About to turn age 65 early February, what to do? Looking around at friends whom have checked out early, why not celebrate my still going strong by doing a solo winter float to chase chukars down the Lower Salmon River? My dogs would kiss me for such access to Nirvana.
Thoreau’s line: “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them,” kept running through my mind and made me realized there is still much music to be played. Stagnation is all about becoming a dullard and I’m just not ready for a life without song yet, and probably never will be.
But why Salmon River?
With several solo winter trips notched in my gunslinger psyche on Oregon’s Grande Ronde River and one through Hell’s Canyon, shortly after the “Green Room” at Granite Rapids was named (I was on that naming trip, too), I simply never got around to doing such a float down my backyard river. So it seemed only appropriate I was now old enough to let my more adventuresome side out of the box again. With only one way to keep the primordial adrenalin glands working properly, and as any biologist worth their salt can tell you, that old Darwinian axiom about “use it or lose it,” always applies.
And, why solo? Well, finding other crazy enough hunters that want to hike their guts out climbing steep ugly slopes for furious flying birds with far less meat than an elk, is hard enough, let alone braving winter extremes to execute such self-inflicted punishment.
Besides, it isn’t that I don’t like people, but as a guide, most of my time is always spent adjusting everything to satisfy other people’s interests. Sometimes it’s nice just worrying about my own wishes. Traveling solo assures total self-gratification and the river’s lonely sound of solitude. No competition for campsites, fishing holes, or hunting grounds, is another rarity of welcome freedom.
Once intellectually committed, not to an insane asylum, but to the trip, then what? Planning is ground zero, especially when traveling alone in remote country with no satellite phone under severity of error that is like standing at the brink of a black hole. So, topping the list for a round-trip ticket into the cold chukar crucible this time of year is choice of boat. As an outfitter, I have many, and hard boats are my favorite and long time specialty. Unfortunately, the degree of risk for potential flips or romancing rocks goes up dramatically in a dory or driftboat. Righting an over turned craft of any kind by oneself in icy water is thin to thinner with dogs climbing your back and hypothermia squeezing insidiously at your soul. I’m doing this trip for comfort, not survival.
Flip potential and nemesis number one in my mind is a rapid called Bodacious Bounce. In only very low flows does a menacing back curling wave appear, like hungry jaws in the unavoidable middle of this substantial drop. A hairline cheat run exists to the left side that requires precise oaring and timing, but one missed stroke here is like landing on the loaded cylinder in a game of River Russian Roulette. Only the bullet here is a big bad swim and no trail to hike out. Having two dogs along that jump away from waves when they should be high-siding, also doesn’t help.
Then there is Snowhole Rapid. It isn’t an easy place to have a clean run in a dory at low water, either. Many steep pour-over holes barely covering the rocks require extra-precise maneuvering with tiny leeway for error. Though I’ve threaded the needle cleanly several times in warmer weather, it is still a duress filled run with tight-wire stress and enough draining tension to empty a lake. Who needs more of that?
To sleep better at night, my decision boiled down to bringing my larger 19’ Aire baggage raft. I liked the idea of being high, dry, and having less likelihood of a flip. My dogs could bounce around shadow boxing with the waves all they wanted without throwing my trim off, too.
Paying close attention to weather is another key ingredient to successful winter trips. Timing is of the essence to have a relatively problem free adventure. Thinking back on my previous winter runs on the GR, in my early 20’s, I remember the ice bridge crossings, jagged edges of ice rosettes, and unusual conditions when arctic cold turns the river into a consistency that felt more like being trapped in the middle of snow-cone ice that is moving at a caterpillar’s pace. It was a race against time before the river could morph into solid ice and secure my stay for much longer than planned. Eating fish and moss all winter is not very appealing.
Soloing the Snake through Hells Canyon in my mid 30’s, was an epic story itself. Where rocks were a problem on the GR, mammoth sized rapids was the feared devil in Hell’s. Also, the phrase, “when Hell freezes over” takes on much more significance when trying to get a hard boat down the deepest canyon in North America when it is not “hotter than Hell.”
What could the Salmon Canyon have in store?
