Adventure photographer Justin Bailie shares a few of the techniques that have earned him a world-wide reputation.

First and foremost, you’re going to want to be able to shoot while on the water and when going through rapids, so unless you are bringing a full-on digital SLR, just go with a waterproof point & shoot so you can make this possible. Some of them make amazing photos. 

When shooting people, don’t just shoot poser shots of people looking at the camera. Wait until something happens. My favorite images from river trips almost always end up being candid images of the people I meet and become close with. These are the ones that bring, at times, tears to my eyes and memories flooding back. 

Having a mini tripod to do low light images sometimes will produce some of the best images of the trip. You can also use the self-timer on your camera to balance it on a rock or something similar, and then take a long exposure without moving the camera and causing blur. 

Step away from camp occasionally and find a view from above. Try to find a spot where you can create an image of the entire scene; show people what it is you are experiencing and where you are. 

Think about what it is while on the trip that is affecting you the most. Is it the people, the place, the rapids? Try to “feel” what this is and then think about how you can create an image that can convey that feeling to a viewer that has never been there. This is what makes a successful photo. 

Protecting your gear? Eh…don’t worry too much about it. Get the shot. Of course I take great precautions with my gear, but first and foremost I don’t want to miss something. Besides, a little risk just adds to the fun and adventure, right? If I may quote Yvon Chouinard (owner of Patagonia): “For me, when everything goes wrong, that’s when adventure starts.” I love that!

This essay was originally created for the 2012 O.A.R.S. catalog. For more compelling stories and professional advice, click here to request your copy today!

Moving water is the greatest stress reliever I know. On rivers, life is reduced to its simplest form: your only tasks are to make and break camp, make sure the kids are safe and let the current carry you downstream. Everything else is superfluous.

Phone calls, emails, play dates, deadlines, errands, current events, schedules—none of it matters here. This is partly practical—there’s no cell reception or Internet service—but it’s mostly geological and metaphysical: You’re no longer moving at your own frenzied pace, but the river’s, and you can’t rush a river.

This is the way young children live, naturally, before we program them otherwise: outside, with the sun, meandering along in the present moment without worrying too much about what comes next. Maybe this is why, almost without exception, kids feel so at home on rivers. It’s their natural habitat, just like it used to be ours.

Last summer, we took our girls down the San Juan with two other families. Each family had its own raft, but within an hour of launching, we were playing musical boats, families merging and melding as kids swapped rafts to sit with their new friends and take turns with the adults in the inflatable kayak.

Already the river was working its magic, connecting and unifying us, urging us to slow down, pay attention, take off our watches and forget about clock time. In camp, the kids—six total, six and under—seemed to coalesce into a single, mud-streaked unit, reading to each other, building sandcastles, chasing lizards.

But even as the river erased certain boundaries, it strengthened others: on the last day, as the river grew wider and lazier and more lake-like, our flotilla drifted farther apart, and we once again found ourselves as a family of four on our raft, the girls sprawled out and asleep and the river’s current so slow that, for the first time all week, it was nearly silent.

As we drifted, my husband at the oars, I knew that I’d want to hoard this moment forever: our small family floating quietly downstream, part of something bigger than ourselves, the deepest, purest peace I’ve ever known.

This essay was originally created for the 2012 O.A.R.S. catalog. For more compelling stories from other renowned writers, click here to request your copy today!

In July 2011, we sent 15-year-old Sarah Faller down the Snake River through Hells Canyon with a challenge to describe, in her own words, an O.A.R.S. rafting trip. (Sarah is no stranger to the river life—or to O.A.R.S.  —having rafted the Main Salmon River with us in 2010.)

Here is her story…
 

I WAKE UP TO THE SOUND OF WATER CAREENING OVER ROCKS AND THE SONGS OF BIRDS FLYING THROUGH THE CANYON.

I open my eyes and see the sun kissing the upper ridge of the cliffs towering over camp. My face is chilled by the bite of the cool, morning air, but my toes are toasty in my sleeping bag. Shaking the dew off of my sleeping bag as I sit up, I reach for my coffee mug that’s sitting in the sand next to me. I can smell fresh, rich coffee float through the air and already I’m awake. As I get up to stretch, the realization floods over me that this is just the start of another awesome day on the river.

The coffee sure doesn’t make itself; the guides get up around 5 o’clock in the morning to first prepare coffee and then breakfast a little later. All the meals that the guides prepare are always delicious and healthy. Upon trying the food, you would never imagine that it was made out in the middle of nowhere, miles and miles from civilization. The guides are what pull the river trip together and are some of the most unforgettable people that I have ever met. You really get to know each other right off the bat and find out more about each other as the days go on. Not only do they contribute to the majority of fun on the trip, they are always there to make sure that you’re having a good time. With these guides, there is never a time that you ever feel not taken care of. The knowledge that they share with the group makes them even more enjoyable to be around, that is, along with their positive attitudes. I’ve connected almost immediately with the guides that I’ve met on these river trips and I’ve always felt how down-to-earth they are. Their passion for the outdoors and love for Mother Nature is so refreshing and makes me want to be around them all the time. They definitely become a close-knit family to me that I will most absolutely never forget.

The guides are definitely not the only people that you meet on the river. The guests that join you on the trip always add another fun factor. Whether it’s sharing interests and hobbies, chatting by the fire, fishing, or just laying back and relaxing with a cold drink in your hand, there is constantly a way to spend time with the guests on the trip. I’ve made many connections with other guests and learned many things from them also. I always find it fascinating to find out more about people’s jobs, activities, hobbies, and other subjects that make up their personalities. After every single trip that I have ever walked away from, I have always had tears running down my face and a new outlook on life. If it wasn’t for the people on the trip, that would never happen.

