Leaving hotel calafornix

Tom and I carried “town” water or potable municipal water with us on this trip, and constantly kept finding new sources of “town” water to replenish our supply. We used river water for cooking, and added to our fluid intake with coffee made from river water. We cleaned our eating utensils and pots and pans in the river and bathed in the river. Often times we urinated in the river and accomplished this by standing up in the canoe and casting a stream into the stream. A female (who doesn’t charge for it) could easily accomplish this task with the aid of a container or by placing her posterior out over the side towards the bow or stern (to maintain stability). Usually Tom and I had oatmeal for breakfast, snacks throughout the day, a cold lunch, and what we called the Snake River special for dinner. The Snake River special was dam Idaho potatoes, peppers, onions, keibasie, cheese, and plenty of seasoning. We got most of our food from the store but when the opportunity presented itself collected fruit, vegetables, and of course ate trout, catfish, and bass. We defecated on dry land.

We exited Jackson Hole and entered Alpine Canyon at approximately 20,000 cfs, the peak flow for the year. It was big. River rapids are loud, severely limiting oral communication. Just before we were overwhelmed by the deafening roar of the rapids Tom and I were treated to something one doesn’t hear often on rivers during the dam ages, the sound of river rocks colliding together due to the rapidity of the water. Tom described it as the sound one hears when one puts water into oil that just isn’t quite hot enough to fry in. The water sinks instead of dancing on the surface of the oil and then vaporizes or boils under the oil making a popping sound. It’s very intimidating and is accompanied by the sound of water dancing on hot oil as well as the increasing roar of the oncoming rapids.

Tom sat in the front of the canoe. He had poor vision and it was more difficult for him to successfully navigate. I had more experience steering a boat on rivers so it seemed natural for me to sit in the stern and determine our course. Humans are inherently selfish creatures and I am no exception (just the most selfless). What does this mean on a river trip? Forget about all for one and one for all. Save your own skin. Being the character steering the boat whenever we approached a rock, strainer, low hanging branch, or anything of danger, I’d elect to keep the stern as far away from the terror as possible, which potentially sacrificed Tommy, or put him in the hot seat. In addition to having better vision, I was stronger¸ faster, a better swimmer and line handler, and thus more able or likely to rescue Tom than vice versa. So it made sense. Tom was intelligent enough to know this. He ended up having a more exhilarating and exciting or horrifying and terrifying experience practically the whole way down. It’s much more dangerous to sit in the front than the back. I usually had about 10 more feet between myself and the horrifying obstacle than Tom.

The first rapid we encountered had a 5’ eddy fence created by the difference in downstream current and upstream current caused by an obstruction, in this case a rock. Tom got a good look at it. Alpine Canyon is a pretty serious run especially in an open boat. A few of the commercial raft guides commented on how well we were faring and said they’d never seen anything like what we were doing. Usually when commercial raft guides witness canoeists in these class III to IV conditions it’s a comedy of errors or a complete fu@%ing disaster. Tom and I managed to avoid this all the way through Alpine Canyon, until we got to the last rapid, Champagne. After lunch at the rapid named Lunch Counter where we portaged around the huge 8’ standing waves just because we could, we got to Champagne. Somehow, call it a navigation error, we ended up riding up on top of the huge school bus sized rock and nearly wrapping the canoe, before we fortunately slipped off around the left side of it. It was a tense moment. Then we entered the washout and found a spare paddle and a rescue rope in a throw bag, two nice additions.

We found ourselves in Palisades Reservoir at full pool. Tom shouted excitedly, “Johnny look out“! I looked up and a radio controlled model airplane was flying towards us over our heads. We’ll be fine Tommy. “No Johnny look out, look out!” Sure enough I thought and steered to the left. Good eye Tom. Apparently it was a Kamikaze model airplane. I adjusted our course fortunately for the plane with a 6’ wingspan (it was a big one) crashed into the water right next to the boat. It would have hit us if Tom didn’t order a course change. Always listen to one’s partner even if they are nearly blind. It looked like the humans were trying to get us. We salvaged the model airplane and took it to its owners on the side of the dam lake. They gave us a six pack of beer.