With more than a dozen ice bridges between Riggins and Wind River as I prepared for my journey, I had to be sure none existed at the lower end. However, with 425 miles of free-flowing river, the Salmon slices through enough distance that geology transmutes the canyon into several different geomorphological sections. Each is affected differently by influence of elevation, aspect, and weather.
From North Fork to Riggins the river flows due west, but when it reaches Riggins, turns immediately north until the last 5 miles, where it changes west again to collide with the Snake. The lower end does not ice up as often and melts off earlier when it does. Learning that there were no ice bridges in the lower gorge, in addition to a favorable long-range weather report, was my green light to go.
Boat of choice finalized, having other essential gear for the most extreme conditions and a sudden emergency is also crucial. The difference between comfort and keeping the grim reaper at bay is made by astute attention to detail and advanced prep for potential uncertainties. Traveling solo also adds greater danger with far less wiggle room for being dumb when situations go south. My northern experiences boating solo and doing commercial trips in Alaska, also taught me to be on guard at all times to the nuances of nature, because often that is where weird things like to hide out.
Ever heard of a jökulhlaup? This is an Icelandic term for outburst floods caused by glacial lakes being breached and sending a disjointed tsunami down the river course that is fed by these mega ice plugs. Camping on higher ground is essential when floating some places in the far wilds of the Last Frontier.
It is always the small things that seem at first to be quite innocuous, that often have a sleeping demon just below the surface. It is surprising how much a simple episode can escalate into a tidal wave of tragic wipeout. One missed oar stroke, poor entry, or catching a wave wrong; breaking a leg on a high ridgeline; falling down in a patch of prickly pear cactus; burning a hand cooking dinner; falling off a frosty raft and getting wet in water intended for coffee; and so on. Karmonic vigilantism lies in wait for the disrespectful and unaware, so fine tuned weariness is always required.
With game on, under cerulean sky and a low slung sun, my two Weims and I were off and running in my big red raft. The dogs love it as they can remain dry and have a high platform to ogle at all the surrounding chukar landscape. It is a bird dogs dream boat.
Frost covered every rocky shoreline and sandy beach that lived in zones of the all-day shade. Isolated from sun, the inner sanctum of the canyon was coated with mold-like tendrils of white ice, called verglas. It was like floating through nature’s freezer box. I half expected to see packages of elk burger and salmon fillets stacked in rows along each side of the river.
The sheer beauty of the gorge stripped of her summer clothes, is outrageous enough to make even an envious lover jealous. A low hanging winter sun creates long shadows across the viewscape and marbles the terrain with sharp contrasts that simply are not possible any other time of year. It conjures up various moods, as if some ancient shaman was stirring up mystical magic and sprinkling it generously over all the world.
Excessive chasms inspire deep thoughts, about as much as high ridges inspire lofty ones. Finding ones self alone in the middle of such largeness and solitude while hunting chukars makes me feel my smallness.. It unleashes my mind to be wild and free as if being blown by gale force winds and whipped across infinite horizons to be absorbed by the far off hinterlands. Getting so lost is the best way to find yourself.
Living in the Land of Oz can’t last forever, as I was reminded when chukars rudely burst into the sky and triggered me back into the real world. When chasing ninja chukars, also known as “devil birds,” during the winter in steep canyons it is quite important to consider how much snow accumulates, where, and in what condition it is. Footing is treacherous enough in good conditions, but downright dangerous when snow freezes hard after a slight melt. Elk, deer, and cow carcasses can sometimes be found in gullies after taking a slip on steep side slopes in such extremes. Unlike clawed animals, they can’t just turn over on their bellies and dig themselves a self-arrest. A tragic end for them, but lucky for ravens, magpies, and coyotes.
When I wasn’t hunting chukars, which were hard to find, I was dodging rocks and avoiding splash. In the process, I did see a few bald eagles, 3 or 4 otters, 10 whitetail deer, and an assortment of ducks, geese, and birds. But, no elk. Not even in the upper reaches of the canyon did I see one anywhere. Where were they? And where were all the chukars that normally fill this riverine niche?
