Idaho 2003 Trip by: Howard Kirkland Westward Bound Dave Morgan, Dave's son, Eric, Danny Booker and I departed Lynchburg on Friday, September 12, at 10:00 PM, headed for Idaho and the Middle Fork of the Salmon River. With Dave's Perception Revolution (a funny-looking cataraft - looks like a couple of oversized kayaks with pipes stuck through them) and Travis Graham's Dagger Ocoee canoe strapped on top of Danny's Chevy Suburban, and towing Howard's enclosed cargo trailer, overloaded with five rafts, one kayak, crates of food, bags of gear and clothing, we drove nearly straight through to Stanley, Idaho. Along the way, we had to stop in St. Louis, Missouri, to let Danny visit the famous Gateway to the West Arch. In case you didn't know, before Dave Morgan and I began taking Danny along on our annual outings, he had never before been more than 150 miles away from Brookneal in his entire life.
Saturday night, we stopped in a roadside rest area in eastern Wyoming to check the security of the boats on top of the 'Burban. After adding a couple of extra tie-downs, we drove another hundred miles or so, and stopped for gas, only to discover that the trailer door was swinging wide open, and that Eric's clothing duffle bag and Howard's bag of cam-straps were missing, along with two jars of peanut butter. After much wailing and gnashing of teeth, we decided that our only recourse was to pray for a miracle, and to continue on our way. Idaho - the Promised Land of the Paddler Sunday night found us camped at USDA Forest Service Bonneville campground, forty miles west of Stanley. Idaho. On Monday morning we each had to visit the nearby hot-spring-fed bath house, having grown so malodorous that even the buzzards turned up their noses at us. Long ago, local residents constructed a wooden bathhouse here, complete with a cast-iron bathtub. pipes divert the flow from several springs, one very hot, and one not so hot, into the tub. The temperature of the water in the tub is controlled by repositioning the pipes to take in more or less hot or cold water. The temperatures of some of these springs can easily exceed 180 degrees Fahrenheit.
Later that morning, we drove to Stanley, where we met Travis Graham (an old friend, originally from Roanoke; currently from Knoxville), ate breakfast at a local restaurant, and then visited the put-in for the Middle Fork at Boundary Creek. Then, once we had resigned ourselves to the fact that Dave Morgan was determined to paddle the damn thing regardless of the water level, we reluctantly agreed that, yes, it was indeed possible to get down the river despite the frequent sections of completely dry riverbed. The only problem was that our permit application was for a Monday launch, and we still had to purchase food and equipment, which would require (at least) the rest of the day.
Returning to Stanley about four o'clock in the evening, we attempted to call the North Fork Ranger Station to re-schedule our launch, only to find that they were closed for the day. However, while visiting the Sawtooth Ranger Station just outside Stanley, we were fortunate to meet an Idaho Resident, Mr. Larry Warner, who had a permit for a Tuesday launch, and who kindly invited us to join him, his sister, Judy, and his son, Colin, as part of their group. So we loaded up with groceries, purchased additional warm clothing and paddling gear, and returned to Boundary Creek. It took us most of the night to decide which boats to take, and to rig them (no one could remember how to assemble the rowing frame), and to sort out what stuff was going and what stuff was staying. Needless to say, there was little time wasted sleeping that night. The Middle Fork of the Salmon River Tuesday morning dawned overcast and chilly, and we began wondering if we were ready for wintertime paddling. But after a breakfast of hot oatmeal, granola bars and hot coffee, our spirits regrouped, and we went off to meet the Warner party at the launch ramp, and proceeded to lower our 16-foot self-bailer rowing rig and Dave's Revolution down the fifty-or-so-foot slide, down to what would have been a river, if it only had water in it. After a frenzied period of shuffling and re-shuffling our cargoes, we pushed off about 10:30 in the morning.