It was difficult to get off the reservoir but we found a spot and ate and slept. The next day we trolled lures across the Res. and didn’t catch anything, we would never catch anything on the dam lakes. The reservoir side of the dam was covered in sticks from the surrounding forest. As we were portaging over the dam road a few people with a truck and a boat on a trailer gave us a lift back to the boat ramp below. It was the forth of Jew Lie. Palisades is one of the dam reservoirs I look at on TerraServer when keeping an eye on the progress of the mud. It’s moving fast. Below the dam is a tailrace and there was campers on the other side. We had a 4^th of July fireworks war with them. Tom and I had dry fireworks and after the Jackson Hole run and Alpine Canyon this was notable. We had mortar shells and all they had was big bottle rockets. I zeroed in on the opposite river side group and had the rocket’s red glare bursting in the air above their hair. We won. This was the last time I celebrated the Forth as I kinda lost the flavor for it after this trip.

The Birds of Prey section of the Snake below Palisades was notable for its good fishing. We had an osprey snatch a trout out from practically under Tom’s nose just a few feet from the bow of the boat. There was a big Dobson fly hatch here and we saw many big bugs crawling out from the water. Tom and I also paddled the canoe over our first low head dam of the trip here, they’re nasty. The muddy swamp heading into American Falls Reservoir was a disaster. We paddled over the dam lake mostly at night and got to a restaurant near the dam that had hamburgers, dam potato salad, and a telephone. Tom wanted to quit. I’d told him before we started the trip that a week or so into it he’d want to give up and here we were 8 days into our descent and he said he’d had enough. I reminded him, of course, that this was exactly what I’d told him was going to happen. “Yes you did Johnnie, yes you did”, said Tommy and then he asked me, “What are you going to do?” If you quit I’m going to the ocean without you. He got on the phone and talked to his brother. He could catch a bus home or find out what was around the next bend in the river. I didn’t pressure him. I told him if he wanted to catch a bus I’d hang out with him until he did, sat there drank iced tea and wondered why he would want to go home. He had no girl. He was in shock. I could think of nothing better than paddling down a river, fishing, telling stories, encountering new situations that could be recounted for all time, avoiding contributing to the dam ages, and attacking the dam shitty problem. Tom seemed like he wanted to go home, sit around, watch T.V. and drink cold beer. I had to admit it was a strenuous trip. More fun than sitting at home though I thought. Tom must have thought so too because he decided not to quit and instead find out what was around the next bend in the river.

Sunburn, that’s what Tom found. He’d elected to wear a sleeveless shirt for this trip and it cost him. I told him not to do it and wore a long sleeve shirt for the worst hours of the day to avoid what happened to Tom. Blisters on his south side shoulder and upper arm with skin peeling off his entire exposed left arm. We went to a thrift shop and Tom bought a Pedigree (dog food) wind breaker for a dollar. One could tell he really wanted to wear a muscle shirt while paddling down the Snake, but it didn’t work.

At Massacre Rocks we met up with “Tiny”, a friend of ours, Tom’s sister Laura and her friend who were going to a Fish show. They set us up with more herbs and took some heavy gear of ours we didn’t want to carry down the river. This made the trip easier and more enjoyable. I thought it would have been nice to exchange Tom for Laura’s friend at this point. If she was half as intelligent as she was good looking she’d have gone fishing with us instead of going to a Fish show.

As we travelled down the river it seemed as if I knew the answers to half the stuff or questions that would be presented and Tom knew the answers to the other half the stuff, so between us we were know it alls. However, as much as we agreed exactly what the dam shiddy problem was and exactly what the dam free collecting that which falls from the heavens and or your ass solution was, we differed in one extremely major point. This ended up being a big deal and we argued about it and debated it all the way down the river. I thought one should do the correct thing and work towards ending the damages and installing the solution. Tom argued there was nothing one could do, and if there was why would one want to do it. What would be the point? So all the way down the river I discussed different ways and ideas, routes and angles to attack it from. I’m glad we debated it because Tom shed light on the fact or idea that I would have to have a reason why. It would take me another 8 years to conjure up an intelligent explanation for or reason why I and life and we as humans should arrest the development of, end the damages, and install the Kingdom of Heaven on the surface. At the time the best I could come up with was so we could keep eating, having sex, altering our perception of reality, making more money than someone else and lording over them. The show must go on.