My theory is that during mild winters the lower elevations are in the shade far too long during the day while birds can enjoy wind-swept ridges in the sun for far longer periods of time. Food, cover, and water is all there. They don’t need to get to the river for critical water like they do when it is hot. Nor do they need to leave the heavenly heights for food and can bask above while laughing at me far below. They innately seem to know that negotiating through layers of edgy lava flows can be demoralizing and the tortuously rugged steepness will wear me out before getting to their level of refuge. Did I mention the canyon is a mile deep in places?
So though I did have chukar for dinner, the conditions were not that great for good hunting. But they were nice for making an off beat outdoor adventure down the canyon much easier. Sure it was cold, but in a tipi style tent accommodated with heater and plenty of blankets, it was a cozy affair. Unfathomable numbers of stars sparkled like diamonds dancing in a frigid sky, despite the inevitable pee break that was usually needed in the middle of the night. Did I mention ice box canyon before?
While my primary goal was chukar hunting, another aspect I enjoy about solo running, is the ease to become so thoroughly absorbed by such moments smack dab in the middle of nowhere (or everywhere) that one can get lost in time. Since I have never had a wrist watch since high school, and due to the nature of my lifestyle and allergic reactions to strict schedules and time tables, I often don’t know until I need to know, what day it is.
Such was the case by the time I got to Blue Canyon, not too distant from trips end. It is one of my favorite places and its vertical cliffs are so steep and narrow, it is more like being far enough in the bottom of a well to see the stars in the middle of the day. Though not able to see any constellations, it did allow for much pondering. I like that feeling of getting all swallowed up by great natural beauty and getting lost in space and time. Day what?
On the last day as I was pulling into the take-out, I reminisced about my more youthful days that helped make this type of journey possible. Having a track coach dad helped, , whom taught me early on, to always get up when I fall down, and that finishing the race is far more important than how fast you run it. Never say die, and keep on keeping on, soon became my life-time mantra.
Of course, I was also thankful that I was a distance runner and wrestler in those days, too. In my profession and in the crucible of chukar hunting world, endurance sports make a big difference. 65 isn’t my IQ, though it helps for running after chukars, but it is proof that doing things like this is possible to do and still live to tell about it, despite age. Keep on, keepin on, even if death is an inch or mile away.
Note: Anyone who would like to see video footage of our run through Snowhole Rapid can go to: https://www.facebook.com/Riverdoryfun
Gary Lane
Wapiti River Guides
www.doryfun.com
Apr 04, 2014 @ 01:15:04
That was one of the best trip reports I’ve had the pleasure of reading..
I’m really inspired by your will and ability to get after it like this still. You’re the same age as my pop and he’s all but done doing this kinda stuff. It gives me hope that I’ll still be doing these kinds of things if I make it another 35 years. Man, I’m kinda speechless. Thank you for writing this, definitely adding you to the blog roll. That river is one of my favorites.. I can’t wait to go back this summer.
Cheers,
Larry
And I don’t know how we haven’t crossed paths on the internet before.
Apr 04, 2014 @ 12:25:17
Hi Larry,
Many thanks for the accolades. With only limited feedback, it is always a head scratcher to know if my words have much of any impact out there to wherever it is they fly off to. Kind of like chukars bursting to wing and you forgot to see where they went, as attention is focused on not falling over a cliff or you are marking the spot a bird went down, when your shot actually hits what you wildly aimed at.
But, glad to give you hope that there is still a life being worth lived when your age nears closer to your IQ number. Admittedly, it was seeing other energetic people twice my age, back when I was yours, that gave me hope too. So, I’m just doing my part to keep the thread vibrant. The one thing that I have learned over the years is that wherever you go physically, is all first determined by your mind. You must feed it with the same health quality of intake that you do for your body. Therein, is the real trick. It’s true, altitude is hugely impacted by attitude. A synonym for chukar is up.
BTW – if you are ever in Riggins, stop in and visit. Or if you are on the water and see one or two grey dogs that match some of the hair color of the guy rowing the boat, flag me down.
Gary
Apr 05, 2014 @ 03:49:51
Gary,
I will definitely hit you up next time i’m in your neck of the woods. Keep trucking brother.
May 21, 2014 @ 04:28:58
Great story Gary. I’m glad I wasn’t along for this one.