Along with the people that you meet, the trip would be nothing without the absolutely breathtaking scenery. On the river, everyone lives a totally different lifestyle that requires an open mind and the willingness to try new things. The mind-blowing, untouched piece of land that lies before me always makes me realize how simple living can be without modern-day technology. Along with all the remarkable wildlife and amazing earth surrounding you, the river is the biggest aspect of the trip that always brings me to tears when having to leave it. While on one of these trips, the river becomes my whole life; it’s like a mother to me. I’m touching, feeling, smelling, watching, hearing and submerging myself in it. It’s my transportation, and it’s keeping me alive, while trying to take me down at the same time. The river is my water source, for swimming and for drinking. The unpredictability of the waves and the thunderous rumbling ignites a spark inside of me and adrenaline begins to surge through my veins like the river water being forced between the canyon walls. The rushing of the water reminds me of how silent and still Mother Nature can be, and also how loud she can be with her plethora of exquisite sounds. The fresh and crisp smell of the chill spray on my skin revives me in a way that I feel as though I’ve become a new person.

The river is what makes the whole trip exhilarating and it opens up a whole new world of discovery, adventure and curiosity.

This essay was originally created for the 2012 O.A.R.S. catalog. For more compelling stories from other renowned writers, click here to request your copy today!

This is Lewis & Clark country as this river canyon turned them away from attempting to canoe down the canyon and they turned and went into Montana. There are many historic sites commemorating this event on the drive to the edge of the wilderness. This is the Frank Church – River of No Return – Wilderness which is adjacent to the Bob Marshall Wilderness in Montana.  Together they form the largest wilderness area in the lower 48 states. Outfitters put into the river at Corn Creek which is where the road ends and you enter the magnificent river canyon.

The Salmon River Canyon is a deep mountain canyon carved by millennia of water flow from snow melt in the nearby mountains and fed by natural springs on the canyon walls. There are dozens of side streams that feed into the river channel; some a small trickle, some waterfalls and some raging when full. They make for good trout fishing if you take the opportunity.

In the 1800's explorers and homesteaders came to Idaho to set up their homes; the adventurous decided to venture into the canyon.  The laws for "proving-up" a homestead in the Canyon required that plant fruit orchards. The cabins and caves of the people are falling down; their fruit trees and bushes remain productive and provide food for the wildlife.

Speaking of wildlife – this Canyon is home to black bear, elk, moose,deer, bobcats,river otters, bald eagles, bighorn sheep, many species of birds and fish and wolves were released at Corn Creek on the same day they were reintroduced to much press coverage into Yellowstone National Park.  They are thriving now to complete the original ecosystem.

When the Canyon was designated a Wilderness there remained private ranches, hunting and fishing lodges and homes along the river corridor. They were allowed to remain under grandfather clauses in that law. Today many of them invite guests to spend a night or a week while floating the river and offer a unique look at their operations. Several historic sites also provide a great hike and look back at an earlier time.

What brings me back to the Salmon River Canyon year after year is hard to define – it's become a magical place for me.  In places the Canyon is deeper than the Grand Canyon; there is so much history – both Native American Lewis & Clark, early western settler and, gold miners; wide, sandy beaches that are great for camping; plentiful wildlife, side streams that provide good fishing, hiking trails for an outing after spending a day in your raft.  And, the river is just a great big fun river to play in.  It's the greatest combination of always-moving water punctuated by great rapids to run and challenge you.  The night sky is studded with a million stars and sunrise comes over the canyon walls to illuminate your campsite with its fingers of light providing welcome warmth from the cool night air just before dawn.  Waking to the smell of coffee brewing and bacon cooking on the grill is one of life's great pleasures.

The people who live in the Canyon are special as well – Hans and Barbara who own Buckskin Bill’s place are a great couple who came to the US from Germany.  Their vegetable garden is a work of art and Barbara always lets me enter to check out how everything is doing this year.  The owners of Whitewater Ranch, Doug & Phyllis Timms who have purchased Campbell’s Ferry and provide a history lesson to anyone who stops by; Mike and Lynn who are the resident managers at Shepp Ranch, have all become friends over the years and it’s great to see them on each trip to say hello or spend the night.  There is a culture to the river people whether they are other outfitters, fellow guests or canyon dwellers – everyone is friendly and helpful and just great folks and that’s really what makes a trip to the Salmon River Canyon so special to me.

I’ve rafted several other rivers – the Middle Fork of the Salmon; the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon, Westwater and Cataract Canyon in Utah, the Snake in Wyoming, the Arkansas in Colorado, the Pacuare in Costa Rica, the New and Gauley in WV and I love the Main Salmon best.

My years of experience as a professional river guide have shown me that the trips I remember and learn from the most have been those with a purpose. Trips like these accomplish a therapeutic value from the overall experience of being in nature, and floating down a river.  For me, the Green River’s, Gates of Lodore river trip was an opportunity to observe this therapeutic value through the eyes of veterans coping with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The thirteen veterans who participated in this trip were from various wartime operations, which included Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan, and Central America.

For those who suffer from PTSD, being on a river trip enables them to have new experiences and at the same time create a sense of normalcy. One Veteran summarized, “Most vets that are in these programs have lost their self-respect to the point where they feel they cannot contribute to anything anymore, so a lot of this may seem minute to some people…It is a big deal to the vets…it gives us a feeling that we can start over and still be useful”. The veterans were introduced to an oar raft, a paddle raft, and an inflatable kayak through rapids, slept in tents, and hiked up side canyons to waterfalls.  All these new experiences added to the rivers ability to recharge them and build self-efficacy.

