Leaving hotel calafornix

Scouting the rapids before one attempts to run them is important although not always possible. This is an extremely difficult canyon to navigate. We drank water from fountains in the cliffside we assumed came from the irrigation canals above. There is a huge river otter living down in here. The last rapid in this section is the Idaho Connection and true to form Tom and I collided with the last rock in the last rapid of the canyon, this time in spectacular fashion. We connected with Idaho amid ship on the portside. The boat became pinned against the rocks with the open end facing downstream. The water ripped around the bow and stern and coursed in a perfect sheet over the starboard gunwale. We were stuck in a bubble or green room, both of us crouched down kneeling on the port side. Tom calmly looked back at me shrugged his shoulders as if… what now? Tom abandoned ship and disappeared. The canoe immediately righted itself and came around the rock stern first. Tom was still under water and I caught sight of his yellow jacket downstream a ways. The hull had hardly taken on any water and I quickly paddled over towards Tom. He was trying to swim to the surface and while making some progress was way down there. I paddled the boat over to where he was practically right under me and I reached way under the surface with my right hand and pulled him up. He gasped for air as I scolded him, quit fooling around, get back in the boat!

Shortly thereafter we discovered that the impact with the rock in Idaho Connection had punctured a hole in our supposed bullet proof hull. Tom always wanted to shoot the boat with his 38 to see if it was bullet proof as advertised. At least I didn’t have to tell him not to shoot the boat to see if it was bullet proof anymore, it wasn’t. We patched it with some material and adhesive that we had. Before we had left, I had cautioned Tom about the nature of the U.S., we’ve all seen Deliverance, and suggested he perhaps get a piece for this trip considering I’d already been shot at 2 or 3 times and had many other run ins with characters. Plus, I told him we’re gonna be in Idaho, it’s worse than Kentucky. We went to a gun show and Tom decided to buy an antique, still in the box, Saturday night special. I tried to tell him a snub nose 38 was not what he wanted on this trip, plus he could have bought a used one at the pawn shop for $30, but he insisted. I took the same amount of money ($300) to a firearms store and bought a 30-30 trapper model lever action Winchester (an elephant bush gun) and for another $100 got a leather scabbard. In addition I carried my 9 shot 22 revolver target pistol, usually in a bucket in front of me.

We floated into the reservoir above Twin Falls and called up the two outfitters who’d advised us on the Milner Murtaugh section. The guy who told us to go for it laughed and said, “I figured you’d be dead”. The character who told us not to attempt it said he’d come down to see if our gear had floated up yet. He offered us a ride around the dam, a trip to the grocery store and the sandwich shop in exchange for the tale. They dropped us off below Shoshone Falls which is supposedly bigger than Niagara. Tom and I paddled up to the falls, pure terror. I put Tom just about in the thing, “Johnnie!”, boy was he tense.

Don Mays was running a tour of the dammed section below Shoshone Falls and was interested in our voyage. We told him and his paying guests about it and Mr. Mays invited Tom and I to an event called “River Daze”. He said we should see it and the “River Daze” participants should meet us. The event took place the next day and Mr. Mays invited us up to his place to stay the night in preparation for the event. Don had a very simple place up on the plain above the canyon and there we met his wife. She made us chipped ham sandwiches with pickle relish. Don showed us what remains to be the largest canoe I’ve ever seen. It could easily seat a dozen or so people and Don said he enjoyed taking guests on nonmotorized trips to view the falls. The next day we went to “River Daze”, an event designed to stimulate interest in recreational watersports and showcase or sell the equipment to do it. It was held at Mallad Park on the elevated plain with a low spot that the A.C.E. or local farmers had flooded for the event. Of course I thought this was bizarre, and the people involved with this event thought Tom and I were bizarre. It’s noteworthy to experience the distrust, fear, and trepidation shallow still water minded folks from town view flowing, deep water and characters like Tom and I. Don had another guy drop us off back on the Snake.

