By STEVE CHRISTENSEN
Contributing Writer
Launch date May 25, 2003. It would become one of the most stressful days of my river life.
I was finally going to float the Middle Fork of the Salmon, one of the few rivers in the Intermountain West that had somehow eluded me.
I was to float with the legendary Vince Thompson, along with my son Bo, one of my best friends Shannon Bryant (who would be my passenger), plus a cadre of skilled boaters from Idaho and the Pacific Northwest.
In all there were 13 boats and 16 people, a huge group for this type of trip. We would later consider ourselves very fortunate that all were very competent rafters. There were 11 catarafts and two 14-foot self-bailers, one was mine.
After a horribly dry year in 2002, which produced several large and destructive forest fires, the winter had been good, which meant we couldn’t drive into Boundary Creek (the usual launch location) due to snow. It would be necessary to launch 20 miles upstream, on Cape Horn Creek, which merges with Marsh Creek within a few hundred feet. Cape Horn Creek is so small it’s necessary to float sideways, because you can’t extend the oars across the river.
Strangely enough, the fires of 2002 would end up adding significantly to the conditions of this trip. We would find ourselves sharing the river with hundreds of the trees that burned in 2002 and fell in the river with the melting snow.
Two very warm days immediately before our launch caused the tiny stream at the launch to transform quickly into raging whitewater as streams poured in from both sides every few hundred feet. Marsh Creek is soon a continuous class 4 river. For those unfamiliar with river jargon, suffice it to say it was serious whitewater. We were warned about a fallen tree across the river several miles downstream, which was perched precariously about three feet above the water. We practiced ducking on two walking bridges across Cape Horn Creek near the launch. The move at the fallen tree was to stay right as the current attempted to push the raft left toward the low end of the log. At the last second, we dropped to the bottom of the raft, but only long enough to clear the log, then it was necessary to immediately jump back to the oars to make a class 5 move to avoid a logjam immediately below the fallen log.
At 6.6 feet (on the Middle Fork gauge), Marsh Creek is a challenge to the most skilled boaters. In some spots it wasn’t a matter of missing everything, but simply trying to determine what was the most prudent to miss and what posed the least consequence. It became the most intense day I have ever spent on any river. As we passed under the log and made the next move where a mistake could have been disastrous, Shannon became quiet. I could sense she wasn’t comfortable.
From the launch we were unable to keep track of one another. It wasn’t until the confluence of Marsh Creek and Bear Creek (the beginning of the Middle Fork of the Salmon) some 6.5 miles after the launch that we were able to regroup. We were all relieved to find everyone safe.
Shortly past the confluence we saw a dry bag floating in the river. Then another. We started seeing river gear strewn along the banks. Obviously something bad had happened. Maybe more than one incident.
About mid-afternoon Shannon turned to me and said, “Did you know it was going to be like this?”
A cold chill went up my back. Not exactly, I thought, but that wasn’t the reason for the cold chill. Shannon was recently engaged to be married. I had never seen her so happy. I had also never seen her scared before. I had met Shannon a couple of years before on another river trip. She had become very much like a daughter to me and a sister to Bo. Since then she had gone on several trips with us, but this was to be her final trip before her marriage. She had lived and floated rivers in Alaska. I thought she was prepared for this. Apparently not.
We passed a group who said a raft from their group had capsized and the boat and two people were missing. A little later another boater told us a boatman from their group was missing. A glance from Shannon confirmed the fear I knew she was feeling. The missing boatman had hit his head as he attempted to duck under the fallen tree. He wasn’t wearing a helmet or lifejacket. He was feared dead. Now we were looking for injured people, perhaps a body, as well as lost gear. No, Shannon, I didn’t know it would be like this.
We continued to Dagger Falls. None of our group had encountered any serious difficulty, a tribute to the abilities of the people in the group. We also considered ourselves very lucky. A group already at Dagger Falls confirmed that the boatman was still missing and feared dead. They were all scared and wanted to end their trip. They were going to try to make contact with the outside world and somehow get someone to come in to get them, even if it meant snow cats. The group also told us another person was missing from still another group, but had little information. Incidents and reports started to run together. We weren’t sure if we were getting duplicate reports of one incident or several incidents.
It was now time to deal with Dagger Falls, a class 5 drop at this water level. The rapid gets its name from logs caught on the right side of the river, stick out like daggers. A mistake over there would result in a shredded raft.
I know of nowhere else the river flows so swiftly. It is a classic double-drop, the first drop being more difficult and much more important to negotiate safely. We went to scout. One rafter took one look and said, “I’m not running that.”
I wasn’t so sure, “I didn’t come this far to carry my boat around Dagger Falls.” Others agreed, and finally all were convinced there was a route, although somewhat narrow, and the entry would be difficult to see from upstream. The run would need to be precise. The consequences of anything less than perfect could mean a very long and very cold swim. The water temperature was 42-degrees. Everyone in our group was wearing a drysuit.
We decided to run Dagger in four groups in order to have plenty of safety below the rapid for each group. Shannon and another passenger decided to walk around. Knowing how Shannon was feeling, her decision was a relief to me. I would run alone.
We had one swimmer at Dagger, but that was the only incident. Dagger Falls was soon behind us and Murph’s Hole loomed.
A tree had fallen due to the high water and was well out in the river on the left side, forcing boats into Murph’s Hole, unless one was able to make a very quick left move between the log and the hole. I was running about halfway back in the pack and didn’t see the first boats negotiate the rapid. As I approached, I saw there was no way I was going to make the sneak move, so I yelled to Shannon to hold on, “We’re going in.” At that level Murph’s Hole is huge, a surprise to people who have floated the Middle Fork at low water when Murph’s Hole isn’t an issue.