The veterans took on the challenge of the one and two man, inflatable kayaks and the paddle boats navigated rapids with instructions from the guides.  I could see in their eyes, at the bottom of the rapid, they were so proud at their moment of success.  The positive experience of being in a rapid, in the moment, maneuvering a craft, uplifted them and gave them self-confidence. A veteran describes,  “It especially happened when I was in the solo kayak.  It was a spiritual experience for me.  I felt connected to my Higher Power through the river. This is the best time I’ve had in many years.  I’m going to tell my friends and family all about it.  I haven’t had this level of fun in a very long time.  I feel motivated to make some good changes in my life that I always just talk about.”

At night, around the campfire or in the ring of chairs for dinner, the veterans would exchange their stories from the day. They would talk amongst themselves about what was important to them, and the challenges they faced. A veteran wrote in his journal, “the best thing about rafting down the river for four days is that it gives you time to get to know people…everyone has their own story, yet sometimes we are so alike.  It’s great being able to talk to other vets; we speak a different language sometimes”.  Because a river trip is a shared experience, the veterans were more likely to share something about themselves in the process.  It was powerful for me to observe the growing camaraderie and to listen to the veterans express the difficulties upon their return from war.

“At home I usually take anxiety pills and sleeping pills at night.  Out here, I haven’t had to take either one.  The music around the campfire was enough to lull me right to sleep.  And we are so active during the day with rafting and hiking and such that I have no trouble going to sleep at night.  That makes me very happy.”  Many of the veterans expressed delight in not having to take their medications for anxiety or help them to sleep.  They described their excitement for the silence of cell phones and no interruptions in their enjoyment of the trip.  The observation for me that was most fundamental was the ability of the natural environment to keep them present, in the moment.  For the veterans, this kept them focused on what was happening now, not in the past.  Enabling the new experiences to count towards the future. “That makes us think maybe things can get better…gives us motivation to say hey, I did that, maybe I can do…it doesn’t matter what it is as long as it is positive.”

Being present in nature has the power to influence a person, which allows for the opportunity to heal.  The journey’s value is priceless for anyone who joins a river trip.  I learned of one avenue of treatment for these veterans who suffer from PTSD, which is to bring them into the natural environment, and let that environment enhance their therapy and awaken their renewal.

“The boat slid down the Boundary Creek ramp…” – or some variation can begin the tale.

Each river has a point of reference, which triggers memories grown dim with the distractions of daily living. Around the Grand Canyon, a mention of Lee’s Ferry can make a normally reserved acquaintance into a raconteur. In the Salmon River country, referring to the Boundary Creek put-in ramp could lead to such an earful of adventures from a Middle Fork veteran that you may decide to disappear from ‘civilization’ long enough to gather a few stories of your own.

With the river’s music as background, in an after-dinner circle, the stories may begin. Bronco might describe the time he and the other guides were floating the upper part at high water, ‘deadheading’ without passengers, when Murph’s Hole flipped him, then sent his raft into an eddy while he got caught in the main flow. He’ll mention then that his was the lead boat, and might note that it can be several miles before there is a place to eddy out in that stretch of river. Codye can tell of looking at Jack Creek Rapid, (“eyes big as saucers” is how I remember her putting it), and then steering down the wave train between boat-flipping holes and hoping the boat in front had a good line. Listening to tales of boat flips and close calls, you may wonder why they keep coming back to run this river at all levels. But if you ask about favorite parts of the Middle Fork, some guides will describe the technical moves of the upper river and the beauty of Impassable Canyon; and Zack will tell of the river gathering its flow from a meeting of two continental plates (then he’ll say his favorite is, “Definitely Impassable – or the upper.”). All this should make you want to dip into the river’s power.

Let’s say the Middle Fork is at low water, on a late summer afternoon. You’re in the paddle raft, stroking deep as you enter the S-turn of Pistol Creek Rapid. When all six paddlers synchronize, the guide can steer into each wave on an angle that sets up for the next one. Camilo likes to bump and turn off the rocks at low water, and has told you already that he loves Impassable Canyon best at high water, so you know he’ll be looking for the biggest splashy waves. Look up as you paddle, and you’ll see that the rocks above the waves mirror the river’s path. Imagining the river at high water, you may understand how river and rock shape each other. This will make the next rapids easier to read, and raise your desire to run the river at all water levels.

Some grew up on this river, and can recite the run through each rapid like a recipe for a much loved delicacy. When asked, Dan will name Jump Off as a favorite rapid for its ‘sneak route’ just to the right of a big rock that can wrap a raft around itself if you don’t get quite far enough right. Watch this young veteran’s short oar strokes as he pushes off a wall, using the current’s cushioning effect to keep his boat from scraping rocks as it slips through the narrow slot left of a low water run.

Around a campfire one night, a Salmon country veteran named Nick may tell of hiking up the Middle Fork from Loon Creek camp on a late summer run, checking on smoke he’d spotted from the river earlier that afternoon, and then of racing down the trail ahead of a wildfire that had topped a ridge and was running directly toward camp. He’ll make you see the billowing clouds of smoke, and he may tell of another group rowing downriver, all their gear piled in mounds on the rafts, and of the look in their eyes as they passed him, seeming to say, “We’re so sorry, but you’re going to die!” This story has a happy ending though, as four groups share a camp that is below the fire’s reach, but Nick is the one to tell it best.

Sometime later, when Nick says that his favorite stretch, at all levels, is just a little below Boundary Creek at Hell’s Half Mile, you’ll want to run the river with all these stories fresh in mind, but this season is at an end. Next year though, the Middle Fork will rise again. After you’ve helped ease a raft down the Boundary Creek ramp, the paddle guide will climb in and ask you to let go. When boat hits water, another tale has begun, to eventually be re-told around the circle.