This guy wouldn’t take us back to where we left off. He pointed out Kanaka Rapids was just below where we’d pulled out and it was unrunnable. We were actually up on top of the cliff looking down on it and I pointed out that Tom and I could paddle down some parts of it and portage the rest, it wasn’t even a mile long. The guy said, “Yeah, but then you’ll leave a trail of green plastic scuff marks on the rocks that you drag the canoe over”. I explained that there was larger dam problems on the planet than that and asked to be taken back to the place we were shanghaied from. No, he was trying to protect the rocks of Kanaka from scuff marks.

After descending the Milner Murtaugh, I’d figured Tom and I would be stupid not to attempt a manuel descent of the entire Snake suicide mud staircase cemetery project. I knew or had the feeling that I’d recount this tale to so many people, that I’d likely spend more time and energy explaining how we skipped the Kanaka section and why but paddled and dragged the boat down the entire legal navigable length except Jackson Lake, then if we’d just tackle Kanaka. Tom seemed happy to skip it, of course he’d skip telling the people the story, too. He put it this way, if one was to tell the story of descending the Snake the people wouldn’t understand¸ couldn’t follow the tale, and they’d think you were crazy for trying to tell them. He was right, usually they didn’t want to talk about it.

In addition the people tried to stop us from doing it verbally and literally. It was uncanny how many times someone walked down to the waterside and shouted some kind of apocalyptic thing at Tom and I. Typically¸ not always, but usually it was a menopausal woman with bluish grey hair wearing a Mumu standing on a rock above us with the wind swirling her hair around, croaking, “You’ll never make it there’s a dam ahead” or “The river dead ends ahead”. This is what they’d tell ya, it was weird. Tom of course took notes on what the people said, half a page of discouraging, fearful and seemingly apocalyptic in a larger sense quotes. Plus, they were actually trying to stop us, often times officials siting unposted rules. Such as at Lake “Wall to Wall Carp”, the nickname we gave the dam Lake Walcott Wildlife Refuge. The carp here were huge, 40+ lbs., and they travelled in herds.

When we got to the boat ramp above the dam an A.C.E. ranger came down and queried us. “Where ya coming from?” From the Tetons, we’re headed to the sea. “It’s illegal to paddle through the wildlife refuge.” (I guess you gotta have an infernal combustion machine and a shot gun to kill the last of the wild things). “Huh?” Tom said, we didn’t know, there’s no sign I pointed out. The A.C.E. said “Well as long as you didn’t set fire to my refuge”. He gave us a ride below the dam but first we stopped at the repair shed to repair our portage wheels frame that was getting beat up. We talked shop with Cokes and Snickers. His “don’t burn down the garden” concern was a notable one. It’s typical of most people to fear fire but not dams. It’s interesting that an A.C.E. dude is worried about burning down the refuge but apparently not the least concerned or cognizant of the fossil fuel burned to construct his own dam or the fate of the whole dam gig. As long as he has a carp filled pond to take care of. Tom and I didn’t see any wildlife at all here. The second reason his comment was interesting was because of what happened next.

We put the boat in the tailrace below the dam and paddled across the river to just below a creek that came in on the south side. It was like a winter wonderland. One of the nearly extinct majestic cottonwoods was in full bloom and the tree and the surrounding area was covered in a few inches of cottony fibers. The creek was loaded with crawdads and Tom and I picked nearly a half gallon of them. Tom discovered a nice Buck knife and sheath here as well, a nice river gift. With the crawdads, the Buck knife, and the “summer time snow” it felt like Christmass. We even took a picture and with the exception of the shorts and shirts it looked like Mid January instead of Mid August. We had some dam rice, peppers and onions that we cooked with the beans and the crawdads. I raked a 15’ clearing a few feet from the waterside out of the cotton “snow” and used it for kindling. We got the jambalaya cooking and sat around with a crystal meth deficient couple with a car that wouldn’t start and a young couple of sisters about 6 to 9 years old who said their parents had left them there. Such was the scene.