The temperature was hovering in the low-to-mid 40's, and the sky was mostly cloudy, but the spectacular scenery and highly technical rapids kept our minds off the temperature, for the most part. Dave and Eric, riding the Revolution, were usually able to slide over the many rocks which resided just below the surface; however, the raft tended to cling like a magnet. The rocks were unavoidable, and Danny frequently had to jump out and push while I strained at the oars, trying to get the overloaded behemoth to break free. Travis Graham, paddling his Dagger Ocoee, was able to easily avoid almost every obstacle; He would disappear into the distance downstream, and we would later find him lolling on a rock in the sunshine, waiting for us to catch up. This continued for several hours, until we reached the first hot springs, where we decided to take a break and enjoy nature's hot tub. It was at this juncture that we discovered that the fill valve for the raft's self-bailing floor had broken, and that the floor was full of water. No wonder we were hanging up on every rock! So we decided to repair the raft, and to camp where we were. Fortunately, our repair kit contained a spare valve, and we were able to pump most of the water out of the floor. Shortly before dusk, three rafts, with about five guides aboard, landed at our campsite, and promptly set up camp on the cobble bar next to the river. It turned out that they were a commercial trip, and that they were picking up their customers and more food at Indian Creek, about thirty miles downstream, where there was more water to float the boats. They also let us in on a wonderful secret: "Slurping!" "Slurping" requires letting a lot of air out of all the raft's tubes, as well as the floor; then when the raft hits a rock, and if there's enough water flowing over it, the raft will "Slurp" its way over the rock, hardly slowing down. And guess what? It works! The next day went far easier than the first, and Danny was able to stay dry most of the day. Dave paddled the Revolution, while Eric fished; Danny snoozed while I rowed. Eric caught quite a few nice-sized cutthroat trout, but was required by law to release them. A crying shame; they would have made a delicious dinner. The Middle Fork Salmon River flows through one of the few remaining truly remote wilderness area in the lower forty-eight states. Steep rugged mountains, forested slopes and grassy hillsides interspersed with craggy granite outcroppings dominate the skyline, while the crystal-clear blue river meanders over and between boulders of all sizes and shapes. So clear that the bottom is cleanly visible at almost any depth, the crystalline water tempts one to drink directly from the river (we don't; an hour or so each day is devoted to pumping water through a filter).
The third day brought us to Indian Creek Ranger Station and Airstrip, where our friends of the first night were to meet their party, and where we were to meet up with the local Forest Ranger, who would issue our permit and assign our next four nights' campsites. The Ranger was very friendly and helpful, and invited us to camp there for the night, where we could use the toilets and fill our water jugs without having to pump. A note about toilets: With few exceptions, there ain't none! River users are required to carry all of their waste out with them, and must be equipped with a waterproof container specifically for that purpose. We had a five-gallon bucket with a screw-on lid, which could be rigged with a very comfortable (if I say so myself) fold-up toilet seat. Larry and his family proved to be excellent company on the river. They were rowing a fifteen-foot self-bailer raft, and were taking turns fishing as they traveled. Evenings and mornings found us sharing each others' meals, as well as swapping stories and experiences. Larry had brought his shotgun, and one evening, he managed to bag his limit of Chukker Quail, which he proceeded to clean and to grill. Of course, we all had to have a bite (some of us hade more than a bite, but far be it from me to point an accusatory finger), and we all pronounced it to be quite tasty. Almost every day brought us to one or more hot springs, where we were obliged to stop and enjoy the baths. Every day brought new sights to see and things to do. We took several side-hikes, and among other things, visited old mines, archaeological sites containing countless Indian pictographs, spectacular waterfalls, old miners' cabins and homesteads, and even a couple of working ranches. This area is completely roadless; the only access being by airplane, boat, foot or horseback. All the ranches and several Ranger Stations are equipped with landing strips; small airplanes were frequently heard or seen overhead. After the second day, we were able to re-inflate the raft to its normal pressures, and to continue down the river with only the occasional hang-up; its flow having been augmented by the many inflowing streams along the way.