Writer’s note: On a recent O.A.R.S. trip down the Middle Fork, I collected these stories from the guides I named above. Each one put up with my questions, and their answers helped me feel the intensity of this river’s highs and lows. Paddling through Hancock Rapid at low water, looking downstream at the top of a certain boulder, you may see a scooped out hole full of river water. Without breaking the paddling rhythm that makes steering a raft seem easy, look for smaller rocks trapped in the pool. At high water this boulder is underwater, shaping the river as these smaller rocks swirl around the pool, wearing it away. High and wild, low and scenic is another way to start a Middle Fork story.

When the cool, deep shaft of the abandoned copper mine ended in a wall of rock, guide Mike Thurber turned to the group and said, “Turn off your flashlights.”

We were about 100 yards into an Idaho hillside. The lights went off as instructed, and in a moment of solemnity, 19-year-old Thurber quietly asked us to contemplate the phenomenon of utter darkness. For that instant, each of us was an island, alone in the black tunnel.

Then somebody made a spooky ooooo-ing sound, and, to squeals of laughter, all the flashlights clicked back on, most of them shining up under chins, turning faces into grotesque Halloween masks.

Solemnity is in short supply on a river rafting trip full of kids. If you’re wondering what a walk in a copper mine has to do with river rafting, you’ll probably wonder the same about blackberry picking, hurtling down sand dunes, Wiffle-ball and toenail polishing.

Our white-water rafting trip on the Lower Salmon River had as much to do with old-fashioned family fun as it did with running rapids. It was the warm and fuzzy things—singing around the campfire, eating meals together, inventing games, telling bad jokes, debating big issues with know-it-all adolescents—we remembered long after the white-water thrills faded.

My wife, Jody, and I chose this particular adventure for family reasons. Friends of ours, the Fullers, had researched the trip—four days, three nights on the Salmon and Snake rivers starting in Idaho with the Outdoor Adventure River Specialists, or O.A.R.S. rafting company—and asked whether we wanted to join them. John Fuller teaches science to our 14-year-old son, Sam, and Fuller’s son, Woody, is a pal of Sam’s.

Our trip began on a Monday, when we took a bus from Lewiston to the Pine Bar put-in point on the Salmon, 62 miles upstream from our eventual destination, Heller Bar. We pushed out into the river around 11 a.m. Our little flotilla consisted of three rubber rafts, three wooden dories, a big paddle raft and three inflatable kayaks.

Tossed into the drink

The first three days of our trip were on the Salmon, a 425-mile river that begins in the mountains of central Idaho and ends at the confluence of the Snake River near the Oregon-Washington border. The Salmon is the longest free-flowing river left in the Lower 48. For rafting purposes it’s divided into the Middle Fork (the upper part), the Main and the Lower Salmon.

Each has its charms and its advocates. Depending on water levels, our part, the Lower Salmon, usually has fewer and less difficult rapids. We faced only a couple that count as Class III. (Class IV and V rapids are scarier and more dangerous; Class VI is considered unrunnable for a commercial trip.)

The lack of big whitewater might make the Lower Salmon a little tame for thrill-seekers, but it was perfect for our band of youngsters and their parents who wanted to get them acquainted with river rafting without the dangers of big water.

“This is nothing,” said veteran rafter Jim Eisch, 40, of Tampa, Fla. Eisch brought his daughter Kelsey, 8, son Jimmy, 11, and father, Ted, 69. “But I didn’t want to make them so scared they didn’t want to do it again.”

If we could have fast-forwarded a trip tape to the last day, it would have shown Jimmy grinning widely after his third back flip off a raft and saying, “I don’t want to go home. Next time I’m going on a 17-day trip!”
With kids as young as 8 on the trip, danger was on every family’s mind. Before we put in, the guides gave us several safety lectures, explaining what we were to do if we went overboard in a rapid—or “went swimming,” as they say in river parlance.

There was a lot of information to absorb, involving, among other things, head-patting signals, throw ropes, flip lines and the “La-Z-Boy” float position. All of it washed out of our heads when, separately, Jody and I were thrown from our kayaks at the Class III Bunghole rapid on the second day.

Disoriented after getting tumbled in the opaque wash cycle of Bunghole, we quickly bobbed to the surface. In less than a minute we were within grasp of a raft or dory, and in less than three, we were back aboard our kayaks paddling.

The important things, it turns out, were not only procedures but also the vigilance and unflappable nature of our crew as we got tossed overboard and forgot all our lessons. That and the bright orange life vests we always wore.

The inflatable kayaks—like beach rafts with sides—gave the most heart-pounding ride. It’s just you and a little bit of plastic careering through the rapids. When the waves of whitewater curl up and attack, the key is to paddle hard. “No lily dipping,” guide Marci Whittman told us before we set off the first day. “No tea-and- crumpet maneuvering.”

Two days later Sam wiped out at the start of the most technical (river-speak for dangerous) of the rapids, Eye of the Needle, sending him swimming through the churning water.

At the bottom of the rapid, he happily climbed back in his kayak. The guides were impressed. His mother was unnerved. Sam had a blast. “That was great,” he said.

But the best ride, as far as we were concerned, was in the dories. Even Sam and 15-year-old Adam Mowery agreed. “The dories were awesome,” Adam said.

Because the wooden boats are rigid, they don’t bend to the waves, making the highs much higher and the drops like a mini roller coaster. And for the best ride of all, the guides let us ride the bow. That means wrapping your legs around the prow, grabbing onto a rope and riding the boat like a bucking bronco.