Periodically I’d step over to the simmering meal and check the beans, add a pinch of flavoring or a splash of Hot Sauce or whiskey. The wind was dead calm. I’d determined the beans were just about soft enough to eat and I added the crawdads and gave the mostly dam rice jambalaya a stir, while squatting next to the miniscule fire feet from the water. I had the best vantage point for what happened next. The wind puffed up, and all of the dry filaments of cottonwood seeds from the surrounding area were suddenly lifted up into the air. The nearly silent dullish explosion was like a grain silo or gasoline explosion that started right in front of my face. It quickly engulfed me singing my hair and then I was on the inside looking out of a sphere of expanding fire. It hadn’t rained in what looked like months and it was a dry that only the end of summer in the high plains desert of Idaho knows. The fire quickly engulfed the entire 50’ cottonwood tree and began to spread out along the ground.

Immediately upon ignition I stumbled back to the boat, emptied the contents from a 5 gallon bucket, filled it with water and began trying to put out the fires advance. There was a dirt road that went back around the tree and I began to extinguish the ground portion of the fire in the direction of the road knowing that if I could do that I might be able stop its wild advance. I could still hear the A.C.E. dude, “Just as long as you didn’t set fire to my refuge”. Here we are. I was heading back to the tailrace for the second bucket and past Tom who was stunned, and I’ll admit it was certainly stunning, but still, I hollered at Tom MOVE!, grab a bucket, put water in it, throw it on the fire. I think Tom may have been under the impression that all was lost and the place was going to go up, cause it was, and there was no stopping it. Me? I got better things to do than watch a fire that I innocently started rage out of control while standing next to a body of water with a 5 gallon bucket within reach. After 3 or 4 buckets I’d nearly headed it off to the dirt road. Tom was putting forth some effort. The two little girls had filled up their parents cooler, each grabbing a handle and were dumping water on the largest part of the fire near the tree. The Christill smoking couple were in panic running down there battery trying to start their car.

I hustled back with an empty bucket stomping on patches of fire that had escaped over my fire break, to get more water. With nearly 40lbs. of water I sprinted back to the dirt road deliberately spilling water on the break to cast the remaining 2 or 3 gallons on the fire just as it made it around my fire break. At the same time I extinguished the worst of the advancing flames a car pulled up with two standard American’t males. One of them asked a question and I responded by turning and running back for more water, trying to stomp out the fire with my Chuck Taylor’s on the way back. They fled. After another 5 or 10 minutes we got the fire out, no thanks to the 4 American’t adolts.

After smoking a cigarette, casually waiting to see if anyone showed up, we left, went down a mile or so and restarted a fire, and finished the beans. Tom did something that was notable. I don’t know why he did this, maybe it was something I needed to see. He went up the rocky 45 degree slope to “Take a she ite” as he called it and for some reason just as his bowels were moving called my name to get my attention. He was 20 yards away with his posterior exposed on the rock bank, so I got a good look at the event. My response was to pick up a small stone and really whip it at him. I hit him in the bull’s eye, his pipe hole, that’ll teach ya.

Tom, if left to his own devices would have slept the entire trip. I never let him sleep in long enough to find out. Usually I’d get up about an hour or so before Tom, start a fire, make a couple tall cups of coffee, and get breakfast cooking. Usually we had oatmeal for breakfast, sometimes cream of wheat (Tom’s favorite). I didn’t like cream of wheat as much as oatmeal, it didn’t seem like it lasted as long. Tom didn’t like his breakfast cereal with salt and complained often about it. I told him he needed the salt, in particular in the morning before we got underway. I was always trying to get him to drink more water, as well, and I think this may be why he didn’t want salt in his cereal. Tom was dehydrated the whole trip and it looked like he became more dehydrated as we neared its completion. I usually urinated about a dozen times a day with a long clear flow, this being my indicator of how well I was staying hydrated. Tom about half as often with half the flow, not clear. I think this was why he was tired and slept in, not drinking water, getting more dehydrated and even more tired. Every once in a while, particularly in the morning, I’d put a half gallon of water in front of Tom and tell him to drink it, just slam it. He wouldn’t do it. It actually seemed like he’d drink even less water just to spite me or something.