The rapids, which can easily achieve a rating of class IV-V during normal or high flows, were, at the present level, mostly class II and III, owing most of their difficulty to the number of exposed rocks and their technical approaches. The rapids were frequent, and the current between flowed quickly, and other than the intricate maneuvering demanded by the rocky passages, little work was required. Day Three dawned clear and sunny, although it was mid-morning before the sun found its way down between the steep cliffs bounding the river to find us, still bundled in all the warm stuff we could put on. The remaining days were warm and sunny, except when the mountaintops intruded themselves between us and the sun, eliciting many groans and curses. Days Four through Seven dissolved into an unending stream of spectacular views, challenging passages, natural hot-tubs, delicious meals, evenings spent in delightful camaraderie, reliving the events of the day, nights snuggled in our warm sleeping bags, while breathing cool, clean, brisk mountain air. We found ourselves experiencing sensory overload; it was literally impossible to fully absorb all that was there to see and experience.
Day Seven, Monday, September 22, found us at the confluence with the Main Salmon River, where, shortly before our take-out. we discovered a brand-new (only five weeks old) rapids, not mentioned in the guidebook, where a recent rainstorm had caused a small stream to disgorge hundreds of tons of rocks, completely damming up the river channel, and creating a steep drop of over ten feet; the steepest rapids yet encountered! A fitting end to a memorable trip! Cache Bar, at mile 99.6, is a Forest Service facility, equipped with concrete launch ramps, parking area and public toilets. Having arranged in advance to have our vehicle shuttled to Cache Bar, we proceeded to unload and disassemble our boats, and to load the remainder of our gear into the trailer. Then, after a four-hour (or longer) drive, we arrived back in Stanley, where we camped in a couple of rooms in a very nice motel.
Tuesday, we drove westward to the North Fork of the Payette River, just to see for ourselves why it had been rated class VI, and we found out right away. This is a dam-controlled stream, and can usually be paddled late in the season. Its gradient, while not overly steep, is continuous, and it is choked with large boulders, creating an unimaginable confusion of waves, pour-overs, hydraulics, haystacks, holes, stoppers, keepers, pinning opportunities, and just plain mayhem. This continues for about ten miles, only relenting slightly in its final six miles before it gushes from its mouth to join the South Fork Payette, to form the Main Payette River. Having earlier considered running at least the last six miles, Travis and I reconsidered, and opted, instead, to paddle the last six miles of the South Fork Payette, which is only rated class IV; a wimp stream. Dave, Eric and Danny made a noble sacrifice, and gave up paddling this river just so they could take pictures of Travis and me as we boated. What sweet guys. The South Fork still contained a respectable amount of water, despite the lateness of the season, and although its class IV rating may be stretching it a bit, it was still a force to be reckoned with. The rapids were frequent, steep and complex, requiring much eddy-hopping and boat-scouting. Travis paddled his canoe, while I paddled my kayak.
Dave and Eric chased us down the river, shooting photos as we went, while Danny drove the 'Burban. The trip was exciting, albeit of short duration. After taking out at the Forest Service ramp at Banks, Idaho, just below the Confluence with the North Fork, we packed up and drove sixty or so miles to Boise. Travis had to catch a plane to Las Vegas the next morning, so we had dinner together, and after many tearful hugs and cries of "don't leave us!" we sadly drove away, leaving Travis all alone to find his way home. The remaining crew then moved on to the next adventure. The Bruneau River Arriving late Tuesday night at Bruneau Dunes Campground, about fifty miles southeast of Boise, we hastily pitched camp and quickly became comatose. Wednesday morning brought hot showers that could peel the bark off an oak log, and breakfast at a local country restaurant in the small town of Bruneau, Idaho. We had been hearing about the Bruneau River for several years, and were very curious to see what all the fuss was about. We were pleasantly surprised to discover that this river flows through a narrow steep-walled canyon with towering black basalt cliffs on either side, cutting down hundreds of feet through ancient lava flows, and draining much of the desert southwest of Idaho.
