From the bank the river looked like a snake. A glistening green anaconda sliding through the rocks. I couldn’t see its fangs, but I knew they were there, waiting for me just around the next bend, sharp, white and dangerous—The Rapids. I was scared. Hell hath no terror like that of those-who-have-almost-drowned, which I had in a river long ago, young, foolish, and in the company of similarly moronic friends, one of whom somehow managed to rescue me by the hair at the exact moment I had surrendered to the dark death-god of the river. The ordeal left me deeply marked by the power of whitewater, and I had avoided it ever since. But now, I knew, my number was up. I had, after all, lived an adventurous life. Being a nature writer by profession, I had been obliged to kayak in deadly storms, hike rattlesnake-ridden ridges, track moose through blizzards, crouch just inches from stampeding buffalo, fish alongside Alaska brown bear, swim with whales, snorkel with salmon…why, I had even camped on the steppes of Outer Mongolia with the local pit vipers, one of whom decided to make an unscheduled appearance in my neighbor’s bedroll. Clearly it was time to make peace with the grim river reaper. So there I was, standing in the morning light of an Idaho September.
The Salmon River, much to my mortification, also is called "The River of No Return," which meant, of course, that I would never get out alive. I’d never return home, never see my dog again, my French china, the little black dress Tweeds finally got around to mailing me after being sold out of it for three months. “Need sun block?” asked an insufferably cheerful river guide. “No,” I replied. “I need a lobotomy.” We were putting in, as they say in the river running business, at Corn Creek, a two-hour drive from the already remote town of Salmon, Idaho. At the moment the place looked like an ant farm. Fat yellow rafts and elegant high-sided dory boats waited in the shallows while troops of extremely tan people crawled all over them. They were our fleet of guides and their mission was to stash the mountains of supplies that littered the beach into secret compartments deep in the bowels of the vessels that would carry us downstream for the next six days. Coolers, tents, duffel bags, sleeping bags, tables, lanterns, cooking things, rubber boots, and backpacks …the scene looked to me like preparations for war. “You can stow your ammo can here,” offered a quiet guide named Lonnie Hutson, We had, indeed, been given genuine government issue metal ammo cans in which to keep the stuff we wanted near us at all times – sun glasses, cameras…arsenic. I studied the other guests for similar signs of angst. Nothing. Just smiles and spirited stomping around. “Hi, I’m Jeanne,” announced a pretty woman with an East Coast accent. “That’s my husband, Herb.” Herb waved and smiled which made him look exactly like Lorne Greene. They were, it turned out, a bonanza—a psychologist and doctor team from Maryland who had already done O.A.R.S.’ 17-day Grand Canyon dory trip and lived to tell the tale…many times and with great enthusiasm. I asked Jeanne if I could ride in her lap. That, of course, is all you have to say to a psychologist to get her undivided attention. “This is your first river trip?” she asked. I told her about the near-drowning. “Then, this is the best thing you can do for yourself,” she said. “I was just as scared when we did the Grand Canyon, but by the end of the trip the whitewater was like an exciting friend. Besides, these are the best guides in the world and this is one of the safest companies—we researched it thoroughly before we chose it. You’ll be fine.” “I’ll be damned,” I thought.
I was damned, in fact. Lonnie had just given me a front row seat in the upcoming theater of disaster, pointing to the bow of his boat. When we pushed off the bank at Corn Creek, I had a death grip with my left hand, my right fingers tourniqueted around the hand grip and my toes jammed under the seat. Even from the depths of paranoid dementia I could see the Salmon River is a beautiful place. It is, in fact, one of the longest undammed American rivers left. This triumph occurred largely due to the heroic efforts of a man named Frank Church and of former Idaho Governor, Cecil D. Andrus, both of whom saw to it that the millions of acres of unspoiled wild lands were kept that way. Idaho’s glorious unfettered heart is now called the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness. Bear, elk, eagle and big horn sheep call it home. It is, indeed, a masterwork of rock and pine, river and sky, and whitewater. “What’s that?” I asked Lonnie. It sounded like rolling thunder. “That’s our first whitewater,” he said. “This is a drop and pool river,” he added, as if abstract analysis could somehow derail the tsunami of panic that was flooding my mind. I can now proudly say that I personally know how General Lee felt when he heard all those damn Yankees coming up over the draw. How pitcher Ralph Branca felt when he heard the crack of Bobby Thompson’s bat at the 1951 World Series. How the aviator and writer Beryl Markham felt when she heard her plane’s engine sputter over Nova Scotia. How the itsy bitsy spider felt when it heard the first raindrops rattle down the water spout. Because I am now on a first name basis with that sense of dread breaded with destiny that deep-fries your brain in two seconds flat. You know what’s coming and you know there’s not a darn thing you can do about it. History has been written in the grease stains of such events. Lonnie surveyed the roiling water calmly—you could almost see the physics and logarithms computing in his eyes. Then he rowed to one side, then let the river do the rest. It did. Suddenly we were flying. Dipping and flying with water spraying out in all directions. Suddenly my drowning memory was eclipsed by an earlier one, a thing of absolute delight. What was it? Boat. Speed. Water spray. Laughter! Happy squeals and laughter. My sisters. The Matterhorn. DISNEYLAND!!!! There is a time before fear. A time of joy as pure as a bunch of kids running around chasing each other just to do it. A time when you feel in every cell of your body the miracle of your own existence. We are born into it, every one of us, and even though life with adults—and certainly as adults—tends to tarnish it, often badly, what I learned on the river that morning is that you can have it back. “Lonnie,” I said with tears in my eyes. “That was fun.” “That was Killum,” he replied, smiling. “Killum Rapid.” “Kill `em?” I repeated, and I started to laugh. “Kill `em Rapid!” I shrieked.
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One of the most common things I hear guests say on our river trips is, “I never thought Idaho would look like this.” I don’t know if its because ’
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The Middle Fork has dropped from the 2.40 feet spike last week to a much lower 2.07 feet today. So we are flying into Indian Creek while the crew deadheads from Boundary. The Main Salmon has continued dropping from 8,040 cfs to 6,760 cfs. As for the Snake, its flows have been fluctuating between 8k and 15k cfs. 
Although the reason we chose the O.A.R.S. Main Salmon for our family rafting trip last summer was to enjoy its 93 miles of wild and scenic landscape, the unexpected surprise was how much fun our eight year old son had. Every day our five young guides–Bram, Chris, Jamie, Chris, and Duncan organized a variety of games for the five children in our group, including teaching them how to safely jump off rocks, float down rapids, and my son’s personal favorite called "Ducky Wars." Not only were our guides outstanding oarsmen, with extensive knowledge of the area’s flora and fauna, they were genuinely nice people who dedicated themselves to making sure each guest had a relaxing, safe, and memorable trip. It doesn’t get any better than this!.jpg)
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