Knifing through the Middle Fork
Most folks don’t know it, but a trip down the Middle Fork of the Salmon River would do them a world of good. Out there, beyond cell phone reception and internet service, life is reduced to its most basic, elemental rhythms. After a few days on the river, escapees from the rat race feel as if they’ve been gone a year.
Some friends and I were there in June, weaving our way through heart-stopping rapids and marveling at the sights as the miles unfolded. Shy deer and bighorn sheep browsed at water’s edge. Chukar partridge scuttled on the higher slopes. Overhead, osprey prowled the river, vigilant for their next meal.
By day, we floated through lush forests and sheer, rocky canyons. At a more profound level, we floated through history itself. We stopped several times to marvel at pictographs left by Sheepeater Indians long ago. There were old mines to explore, and the homesteads of hermits who turned their backs on civilization.
At night, we camped in groves of ponderosa pines, elegant giants that are the living embodiment of Salmon River country. We cooked under the stars, and swapped stories around the fire. When the talking was done, the sibilant sounds of the river lulled us to sleep.
Our adventure began with a 350-mile drive from Pullman to the launch site near Stanley, Idaho. Nearing Boise, we turned east on State Highway 21 and then, nearing Stanley, we turned onto a U.S. Forest Service road to the launch site.
Things took an ominous turn as we crossed Bear Valley Creek, which is one of the headwaters of the Middle Fork. By late summer, this creek won’t have enough flow to float a boat. But in June, the creek was out of its banks and water was flowing hub-deep over the road. A few miles later, we pulled into the Boundary Creek campground, where we spent the night and prepared to launch the next morning.
The Middle Fork of the Salmon is administered by the U.S. Forest Service, so there was some paperwork to complete. A Forest Service worker issued our visitor’s permit and boat registration tags, collected our user fees ($4 per person, per day), and assigned our campsites. Then she inspected our fire pan, ash containers and portable toilet. She finished with a short talk about low-impact camping and wished us a safe voyage.
The Middle Fork was running high, fast and the color of tea at Boundary Creek. The gage at the Middle Fork Lodge, where flow is measured, read 6.23 feet – which, according to the Forest Service, is an “extremely hazardous” level.
Finally, after all the planning, all the scheming, and all the dreaming, it was time to shove off for a 100-mile voyage through the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness.
Our first day had a tense, edgy feel that you don’t get in the lower flows of summer. For the first 20-odd miles, the Middle Fork is a narrow river that writhes and twists like a rattlesnake with its head chopped off. At high water, eddies are scarce and the river washes through the trees and brush along its banks. There are few places for paddlers, particularly rafters, to stop and catch their breath.
Trouble loomed early as one of our boatmen was bucked from his raft within the first mile. His passenger kept cool, seized the oars, swung into an eddy, and hauled the skipper back aboard. No harm, no foul.
Our anxiety level rose as we neared Velvet Falls, at mile 5.1. Velvet is the first of the Middle Fork’s gut-tightening rapids, where a horrifying hydraulic “hole” bestrides most of the channel. The safest route is a thread-the-needle line down the left, but it’s not an easy line to follow at high water.
The left-side entrance is framed by a large rock near the bank and a smaller, greedy hole just upstream of the main drop. Paddlers who venture too close to the rock risk being knocked off line by its surging eddy. Those who blunder into the upstream hole face even sterner consequences.
With varying degrees of style and control, our party of five kayaks and three rafts safely navigated Velvet Falls. The pressure was off for a while. It was time to lift our eyes from the water and soak in the scenery.
In its upper reaches, the Middle Fork of the Salmon is home to a lush, sub-alpine forest dominated by cold- and moisture-tolerant trees such as lodgepole pine. Winters are long and hard, and snow was lingering on the ground when we passed through.
In typical spring fashion, blue sky and blazing sun swiftly gave way to dark clouds and driving rain. Thunder boomed in the distance. Then, at the top of Artillery Rapid, a skeletal flash of lightning touched down a few hundred yards away. The resultant rumble of thunder merged with the grumble of the river and swelled into Nature’s own Symphony Fantastique.
The river soon became a blur of minor rapids with major holes, crashing waves and grabby eddylines. There were other hazards, including huge snags of driftwood with 50-foot trees jumbled together like spilled kitchen matches.
Less than three hours after launching, we were at mile 21 and Pistol Creek Rapid was just ahead.
Aside from Velvet Falls, Pistol Creek is the other big rapid in the upper reaches of the Middle Fork. At low water, it’s a fairly simple “S”-turn, but at 6 feet, the water swirls and boils with terrifying intensity.
One of our rafters, who had paddled the river at 8 feet a couple of weeks earlier, dismissed Pistol Creek as “washed out” and “no big deal.” Without stopping to scout, he led the other two rafts – and one of the kayaks – safely through the maelstrom.
The rest of the kayakers pulled over to scout, and what they saw wasn’t reassuring. The river swept right at the top of the “S,” then doubled back in a rage before smashing angrily along a cliff down the left side. It was a bad place for trouble, but trouble looked likely. If someone got knocked over, the prospects for rolling up were slim to none.
There wasn’t much banter as the kayakers returned from the scout. Above Pistol Creek Rapid, nothing is funny. All hearts beat with the pulse of the river.
Amazingly, there was no carnage as everyone dodged the bullet at Pistol Creek. After that, it was time to lift our eyes again and re-connect with our surroundings.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the scene swelled into a wider, drier canyon. The lush forest of the upper river gave way to stately groves of ponderosa pine. Beneath them, the understory consisted of curl-leaf mahogany, bitterbrush, basin big sage, arrowleaf basalmroot, oregongrape and a variety of grasses suited to hot, dry conditions.
As the landscape changed, the intensity of the river also began to ease. For more than 50 miles below Pistol Creek, the rapids were noticeably tamer. The whitewater picked up when we entered Impassible Canyon, somewhere around mile 78, but we had our sea legs under us by then.
The big-name rapids on the lower river – Redside, Weber, Lower Cliffside, Rubber and Hancock – contained big waves and even bigger holes, but trouble was easy to spot and avoid.
Between the rapids of the upper and lower river, we hit a comfortable rhythm of making, and then breaking, camp. When the paddling was over for the day, we unloaded a small mountain of dry bags, dry boxes, and coolers from the rafts. The tightly packed load then blossomed into a luxurious camp, replete with Dutch ovens, lawn chairs and restorative beverages.
The next morning, everything disappeared back into boxes and bags, and the camp gradually melted away. It was a moveable feast in the finest tradition.
Though humans are scarce, they are a daily presence along the Middle Fork. There are a several dozen private cabins and a few ranches scattered along the banks; ice cream, cold drinks and souvenir t-shirts are available at the Flying B Ranch, at mile 67.
Small airplanes can be seen – and heard – as they take off and land at backcountry strips. Even at high water, there are other parties on the river – in camps, in their boats, or in fine hot springs along the way.
A trip down the Middle Fork of the Salmon is not a voyage into untrammeled wilderness. But if you need a break from the rat race, the Middle Fork is mighty good medicine.