Church and Donaldson in the Lost River Range, so close they’re usually climbed on the same day; Jerry Peak in the McClure-Jerry Peak wilderness, Bell Mountain in the Lemhi Range.

Breitenbach was in some ways the scariest.

“Just shy of Breitenbach peak, we got to a ridge,” said Jay. “The snow had drifted both ways, so there was a cornice on the knife edge. It was a huge slab of snow that went over the ridge. It was nasty, and it dropped thousands of feet below you. 

“Our leader wasn’t absolutely certain which was the snow and which was the ridge. You’re hiking on the edge of that ridge, and you’re not sure if you’re going to step on a piece of snow or a piece of rock. Terry Lee, our volunteer, was ahead of me carrying the tripod. I guess he was my guinea pig. He stepped through the snow.

“For me, that moment on Breidenbach was probably the scariest of the 12ers.”

                                                         ***

And there’s one mountain climb that he truly hated.

“Lost River Peak is my least favorite, hands down. It’s a very steep mountain, and I had to climb it twice.” 

The first time was for the 2018 program “Land of the Lost River Range.” That popular show featured multiple segments, on Basin and Range geology and the 1983 earthquake, on a fish farm and some ranchers, and on a Braun Brothers concert in Challis.

The show also featured several skiers who were happy to climb up and ski down “Super Gully,” a wide-open slope for about 3,000 vertical feet.

In his book and website, Idaho: A Climbing Guide, Tom Lopez wrote that “Super Gully is known for its rockfall; helmets are a necessity. Most successful summits have been when there is snow in the gully. Thus a helmet, crampons, ice axe (and the ability to use it) and a rope may all be necessary.” He also describes the hike as “pure vertical” and that climbing on snow is better than climbing on the loose scree.

What Jay remembers is the post-holing. “When we videotaped the skiers, we were heading down the mountain, and I had a pack on with my camera in it. I hit soft snow and sank three feet. The pack went over the top of me, and I was buried. I couldn’t get out. Someone had to come over and pull me up.”

The ski group only went as far as the “false” summit that day, and Jay and Terry figured that soon they would need to climb Lost River Peak again. It was personally important to them that they bag the true summit, which by all accounts required careful navigation. The second climb was two years later, in the month of May.

“We began post holing around 10,000 feet,” said Jay. “You hit a soft spot and your leg goes down, as you’re going straight up the steep mountain.

“That’s bad enough, but above 10,000 feet, there’s not enough oxygen to breathe, and each time your foot goes down into the snow three feet, you gotta stop and pull your foot out. That takes a lot of energy, but you get back up on your feet, and you post hole again. That happens maybe 15 more times, until you have no energy left.”

                                                            ***

Jay could have lightened his load, but he was a purist when it came to cameras. He hauled the large TV camera up and down mountains because it had the better lens, and the zoom and depth of field were superior to the alternatives. “And I knew how to operate those cameras. They were manual, and I could control everything on the camera. Those small auto-digital cameras weren’t quite there yet.”

 

One thing Jay did enjoy about his work on “Idaho’s 12ers” was the friendliness and camaraderie of the climbers. “It was physically a challenge, but they made it fun. They were really into it, and so it made it easier. And they didn’t care that I was there documenting their trips. That’s rare.

“All in all, it was a grand adventure: snow, good people, scary moments, and road rash. And we all made it out alive.”

And those views, at more than two miles above sea level! Most peaks were too narrow to camp out on, but Jerry Peak was a mountain that allowed them to stay on the summit, near a lingering snowbank which was their only source of water.

From there they were able to catch the early morning light and the magic hour in the evening.

“On the summit of Jerry Peak we were looking into the Pioneer Range and the Lost River Range,” said Jay. “The light was beautiful, stormy and pink. It was just lovely that night.”

                                                      ***

 

When we profiled the new Hemingway-Boulders wilderness for our hour-long 2016 “Beyond the White Clouds,” program, it just seemed natural to climb the peak towering over the wilderness. How else to capture the flavor of something few had visited.

Ryan Peak misses being in the 12er group by 286 feet, but the scree slopes of loose, slippery, broken rock all the way up the mountain made it seem taller than 12,000 feet. We worked hard for this one. “Oh, God. Go up two steps and come back three! You had to really be careful and test out the rock,” said Jay. “We staggered everyone so if a rock did come down, it wouldn’t hit somebody.”

Jay not only had to work through the scree himself, but he also had to shoot the rest of us struggling up the mountain. That’s a difficulty that comes with the job, and Jay would have it no other way.

Once on the summit, the difficulties seemed to wash away. The wind tried but couldn’t dislodge us. We realized how lucky we were to experience the stunning 360-degree panorama, as all of central Idaho lay before us.

And for an hour or so, on top of Ryan Peak, it was possible to believe that Idaho had finally begun to make sense. (And for an hour or so, it was possible to believe that Idaho was finally making sense.)

                                                     -30-