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By Nicholas O’Connell
Kayaking the Middle Fork of the Salmon River in Idaho, I hit a rock, flip my kayak and plunge into the drink. I fight my way to shore, breathe deeply and then hop back in.
For years, I’ve wanted to run the Middle Fork and experience every rapid of this wild and scenic river. Despite the spill, I’ve progressed with my paddling.
“Nice job!” says Willi Cannell, owner of Solitude River Trips, as he pulls up next to me in the larger raft. “That’s what we call an unscheduled swim.”
The “unscheduled swim” serves as my baptism by whitewater on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, one of the premier multi-day whitewater trips in the world.
It’s the first day of our 77-mile, six-day journey. My friend, Chris Olsen, an avid river rat, and five others make up our group of seven. With its abundant whitewater, outstanding fishing and fascinating native pictographs, the trip represents an intact fragment of the American West.
“It never gets old,” says Willi, a calm, bearded guide who has run the river over 100 times. “I notice something new every time.”
The river begins high in the Sawtooth Mountains near Stanley, Idaho, north of Boise. It runs fast and hard for its length of some 100 miles, passing through the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness Area which contains one of the deepest canyons in the continental United States. At 7,000 feet of relief, it’s almost as deep as the Grand Canyon. At 2.367 million acres, it’s the largest contiguous wilderness in the lower 48. Rafting the Middle Fork is the most spectacular way to explore it.
At the end of the first day, my arms ache, but I’m pleased with my progress. I navigated a number of moderate rapids without taking another “unscheduled swim.”
C
hris and I steer the kayaks into camp and pull them up onto the rocky shore. The guides have set up tents for us on a grassy ledge. All we have to do is assemble our cots and lay out our sleeping bags. I feel guilty about not doing more, but the guides are a cheerful, well-oiled machine, now busy preparing a fried chicken dinner. So I grab a cold beer, sit in a lounge chair and watch the river run by.
Swimming with Mermaids
After breakfast the next morning, I shove off, eager to test my paddling skills. Chris and I warm up on a couple easier rapids before hitting Jackass Rapid (Class III). Willi gives us advice about running it.
“Hug the side along the gravel bar and then go left,” he says, above the roar of the rapid.
He goes first. I watch him maneuver the raft through it and then follow. The current pushes me left and I go with it until I whip past the gravel bar. I dig hard on my right to avoid getting smashed into the ledges. The kayak pivots left and bursts into the wave train below. Pleased with this accomplishment, I raise my paddle in celebration.
Turning around, I see Chris entering the rapid. He steers toward the gravel bar, but doesn’t paddle quickly enough to clear the rapid on his right. The wave engulfs his kayak, which disappears beneath him. The current spews him into the eddy below.
“The mermaids got me!” he says, grinning. “They pulled me under.”
Over the next few days, we progress with our paddling. Near the end of the trip, Willi announces that Waterfall Creek Rapid (Class IV) is coming up.
“It’s complicated and technical,” he adds. “You’ll start to the right, go left, and then back to the right.”
The roar of the rapid is deep and powerful. Chris and I wait in our kayaks until Willi’s raft hits the rapid on the right. He skillfully pivots the raft to the left, churning through the whitewater. Then he brings it back to the right, the water surging around him.
Chris is right behind him, fighting his way through the rapid. I back paddle, waiting my turn. I don’t want to enter too soon and crash into Chris. He disappears into the rapid. I can’t wait any longer; I don’t want to lose sight of him. I head for the right side of the rapid, feeling it buffet the kayak. I spot Chris and stroke right, turning my kayak until—Whoa!—I plunge over a drop into the pool below. Cursing, I fight hard to follow him as he bobs and weaves through the waves. The current knocks me around like a bathtub toy, but I keep moving left, following a path through the tumult, the current shoving me toward a large granite boulder, threatening to high-center me, but I stroke madly, just missing it. I spot a chute amid the spray and go for it, shooting through it like a grapeseed through fingers. Waves smack me from both sides, trying to wrest the paddle from my grasp. I grit my teeth, clench my paddle and take my punishment.
The river releases me into the calm water below. I execute a wide pirouette, catching my breath and feeling the knot in my stomach release.
Pages of Stone
On the last day, Willi says the rapids are “consequential” and so we put away the kayaks and board the rafts for the final leg of the trip. I’m alternately disappointed and relieved not to be running these rapids in a kayak, but it’s a moot point. Willi has spoken.
Right after breakfast, we pull in at Stoddard Creek. After a short walk, we reach an extensive series of pictographs drawn by the Sheepeater Indians who lived in the Middle Fork canyon for centuries. The drawings depict deer, elk and the stick figures of those who preceded us.
Getting back on the rafts, we barrel through some of the biggest rapids on the river—Rubber, Devil’s Tooth, House of Rock. In between rapids, I stare up at the steep rock walls of the Impassable Canyon, awed by the intricate patterns and whorls of minerals.
It’s the history of the Middle Fork written in pages of stone, a history unfathomably long, complex and mysterious, with human life just the last brief page.
The Greek philosopher Heraclitus observed that you never experience the same river twice. This has certainly been true of this trip. Every day has brought new sights, sounds, smells, tastes, textures and experiences: the exhilaration of the rapids, the satisfaction of learning to run them, the camaraderie of the group, the graciousness of the guides, all wrapped up in the powerful and haunting rhythms of the river.
As we approach the confluence with the main Salmon, I marvel at how quickly the time has passed. Then I spot a dirt road, the first real sign of development in the last week. As we haul our gear up to the takeout, a trio of ORVs roars by, welcoming us back to “civilization.”
Plan Your Own Middle Fork Adventure
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Courtesy : https://nwtravelmag.com/baptism-by-whitewater-running-the-middle-fork-of-the-salmon-river/