Follow the sun

Aside from the occasional whitewater, river days were soothing stretches of lazy rocking and leisure, framed by spectacular scenery of golden hills and deep gorges. At the start, trip leader Barry Dow had suggested we leave our watches behind. The sun became our clock, and the plaintive note Dow blew on his conch shell our call to meals.

We would pack up and push off after breakfast each morning, then spend two or three hours on the river, sometimes falling overboard for a swim to cool off. We would stop at a sandbar for lunch and more swimming or games, then return to the river for a few more hours.

We usually pulled up around 4 or 5 in the afternoon, which left plenty of time for onshore activities. The first day set the tone. A couple of dads tried their luck fishing while the rest of the adults sought relief from the 95-degree-plus heat and the kids horsed around at the water’s edge. Later, somebody started a Wiffle-ball game. When wind blew the ball into the river, 13-year-old Amy Fuller yelled, “Seventh-inning stretch!” and everybody jumped into the cool water.

Eventually, big clouds boiled up, bringing shade and relief, thunder and a few drops of rain. By morning it was clear and dry.

The first night, before we got down to the business of family fun, Dow discussed the dangers of onshore life. It was pretty tame stuff—poison ivy, hornets, the rare brown recluse and black widow spiders, and the rarer rattlesnakes.

“This is important,” Dow said solemnly.

“Don’t harm the animals. This is their home. We’re visitors.” Some of the parents hoped the guides’ reverence for the river and its residents would rub off on their children.

“My kids are city kids,” said Susan Mowery, the Indiana mother of Adam and his sisters, Anna, 12, and Abbi, 10. “I want to show them there’s more to life than Disney World.”

Guide Matty Wilson, 28, aglow in the orange campfire light, pulled out a guitar and sang folk and pop songs, some so old that even the parents recognized them.

Soon the fire went out, leaving a soft night breeze, the sound of guitars, a big moon trying to shine through the clouds and a group of contented parents watching their children do something besides playing video games.

That was just one of many special shore-leave moments. At that campsite, many of us had our toenails painted. Whittman, an art teacher in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho when she’s not a guide, set up a salon in her raft. At the back end was a studio where the girls and some of the younger boys painted rocks and made sand art. In the middle, she painted toenails.

Having science teacher John Fuller along on the river trip was an extra treat. For Fuller, facts are fun, and it wasn’t long after our departure that he got trip leader Dow to talk about the river and its flow. At the time, it was running at a mild 7,000 cubic feet per second, or CFS, but during floods, it ran more than 100,000 CFS. Dow pointed out driftwood trees high on the banks and said, “Imagine the river that high. It’s like a wild animal.”

Fuller’s favorite moment on the trip, scientifically at least, came at a blackberry patch just below the mouth of the copper mine. He watched in awe as one guide tossed a berry 50 feet into the mouth of another guide. And it gave him an idea for a science lab, involving the physics of tossing grapes (in the absence of blackberries).

There was no need to teach the physics of fun; the kids on the trip were experts. By the second day, increasingly confident in their new surroundings, they were jumping off the rafts into the water to cool off. By the third day, they were swimming down a Class III rapid. Water splashing fights routinely broke out.
On Thursday afternoon as we approached Heller Bar, our destination, no one wanted the trip to end. That night guides and clients met for a farewell dinner at a restaurant near Lewiston, even though two families had to alter their travel plans to make it.

During toasts and testimonials, Dow rose and spoke for the guides, saying, “We hope the river spoke to you and gave you a special gift, because it does to us.”

As we left the restaurant, families were exchanging e-mail addresses and Whittman was painting the few remaining blank fingernails left on the little girls.

Months before, when the Fullers had pitched the family rafting idea, Woody, with teenage disdain, called it “the dumb trip.” Afterward, he had a new name for his rafting adventure down the Lower Salmon River.
“Now,” he said, “it’s the great trip.”

This essay was originally created for the 2012 O.A.R.S. catalog. For more compelling stories from other renowned writers, click here to request your copy today!

It only took ten minutes. Just out of Jackson, a moose and her calf graze at their breakfast, barely registering our presence as the van sped past toward Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks, A.K.A. "American's Serengeti." The game, it seems, is afoot. Let the wild life begin.

We (myself and five other adventurers, plus Danny and Ali, our trusted guides) are heading into Wyoming’s wilderness for a week of solitude, sea kayaking and scenery. Everyone else is a seasoned outdoor-person. I, like Dave Barry, have always seen camping as nature’s way of promoting the motel industry. It promises to be an interesting week.

Passing Isa Lake, I crane my neck in hopes of spotting more animals. Choked with yellow water lilies, the lake straddles the Continental Divide, draining into both the Atlantic and the Pacific. Conversation in the van is centered around bears, who’ve been appearing in the headlines with alarming regularity this summer. Ali assures us that she’s never lost a guest to a grizzly. I resolve not to be the first.

The journey starts from the ground up at our arrival in Yellowstone. The ground, in this case, being Old Faithful, the most famous attraction in the world’s first national park. Wildfires engulfed much of the surrounding area in 1988. Charred trees near the sprawling Old Faithful Inn are a chilling reminder of how close the historic structure came to being destroyed.

Danny and Ali direct us down the slippery boardwalk, away from the crowds queuing at the “front” of Old Faithful. Just a few hundred feet away, there’s an unobstructed view of the eruption. The air is thick with sulphur and a boy walks by holding his nose. A hawk poses haughtily on a fossilized tree. Hoof prints inside the barriers mark where elk and bison have broken through the brittle igneous rock. The earth’s crust here is thin, the molten magma closer to the surface than any other place on the planet. Dragonflies flit among the fumerols, their rust color matching the reddish iron oxide deposits.