A picturesque drive across the sagebrush-dotted desert, including several miles through a U.S. Air Force Bombing Range, brought us to the take-out, and to a spectacular view of the river from the cliff tops. We all agreed that this stretch of river would make a worthwhile target for a future trip. Heading south into the state of Utah, we drove through the sprawling cities of Ogden and Salt Lake city, occasionally glimpsing vast stretches of the Great Salt Lake to the west, and the mountains of the Wasatch Range to the east. At one point, we spotted twenty to thirty parachutists (or maybe they were hang-gliders - we were unable to decide) spiraling slowly toward the ground at the base of the mountains, occasionally finding thermal updrafts, which would lift them hundreds of feet into the air. Smoke was rising somewhere east of the mountains, giving evidence of forest fires raging in the adjacent valley. Arches National Park Wednesday evening brought us to Green River State Park in east-central Utah, where we spent a comfortable night. Thursday morning broke clear and warm, finding us headed toward Arches National Park near Moab, Utah. Time, wind, water and weather have combined forces here to sculpt the local massive red sandstone into thousands of fantastic shapes.
It is easy to imagine that an ancient race of highly advanced beings created here a garden of statues in honor of their heroes. Many near-human features can be discerned with only a little imagination.
At several points, the softer layers of sandstone comprising the rocky ridges have been eroded completely through, leaving the harder capstone intact, thereby creating the graceful stone arches that give the park its name. If you have watched the Indiana Jones movies, you will have seen some of these arches. Glenwood Canyon of the Colorado River We then drove eastward, following the Colorado River into the west-central part of the state of the same name. Interstate Highway 40 follows the river for many miles, eventually traveling through Glenwood Canyon, to the Shoshone Power Plant, where the river is fed from the penstocks of the generators. Further upstream, the river is diverted into Hanging Lake, on the plateau above the north rim of Glenwood Canyon, where it is stored, and eventually diverted down through massive steel tubes into the penstocks of the Power Plant to spin the mighty turbines. Operating during peak demand periods, and storing water in the lake during off-peak hours, the Power Plant guarantees regular scheduled releases with flow rates adequate for paddling. At this point, the highway is cantilevered outward over the river, hanging from the north wall of the canyon. The westbound lanes are suspended above the eastbound lanes, and off-ramps from each bring the traveler to a rest area below the highway, which is replete with boater parking areas, restrooms and a concrete launching ramp. A paved bicycle/hiker trail parallels the highway and river for several miles westward, to another rest area and ramp. The river itself, in the next three miles, flows strongly through several class III boulder gardens, which, while not very difficult at the present rate of flow, were nonetheless exhilarating. Danny and Eric opted to paddle the Revolution, while I paddled my kayak. Dave drove the 'Burban to the lower rest area, and ran back up the bike path to photograph us as we descended the river. The trip was fun, but altogether too brief for our liking, and not very challenging. The Long Journey Home After packing up our boats and gear, we continued eastward, climbing the western slopes of the Rockies through Vail Pass (10,666 feet above sea level) and then Loveland Pass (11,992 feet). The 'Burban was struggling to maintain speeds of 35 mph while dragging the heavily laden trailer up the steep grades. After passing through the impressive Eisenhower Tunnel, we descended into the city of Denver (only 5,280 feet), and continued eastward. Eastern Colorado, Kansas and western Missouri offer very little in the way of picturesque scenery; wake up briefly once every two or three hours, and the scenery is unchanged. Needless to say, no one fought for the pleasure of driving, and those who weren't driving chose to sleep. Friday passed very slowly, as the 'Burban put the endless flat, boring miles behind us. Then came St. Louis and the Mississippi River, followed by southern Illinois and Kentucky, and the terrain began to take on a more distinct personality. Darkness overtook us in western Kentucky, but we pressed on, crossing into West Virginia around midnight. Arriving back in Lynchburg very early Saturday morning, we hastily unloaded our belongings, shook hands all around, and promised ourselves to do it all again as soon as possible. More next year. Maybe the Bruneau?
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