We talked about the problem of spreading the word. People don’t read anymore, so one could write the down the idea in a reasonably intelligent manner, a book, and they wouldn’t read it. I occasionally, kinda as a joke, talked about writing a book and going on the Oprah show in Chicago. We talked about all the reasons why T.V. and radio stations, cable companies, publishers, editors, and the mainstream information outlets wouldn’t touch the idea with a million foot insulated pole. I came to the conclusion that a one page double sided hand written letter was probably going to be the most effective technique. Tom’s #1 response was to stick it in the U.S. Mail, and he would elaborate on this when I asked him why. “Because when it’s stamped it’s official”. This first time descent of the Snake with Thomas Shindelman (God’s letter arranger) is kinda the most significant 3 months of my life. Tom just kept telling me, “Just stick it in the U.S. Mail”. Why Tom? I’d ask. “Because when it’s stamped it’s official”. He kept saying this, all the way down the Snake. It was the most significant thing he said. The second most significant thing Tom said as we made this historic trip was, “Oh Johnnie Boy, Johnnie Boy, the pipes are calling you Johnnie Boy”. I’d ask him what it was exactly he was referring to, and he would just smile, laugh and say, “You know”. I always imagined a scene from “the Fall of the House of Usher’s”, or Hell, and an entity playing an organ or “the pipes” just for me. Tom sang this a lot as if it were the lyrics of a tune (which it is), “Oh Johnnie Boy, Johnnie Boy, the pipes are calling you Johnnie Boy”. That which caused him to sing it or what was taking place around us when he sang it added emphasis.

Originally, when we planned out the trip we’d decided to portage the Milner Murtaugh Canyon, most likely by renting a car, because of the ferocity of the rapids. This section of the Snake was over 20 miles of up to class V+ rapids. Class VI was by definition unrunnable and there was hardly any way out of the canyon except for one spot where a bridge crossed over the Snake. So if one made up their mind to enter the Milner Murtaugh Canyon, they were committed to at least running down to the bridge, and that was the worst of it. Somehow Tom and I came up with the wild idea to run the canyon (I’m sure I came up with it), and called up two river outfitters downstream to inquire about the conditions. The first character who answered the phone was the owner of a river guide service. He said, “Hell yeah, go!” I said it’s kinda dangerous isn’t it? “Naw, if you guys made it this far you’ll be fine. Don’t miss it”. The next person I called also was the owner of a river guide service. When I presented the idea to him he said, “No, don’t go!” Why not? “They’ll find your gear in the washout and they’ll either rescue you with helicopters or find you dead in the canyon.” I hung up the phone and told Tom what they’d said. He laughed. We mulled it over, and decided to go for it.

We portaged around the dam and got the gear to the tailrace below. Both the characters I’d talked to on the phone said, “It was a river within a river”, meaning the flow was so low, approximately 500 cfs, that we’d be paddling, down a stream within a larger river bed. They weren’t kidding, the water was so skinny Tom and I had second thoughts. We had a Delorme topographic map and from it and what we were looking at in front of us, the steep canyon walls, one could tell once you pushed off into this thing, there you went. We packed everything into the boat, tied it down better than we ever had, and pushed off into the Milner Murtaugh Canyon.

The Hunt party of fur trappers were supposedly the first characters to try and paddle down the Snake. When they got to this section the party was against continuing and had come to the conclusion to portage around this area. Two of the river men were for running the river and the rest of the party decided if the daring duo could make it, they would follow behind. The two “test dummies” pushed off and when they got to the first rapid, it didn’t work out, and the guy in the bow died.