We bid goodbye to the geysers and head to Yellowstone Lake for a quick kayak introduction. Nicknamed “divorce boats,” tandem sea kayaks are nonetheless known for their stability. But wind has whipped up 4-foot whitecaps on the lake, so the paddle is postponed in favor of a trip to geothermal paint pots. Rain clears the modest crowds, who stream back to their cars as we make our way along the jewel-toned craters. Mayflies flutter, making the most of their 24 hours of life. Mud ponds belch “bloop bloop.” If a dinosaur appeared in the midst of this landscape, no one would be surprised.

And no one is more surprised than me the next morning. Danny’s cry of “Good morning, campers! We’ve got coffee! We’ve got cocoa! We’ve got teas from around the world!” rouses me from a sound sleep. We’d camped at Grant Village, only to be immediately joined by a young elk who stretched out behind us, making her bed in a patch of wild strawberries. After dinner around the fire—pork loin and asparagus—I’d settled my sleeping bag atop a thick foam pad and had a five-star slumber. Surprise!

Refueled with bacon and blueberry pancakes, we make for Leeks Marina and make our first foray onto the water. Even in mid-August, the lake is numbingly cold, the kayaks’ stability reassuring. Ali heads off in the motorized support raft that holds our gear while we get to know the lake. Soon paddling basics have been mastered, and we skim smoothly across the clear waters, under the watchful Tetons. It’s like paddling in a postcard. Scenery: we’re soaking in it!

Two bald eagles monitor our approach to Colter Camp, on the lake’s western shore. We make camp in a flower-strewn clearing next to a small icy pond. After dinner, an animal approaches loudly through the brush. A small doe appears in the firelight. She circles the perimeter for most of the night, and well-guarded, I sleep.

Morning comes with an osprey’s cry, and a hummingbird dive bombs the clearing as I’m folding the tent. The day’s paddle starts with a short detour north, where Ali guides us into the pond beside the campsite. A frigid stream burbles up to the surface. Heading south, glacier-fed waterfalls crash down to the lake. Ali stops and picks wild berries while telling tales of the area’s nature and history.

Heading across Moran Bay to Grassy Island, the wind picks up and the waves rise. Fighting our way across the water we arrive at Grassy Island, our base for two nights. Danny makes hot tea and cocoa while we hastily erect tents. When the rain stops, we feast on steak and salmon while mosquitoes make a meal out of me. The group takes turns testing insect repellents, and soon they’re (mostly) repelled.

So far we’ve been traveling by paddle power, but the next morning it’s time to hike. Or bushwhack, actually, as Danny and Ali lead us up a steep trail that threads through dense undergrowth. I scramble over a freshly-fallen tree that is promptly named “Pants the Ripper.” A swift snowmelt-fed stream cascades besides the trail. This is prime bear territory (bearitory, if you will) so we make plenty of noise on the way to the summit. At the top, we’re rewarded with breathtaking views of the surrounding peaks.

After lunch, a quick paddle through Bearpaw Bay brings us to a trailhead leading to Leigh Lake, where we spot our first humans. Ranger Philips comes from his cabin to tell us about the black bear and 2 cubs he’d spotted shortly after dawn.

Leaving Leigh, we wander through a “Sound of Music” alpine meadow, laden with lupine and other alpine wildflowers, before returning to the island. Morning means saying goodbye to Grassy, as we head to the final campsite.

Danny and Ali have saved the best for last. Spalding Bay is exceptional even in a jaw-dropping landscape, and my tent window faces what must be the most spectacular mountain view in North America. The site is littered with age-polished bones and eagle feathers, and watched over by 2 sandhill cranes. Tomorrow we’ll raft the Snake River, floating back to civilization. But today I can call this spot “home.”

This essay was originally created for the 2012 O.A.R.S. catalog. For more compelling stories from other renowned writers, click here to request your copy today!

It was Robert Redford, the Erstwhile Sundance Kid, who was the first person to mention the Outlaw Trail to me. I was interviewing Redford at his Sundance Resort in Utah a few years ago when he pointed to the long, ornate wooden bar with massive mirrors in the resort’s tavern, known as the Owl Bar.

“That bar is made of Irish oak and it was in the Rosewood Bar in Wyoming, where Butch Cassidy and his Hole-in-the-Wall Gang, the Wild Bunch, hung out,” he said. “Cassidy had it shipped all the way from Ireland. We found it in a biker bar up in Thermopolis, Wyoming, covered in Formica and shag carpeting. So we bought it, had it restored, which took about 18 months, and then brought it down here.”

Could there be a more fitting owner of this relic of Western lore than the man who played the Sundance Kid to Paul Newman’s Butch Cassidy? It’s not only a great bar, but I can’t think of a better place to drink a Polygamy Porter and ponder what Redford had spoken of. The conversation piqued my interest in the real Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, their gang that was known as the Wild Bunch, and the legendary Outlaw Trail.

That poetic name started getting currency in the mid-19th century, when robbers and cattle rustlers borrowed—okay, let’s say stole—an idea from the Pony Express. They would leave fresh horses and the necessary supplies in hideaways and so-called outlaw ranches that were about 20 miles apart. It was an irregular trail of supply stations, veritable safe houses in today’s speak, that stretched for about a thousand miles, from Montana to Mexico. Hence the Outlaw Trail. The hideaways took advantage of the dramatic geology of the West, making full use of narrow canyons, high pastures and great open spaces that lawmen couldn’t possibly hope to cover.