Most people don’t even know the name “Murph’s Hole.” The hole stood my 14-foot Achilles raft nearly straight up, but Shannon jumped to the front tube; the raft stayed straight and we came out right side up. Bo, who was following in a 14-foot cataraft, wasn’t so lucky. The raft did an endo and the next thing I knew Bo was swimming toward us. We got him in the raft in a matter of seconds, but the raft re-circulated in the hole and flushed into the eddy on the right side of the river. An oar broke the leash, but we were able to snag it. Immediately behind Bo, another boater met with the same result. Now we had two rafts upside down.
A major problem for rafters on the Middle Fork at very high water is lack of places to stop. It took a half-mile before we were finally able to get my raft to the side of the river and tie it off. Bo took the oar that had broken loose and started back up the river. By this time I was spent. I rested for several minutes, and then started back up the river to help with Bo’s raft. Not far from my raft I was happy to see Bo back at the oars. Life was good.
We finally made it to camp and took the first of many collective sighs of relief. We had broken a total of eight oar blades and one oar. Even though I didn’t have any broken blades, I was glad Vince had told everyone to bring four oars. Note to self: if you ever do this again, bring a couple of extra blades, in addition to four oars.
Day two was less eventful, but no less stressful, as we continued to see river gear strewn along the sides of the river and had to again dodge trees that were like telephone poles coming down the river. It was rather unnerving in a big wave train, worrying about a 60-foot log cresting the wave just as you were at the bottom.
We passed one group who asked us to please watch for their raft. They had lost it the day before. Some of the group had spent the night without their personal gear. A few miles downstream we saw a raft on the bank, propped up against some trees. It was almost like a billboard — I’m sure a welcome sight for those who had lost it. All the gear was spread out to dry.
The river, now about 7-feet and rising, was extremely swift. I was glad it made for short days on the river. I would have hated to spend six or eight hours under this type of stress.
The spooky part of day three was finding a capsized raft in a huge log-jammed eddy called Dolly Lake. There was no one around. It was an Achilles, and I knew the others in my group would think it was mine. Shannon and I stopped as soon after the logjam as possible and hurried back up the river to let everyone know it wasn’t me. Several of our group were able to get into the eddy and were eventually able to right the raft. We never did find out the story of that raft, nor whom it belonged to.
At Indian Creek Guard Station we reported what we knew of the carnage and were told of groups who were abandoning their trips and were waiting for airplanes to fly out. The story of an apparent second death was also confirmed. It was a man who had been tossed from the raft in Marsh Creek. While the two other people in the raft attempted to rescue the swimmer, the raft capsized. Other members of their group picked up the two swimmers, but the first person was never located.
We also found out that the county sheriff had closed Cape Horn Creek and Marsh Creek — which meant closing the Middle Fork entirely — the day after our launch. People were flying in to Indian Creek to start their trips, since Boundary Creek was still snowed in. We knew news of the tragedies would soon make it to the outside world. The ranger graciously agreed to get the Forest Service office to send an email to our families to let them know everyone in our group was safe. Shannon chose not to send an email, thinking it would cause more stress than relief, since her fiancé lived in Boston and wouldn’t be getting any news.
It was about then I realized just how skilled the people in my group really were. Most of the other groups seemed to be having problems. Even though we had two capsized boats on day one, and later a third, they were dealt with quickly and professionally and no one was injured or ever in serious jeopardy. It also became very clear there were lots of people on this river who shouldn’t have been there — people who didn’t have the skills or experience for these conditions.
That reality became even clearer at our day four camp. In looking for a spot to hide our toilet we came upon a deflated raft that had been stashed and an attempt made to hide it with debris. A note asked people not to take it; conditions had become so harsh the group had hiked out. A sobering thought indeed, since the hike would be 50 miles.
In my 40-plus years of floating rivers I hadn’t previously, nor since, seen anything remotely close to this. Groups with extremely experienced river runners were bailing out at Indian Creek and even as far down river as the Flying B Ranch. Once home I would learn of several other serious accidents, including a man who lost an eye.
To people who haven’t seen the Middle Fork at 8-feet, which it reached on the final day of our trip (it also proved to be the year’s peak) it’s difficult to explain. The speed of the river is staggering. One day we made 24 miles in just over two hours. Dozens of rapids were at least one class higher than they would usually be rated and certainly capable of capsizing a raft. Rapids that are of no significance at lower water become treacherous at such flows. Even Vince Thompson said this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I later felt even more fortunate that I was able to do this trip with Vince, who became ill the next year and died of liver failure at the age of 51 in July of 2005.
I also felt fortunate to have spent this time with Shannon, who left for Boston after this trip. The only time I’ve seen her since was at her wedding later that summer. The Middle Fork was also the trip where Bo became human. Before this I think he believed he was invincible. Such are good lessons for all to learn, especially a 17-year-old.
I was lucky. I had no incidents. Shannon stayed in the raft the entire trip. Bo paid me the biggest compliment of my life when he said, “Dad, you’re awesome.”
The final collective sigh of relief came at the confluence of the Main Salmon. I think it was heard in Boise.
We had one day to get from the Middle Fork take-out to the Selway River launch. The shuttle driver reported the Selway was 9.4 feet (that’s way above flood stage) and rising. We all went home.
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