The first rapid we encountered was a 5 ½ foot drop. The combination of such a steep drop and the recirculating flow of surface water below the horizon line caused the boat to plunge into the hole below at a near vertical angle. The boat became a submarine. I watched as the bow floatation bag was displaced by water as it failed to stay in the boat. Next, Tom face planted in the water just before he was smashed back into his chair breaking the chair. Tom disappeared. The boat continued its near vertical submergence as the water ripped through the hull dislodging all the rubberized gear bags and horticultural oil buckets that were strapped in. Pop pop ping pow, all the D rings that were adhered to the bottom of the hull either broke or became unstuck. I had enough time to grab my Stetson hat with my paddle hand and the gunwale of the boat with my other hand just before I followed Tom and the rest of the boat under. The stern float bag broke free. It was a complete failure. Fortunately, Tom wasn’t injured, too much, and we managed to retrieve all the gear to the side of the river. We’d brought more glue and an extra D ring or two, fixed the attachment points, and secured the float bags even better. At this point we could have portaged out relatively easily, but decided to continue, with our new knowledge of what our rig could and couldn‘t do. A six foot drop could kill you in our boat. According to the books this canyon descends at 70’ per mile for 26 miles, supposedly the longest steepest drop pushing the limits of navigability on this side of the world, perhaps in the world. Here we go.

I was wearing a pair of purple Converse Chuck Taylor’s as soul protectors, and a Black Sheep life jacket I got from Kmart. Tom wore the same life jacket and decided to protect his soles with a pair of Caterpillar heavy duty Roman type sandals. There’s many ways to descend a river besides paddling the boat, floating and bloating the least attractive. Of course, there is the portage, where one carries the boat on the side of the river. Lining the boat down the river is another method. This is where one attaches a line or two to the boat and attempts to guide the boat down the river with the line or lines. I really don’t recommend this method, and Tom wouldn’t either. We decided to line the canoe through the next big rapid on the river left. I held on to the stern line or painter and Tom held on to the bow painter. It didn’t work. The stern began to get swept out into the river at the same time water began pouring over the port gunwale. If Tom had let go or let slack his bow line I may have been able to keep the stern from getting swept out into the main flow, but then again the bow may have got stuck on a rock which would have likely been my fault for not hauling back on the stern line. It’s hard to tell, everything happens so fast. I let go of my line. Tom continued to try and hold on to his line as the boat filled with water and became extremely heavy. He’d fallen down on the slippery black basalt or deliberately took a low stance and was getting his hand, which had the line wrapped around it, smashed and pinned against a rock. The river was roaring and the situation was tense as I leaped towards Tom’s increasingly taught line and screamed let go, as I pulled as hard as could on the line, giving Tom a ½” of slack. He let go. I dropped the line.

The boat and all our gear began going down the river without us. Now the boat is going 10 to 15 mph. A person can only run so fast. How are you going to catch up with it? I always tell people when the shit hits the fan, I’m the guy you want by your side to get you out of it and pick up the pieces (of shit). The run down the river bank was over huge irregular blocks of slippery black basalt loaded with spaces between the blocks to break a leg if one slipped. I also tell people don’t be scared be prepared, thus the Chuck Taylor’s, probably the best shoes for this. What I did next was practically unduplicatable. Tom witnessed it and “Superman” was how he described it. I sprinted, leaped, and scrambled over the jumble of slick rock while shedding my hat, sunglasses, windbreaker, and other extraneous gear and dove into the river, swam to the boat, got in it and kept it from going over the next rapid and disappearing. I bailed it out and paddled back upstream to get Tom. “Yeah Bad Ass”, Tom was impressed.

Shortly after that we got down to the hydroelectric turban outfalls those dam engineering geniuses decided to run down the river a mile or two in tunnels, creating a nearly dry canyon between the dam and here, perhaps a few extra watts of power, and for themselves the prestigious feeling of control and extra money they get for digging the tunnels. We picked up another 1100 cfs and descended on about 1600 cfs. Usually as one descends a river the river gets bigger as the tributaries add more water. We started on 20,000 cfs in Wyoming. Where did all the at least 18,400 cfs go? Agriculture and evaporation, Heyburn sugar beets and Idaho potatoes, and town water intakes. Of course Tom and I had a few pounds of sugar and several pounds of potatoes, but we were smart enough to know we could easily replace the sugar with honey from beehives inside the walls of people’s homes without too much additional construction costs. Certainly they would have to plan it out before they erected the walls. The dam and ditch potatoes could easily be replaced with those grown on the peoples properties with the grey water originally collected as rain water from people’s supers. Plus, it would be less work than mowing the grass and cutting the bushes into squares. When’s the whole damages doom scheme gonna collapse and be replaced with the celestial city?