The Outlaw Trail still exists, though much of it remains rugged, remote and hard to access. What’s left has been worn by time and nature, but once you get out there, you may come upon weather- beaten cabins that were hideouts on the Trail. You can follow it yourself, or parts of it, through the mountains, plains and canyon-lands of Wyoming, Colorado and Utah. Even if you aren’t as fortunate as Redford in unearthing a piece of Americana like Butch Cassidy’s bar, you can catch the essence of the West.

Redford had followed the Outlaw Trail himself back in 1976 for National Geographic and wrote that “As technology thrusts us relentlessly into the future, I find myself, perversely, more interested in the past. We seem to have lost something—something vital, something of individuality and passion. That may be why we tend to view the western outlaw, rightly or not, as a romantic figure.’”

Those words seem more fitting than ever in this age of Twitter and Facebook. Butch Cassidy has always had the aura of outlaw-as-hero, often thought of as an Old West Robin Hood, who took umbrage at the idea that large cattle outfits were squeezing the smaller ranchers out of business and were therefore fit to be robbed. The Utah-born Cassidy—his real name was Robert LeRoy Parker—was one of the first to really utilize and eventually improve upon the Outlaw Trail.

Known for his charm, his wit and his bravery, Cassidy’s first known crime was robbing the San Miguel Valley Bank in Telluride in 1889 with three others. They rode away with $20,000 and made their way to Brown’s Park, a mountain-ringed valley along the Green River that straddles the border of Colorado and Utah just south of the Wyoming line. As early as the 1860’s, outlaws had been using this isolated bowl of grassland to pasture stolen horses and cattle and to hide out from the law. Cassidy and his gang traveled along the Green River before moving on to Vernal, Utah.

Brown’s Park begins in eastern Utah, about 25 miles downstream from Flaming Gorge Dam, and runs down into Colorado, ending at the Gates of Lodore in Dinosaur National Monument. Herb Bassett had built a ranch in Brown’s Park and had business dealings with Cassidy and the Wild Bunch. The Basset Ranch was the birthplace of his two daughters: Ann Bassett—known as Queen Ann Bassett—and Josie Bassett. Trained in riding, roping and shooting, but also provided with an education in boarding schools, the girls became outlaws, as well as girlfriends, to Butch Cassidy and other members of the Wild Bunch gang.

The “Wild Bunch” were so-named by saloon keepers in the town of Vernal, who knew a bunch of hell raisers when they saw them. This gang consisted of Harry Alonzo Longabaugh, known as the Sundance Kid; Harvey Logan, alias Kid Curry; Ben Kilpatrick, the Tall Texan; Harry Tracy, and Elzy Lays. The Wild Bunch are credited with the longest sequence of successful bank and train robberies in the history of the American West.

Head to Vernal, where the Wild Bunch drank and raised hell, to start your exploration of the Outlaw Trail and the rugged terrain it passes through. Today, you can explore this country on an O.A.R.S. rafting trip that kicks off east of Vernal at Deerlodge Park, just over the Colorado border along the Yampa River.

The Yampa is the last undammed tributary of the Colorado River, and it looks pretty much like Butch Cassidy would have seen it 122 years ago. The walls of the Yampa Canyon rise 1,000 feet up and can be streaked yellow, red or the black “manganese oxide” known as “desert varnish.” The sandy beaches, the Native American ruins and the ancient petroglyphs found here haven’t changed since Cassidy’s time.

You’re in the heart of Dinosaur National Monument, arguably one of the richest, yet most overlooked corners of the West. The old cabins along the river are part of the trail. Of special note is Stubs Cabin, which was a homestead used by rustlers around the turn of the century. The most dramatic—in fact, you could say prehistoric—aspect of the river run is Echo Park, where the Yampa River converges with the Green before flowing into Utah. The waters wrap around an enormous butte surrounded by cliffs. It was discovered and named by John Wesley Powell in 1869 during his first expedition into the Colorado Plateau. It is one of the most profound vistas in the West and surely one of the most evocative places along the Outlaw Trail, a perfectly preserved bit of the wild country that the Wild Bunch operated in.

You can find other traces of Butch Cassidy and the Wild Bunch nearby, such as Desolation Canyon along the Green River, where Cassidy and the Sundance Kid hid out at the McPherson Ranch, which still stands. The John Jarvie Historic Property, now overseen by the Bureau of Land Management, sits alongside the Green River and is worth a visit. Jarvie was a Scottish immigrant with a beard of Biblical proportions who ran the valley’s store, post office and ferry crossing and he was well acquainted with Cassidy, the Sundance Kid and the Hole-in-the-Wall Gang. He was murdered by a pair of n’er do wells in 1909, and now his stone house is a museum displaying some great Brown’s Park memorabilia.

You can also check out Crouse Canyon, which was regularly used by rustlers and outlaws riding between Brown’s Park and Vernal, Utah. You can explore nearby Diamond Mountain Plateau, a sparse benchland with remnants of log cabins and corrals. The area known as the Outlaw Pasture served as grazing land for livestock purloined by the Wild Bunch. Further afield, in southeastern Utah, is Robber’s Roost, a place where fresh horses were kept, along with a substantial cache of weapons. It was a labyrinth of canyons that offered a variety of lookout points, so it became one of Cassidy’s favorite places to lay low. Cassidy’s original corral remains in Robbers’ Roost, as does a stone chimney and the caves where they could hide out. The terrain and the extreme heat of the region are cited as the primary reasons that the law never was able to root out any outlaws from here.

In time, the Hole-In-The-Wall, in the Big Horn Mountains in northern Wyoming, would probably become the gang’s best known hideout, a natural geological formation which afforded the Wild Bunch much welcomed protection. The log cabin that had stood there has been preserved at the Old Trail Town Museum in Cody, Wyoming.