It would’ve been great fun as the previous trips all were but I totally respect the need to reconnect with yourself. We all need that and you are lucky to be able to make the opportunity.
Your mention of the Blue Canyon, and Snowhole bring back memories of the times I’ve had out there on there river with you. All good times. Actually, great times.
The river has changed in ways that I naively assumed that it never would but all the scenic grandeur remains in the silent places along the river.
I thoroughly enjoyed the first time we went down the river. Exhilarating! The second time was a honeymoon trip that was just as awesome. The last trip found my wife and I there with our family, 2 kids now, both trying to grow up. It was as if 21 years had not passed at all.
That trip was the first time that I’d ever taken a swim. When we ate it (my daughter and I in the ducky) at Green Canyon (I think) where the water piles up against the wall as the river bends to the left I was suddenly alive as never before. Wet too. As soon as we neared the top of that second wave I knew we were gonna swim as we didn’t reach high enough on it to pull through it and ended up getting rolled. Awesome to be able to make a mistake and instantly recognize it without anyone having to lay it out for you! Even better to realize that I’d live to (potentially) make many more.
When you told that one joke it was like stepping into a time machine for me as memories of the same joke related on the earlier trips flooded in satisfyingly nostalgic waves. Campfires burning as guitars lightly strummed the tune to Puff the Magic Dragon and other timeless classics, the guitars competing with the gentle rush of the river a few feet away. Voices laughing; faces of friends and family barely illuminated in the failing light of dying fires; the evening meal settling in to the task of replenishing energy expended paddling down river through the churning rapids. All these things and more are good memories that help restore my soul and re-balance my psyche. One day I’m going to have to hear that joke again friend.
Peace to you and Barb.
Oct 12, 2014 @ 13:19:27
Gary look me on a three day chukar hunt in 2014 that was hard enough for this “tender foot” from the east coast. It was a fabulous time, and Gary is an informed, impressive, and well-conditioned guide. I hope to bring my family back to the Salmon River valley, and float and hunt again with Gary someday.
Oct 28, 2014 @ 10:45:20
“Mac”,
Yes, had a great time rebel-rousing for those challenging chukars around our little hills along the Salmon River. Ok, hill might be a mega understatement. But no to worry, when you bring your family back to float we don’t have to do any death marches to the ridge tops. After all, float trips are just that, relax and watch beautiful scenery go by, not try to scale every inch of it. I look forward to more good times rolling down the river with your family, and/or pushing for the sky with you in hot pursuit of our feathered antagonists.
Nov 10, 2014 @ 09:19:04
Hey Gary I ended up getting a vizsla and have begun training him. Your blog and a handful of others inspired me to start my own blog account of me trying to train this bundle of chi: http://rookiebird.wordpress.com/ If you’ve got advice on how to make it more engaging/easier to read, I’m all ears. Cheers!
Nov 14, 2014 @ 13:17:24
Bob,
Do I know you? I checked my system and a few journals to see if you were a past guest, (you looked/sounded familiar) but could not find a clue. At any rate, I use to have vizsla’s, but the last male (Thunder) I had got epilepsy by about 2 yrs old that got so bad I had to put-him down. It was painful, but having never been without a dog in my life, I replaced him with my first Wiemaraner. The reason? They look like and have the same traits as a Vizsla, but because they are a different color, my rational was that the new dog would not remind me of the one I had just lost.
As far as any advice on how to make your new chukar blog more engaging, I’m afraid that is something I’m still working at on my own poor writing/editing skills. Most real writers always talk about the importance of brevity. But, the challenge of saying more with less words is not that easy. Big words sometimes help, but has the potential of jargon speak and alienating lazy people who do not like to look up words.
Bottomline, like training dogs, training oneself takes lots of committed time. Write, write, write, then write some more.
Good luck,
Gary
Nov 15, 2014 @ 08:05:02
Yes I had asked earlier about your Weims, as I was considering one for our family. Ultimately we visited an awesome Weim family, but decided to go smaller with a viz because we have young boys. Didn’t know about your viz, I’m sorry.
Thanks for advice. I think clearly photos are a strongpoint for you, I’m going to emulate a bit of that as much as possible. Cheers