When travelling through the Milner Murtaugh Canyon every couple of miles or so one comes upon a ladder leaning up against the side of the 400’ cliff walls. History says the Chinese who shipped to this country to do the dam dirty work (with carp in buckets and baskets) would often times escape somehow from their toiling servitude and many of them ended up down here in the bottom of this canyon, searching for gold in a location to forbidding for white men. The Chinese ladders along the cliff side were for accessing the river bed where the largest of boulders were lifted with levers to reveal the gold underneath them. If one wanted one could attempt to escape the canyon by these old wood ladders, it looked like they hadn’t been used in a hundred years.

Pair of Dice Falls is formed by two house sized 6 sided black basalt boulders in the river bed. As one approaches this distinctive water feature a horizon line forms on the right of the first die encountered. This is a waterfall over 6’ that could be run possibly in a different type of vessel. Tom and I went left around the first die and slowly poled, paddled, and lined our way down the left side of the river. Just when it looked like we were going to be forced to navigate the treacherous rapid between the two dice we discovered a gap just wide enough to portage the canoe through in the area between the 2^nd die and the base of the adjacent cliffside. This lead us to what I thought was the best place to camp, certainly the best fishing hole on the Snake. The spot below the 2^nd die is the best place to fish and relax on the whole run. The fish in the hole were small mouth bass that were so eager to hit the lures they’d often jump out of the water and hit the lure before it even hit the water, and one hooked up on every cast. It was as if the fish had never seen a fishing pole or lure before, and they may never have considering the inaccessibility of the place and the unlikelihood that anyone who made it would have brought along a fishing rig with them. In addition, underneath the ledge of basalt Tom and I were standing on lurked what could be the largest small mouth bass in the world. It wouldn’t bite a lure, almost as if it wasn’t big enough to bother with. The fish would come up and look at the lures as we retrieved them up to the ledge. It was nearly as big as a 5 gallon bucket. This might be one of the best freshwater fishing holes in the world, good luck getting there with your tackle. We enjoyed fried bass for supper.

Star Falls is another doozy of a water feature that is so dangerous there is a billboard on the side of the river that demands one portage. This is where I found the long horned owl feather that I wore in my hat for the next several years. Getting the gear back down to the water below Star Falls is tricky. We attached our longest line to the boat filled with gear and Tom guided it down while I arrested the fall playing out the line from behind the ledge of the cliff. Tom kinda felt he got the bad end of the deal here cause what he did was so hairball, and it was, but I tossed down the line and explained that I was going to have to climb down without one, which I demonstrated.

When we got to unrunnable drops the #1 technique that we used to get over them was to steer the canoe full speed into the bank aiming for a gap in the rocks to wedge the bow in. Upon impact I’d scream painter! This was the signal for Tom to grab his bowline or painter he’d carefully stored for quick extraction and scramble out of the bow and pull the canoe up on the rocks. While he was abandoning ship the stern usually swung out into the current and over the waterfall. This put me in the worst possible situation I could imagine, going over the horizon line in what was now the front facing upstream, unable to easily see where I was going with the back of my head (my most vulnerable spot) leading the way. I always figured if Tom muffed it I’d sprint the length of the boat towards the bank on top of the gear and dive for shore. Of course if you know anything about physics you’d know that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. What would happen is that as I ran over the gear to the shore the boat would move in the opposite direction from shore and when I finally jumped to shore I’d most likely fall short. I could run the length of the boat, not jump, and at least I was in the new stern of the boat as I went over. Fortunately, I didn’t have to do this as Tom skillfully stuck the landing every time we did this.