Eventually, the long arm of the law began to stretch into the remote hidey holes of the Outlaw Trail. When the railroads hired the Pinkerton Agency to chase them down, Cassidy, Sundance and the latter’s girlfriend, Etta Place, fled to South America and bought a ranch in Argentina. After a couple of years, they went back to what they knew best—robbing banks—until the pair were trapped by troops in Bolivia after a payroll robbery and were killed.

Or were they? The legend persists that their deaths were faked and that they went underground again, with Cassidy heading to Europe and then back to his beloved Wild West.

Whatever might have happened, it’s remarkable indeed that a rafting trip into a remote corner of the American West can transport you back a century, to a place and a time when only outlaws traveled in these parts.

This essay was originally created for the 2012 O.A.R.S. catalog. For more compelling stories from other renowned writers, click here to request your copy today!

“When I get back home, I can’t wait to book my next rafting trip,” Tracey told me. This was her first rafting and camping trip, and despite being a busy professional, hyper-connected to technology, and separated from her business, her experience on the incredible Rogue River in Oregon was amazing enough to inspire her to do it all over again. After five days and four nights of rugged luxury rafting with O.A.R.S., she changed from an apprehensive first-time rafter, to a wilderness enthusiast.

I completely understood her enthusiasm. This was my first rafting trip, too. I loved the idea of spending more time in the mountains, but with two small children at home and a fear of adrenaline-rushing experiences; I put off the idea as too risky and hoped to do it “someday.”

Fortunately, I had the opportunity to change that “someday” to “now” and joined O.A.R.S. on the Rogue River. As Dan, another member of our rafting trip told me one night while sitting in our camp chairs next to the hypnotic white noise of the river, “You need to live your own adventure—otherwise you’ll end up telling other people’s stories instead of your own.” Those words would stay with me for the duration of the trip.

There were 17 very diverse members of our group. There were brothers, the eldest at 75 years old, and his younger brother who walked with a cane from injuries incurred in the Vietnam War. There were two women, long time friends, in their mid-70‘s—one having been on many rafting trips herself, the other excited about being on her first. There were active young married couples, others with physical limitations, and even some single travelers.

Despite our differences, we quickly formed a tribe and connected over delicious camp meals with wine glasses in hand. Like many people who have never been on a rafting trip before, I made up the story of what it would be like and who it would be with without living the real experience. Reality was far more interesting.

There were three different types of rafts that we could choose from while running the river—an oar raft, a paddle boat led by a guide that had seats for six rafters, and the “duckies” which were inflatable kayak rafts. The level of effort you put into the rafting experience was similar to an exercise video with a selection of intensity levels—easy, moderate, and challenging. You were never pressured to go beyond your physical abilities.

After an instructional safety meeting with our expert guides, we were ready to paddle onto the Rogue. Helmets on and personal flotation devices snug, we pushed off. Within moments, as we were passing into the Wild and Scenic part of the trip under Grave Creek Bridge, one of the rafters in a ducky lost control and flipped into the river.

This is when the trip got real. As we were instructed, our guide blew three quick whistles, alerting our tribe that a rafter had become a swimmer. We paid close attention as our guide maneuvered the paddle boat to get the swimmer back to riding the rapids. While initially shocking, it was essentially an effortless non-issue with the guides keeping our trip safe.

Our guide had us lift our paddles in a glistening yellow peak above the paddle raft, “On the count of three—one, two, three—WILD AND SCENIC!” Our adventure got off to an exciting start.

We navigated the river through large canyons covered in a thick shag carpet of trees towering above us. We explored waterfalls surrounded by the shimmering emerald leaves of Alder trees, and had fun jumping off cliffs near turquoise pools of creek water. We had a nice mix of rafting time, relaxing moments during our meals, and dry time hiking the banks.

At the end of our days, our guides prepared our gourmet dinner. We sat back and, aside from effortless tent set up, enjoyed a work-free vacation. We delighted in an incredible dinner of ceviche, and caprese salad skewer appetizers paired with Pisco Sours, salmon moussaka entrees paired with Oregon wine, and crème brulee with a wedge of dark chocolate perched on top. It was unbelievable that we were eating so well on the banks of the river.

After dinner, the early risers hit the sack while the night owls spent the evening laughing and discovering constellations under the starry night sky. Basking in the darkness never got old. We slept soundly, lulled by the waves of the Rogue.

I decided to experience the single ducky on my own, paddling exhilarating rapids while Steelhead jumped out of the river next to me, and Osprey circled above watching their every move. The water was refreshing, and the adrenaline now addicting.

At camp, we noticed a black bear meander down from the opposite side of the river, snacking on wild blackberries and happening across a gigantic wild salmon in the water. He scooped it from the river and carried it to a rock, where we watched him eat his dinner—slowly savoring every bite and licking his lips. Meanwhile, we relaxed on the rocks sipping wine and craft beer, enjoying a real life National Geographic moment.

At the end of our rafting journey, people began telling stories of previous adventures to pass the time on the drive back to our cars, and Dan’s words echoed in my mind—“You have to live your own adventure, otherwise you’ll be telling other people’s stories instead of your own.” This was certainly not going to be my last wilderness trip, and the next time I go rafting, I’ll be able to share my story about my adventure on the Rogue River.

“I went rafting down the wild Rogue River with O.A.R.S., and had this amazing adventure with bears, almost tipping a raft, and swimming through a rapid, all while eating incredible gourmet food…”

This essay was originally created for the 2012 O.A.R.S. catalog. For more compelling stories from other renowned writers, click here to request your copy today!