I’d explained to Tom that he’d feel much better, more energetic, and quit dragging his ass so much if he’d just drink some more water. Dehydration is a problem that I’ve seen many people experience in my life. You know when it really hurts them and those around them? When the shit hits the fan or an event occurs. Those low on water go into the event tired, achy, off their game and the event lasts for more than a minute or two, perhaps a half hour, hour, or longer. With the likely increased respiration, and perspiration, they become extremely dehydrated, exhibit poor form, bad decision making, and pain. Basically they’re hating it, the experience life is putting in front of them. Whereas a hydrated person like myself enjoys the potential tribulation or event that requires action, because it’s an experience that makes one stronger instead of debilitating. All because they have enough water to metabolize sugar and fat to perform, enough water so their blood is “clean” because they filtered their blood with their kidneys and urinated out the “poison”.

After staying the night in a duck hunter shack I’d prepared coffee and breakfast and Tom refused to get up. He’d been pretending to sleep later and later every day. I finished my coffee and began to eat my oatmeal. I told Tom ya know this isn’t going to work boss. We don’t have enough money to sit around all day. We’ve got to have money for the tobacco, the coffee, and the food. We’ve got X miles to go, we consume X dollars of stuff a day, we have X dollars total. This means we have to go X miles a day or we will run out of food and we won’t be able to get there. Plus, summer’s almost over and it’s going to start getting cold. We’ve got no cold weather gear. Also it gets windy in the afternoon Tom, almost every day, and it’s usually blowing up the river, that’s why we take a nap in the afternoon Tom. With this I walked down to the river and filled my coffee cup with cold water. I walked over to Tom all snuggled up in his sleeping bag and dumped the cold water in his face. The cold pour. Boy was he pissed off. Tom never slept in past the coffee again. He obviously became aware that on a trip of this nature, sleeping in an extra hour every day, while the other character quietly puts together a fire, coffee, hot cereal and serves breakfast in bed, is enough.

It was still early in the day when I told Tom to get out his Saturday night special. It took him 2 or 3 minutes. I explained to him that this was Idaho and he needed to be a little quicker on the draw. Next, I threw a pack of matches down on the ground 5 or 6 feet in front of him. Do you think you can shoot that? He pulled the trigger five times and missed. I even tried, it didn’t shoot bullets in any kind of pattern except random. I pulled my pistol out of the bucket within seconds and shot the thing for about 2 cents.

Tom and I probably met about a 1000 people on this trip from the mountains to the sea. I’d say and Tom would probably agree only a little over a couple dozen were worth more than 2 cents. The other 970 didn’t like us at all. I think it had something to do with travelling by water that was full of shit, which kinda made us like untouchable. Another thing you’ll figure out is most American’ts don’t like canoes, it’s pronounced can know or can knowa. This might be why they don’t like it and pronounce it canu or canew. They don’t like canoeists either or those who can and know. A few times we got interviewed for a newspaper article, usually after a waitress or proprietor of a restaurant had served us hamburgers and dam potato salad and then called a reporter. They may have been looking for free advertisement, who knows, but the local reporters never wrote and printed our story of the first time descent of the Snake in an open boat. Not one of them. The townfolk in general didn’t like the Snake, they don’t like snakes either. Townfolk are covered in rats too, and snakes are the best at solving this problem. If townfolk weren’t so stupid each one of them would have a snake living under their house. Tom or I would tell them, “We’re paddling down the Snake” and they would cringe in terror, as if we were doing something against the rules of the bible. It was sick, these people were sick of the Snake.

One day about noon we were paddling down the way about 100 yards from shore when we heard what sounded like dragonflies flying around the boat, 8 to 12 of them. Tom and I were looking for the cause and noticed 8 to 12 splashes between he and I on the right side of the boat about 20’ off. Then we heard the pow, pow, pow, pow… of an automatic rifle. Somebody was trying to shoot us out of the boat. That’s what it was like, dragonflies, splashes, and then the report, all within a second or two. We looked to the left and saw two creeps, one of which was still pointing a rifle towards us. I never saw Tom move so fast, he may have beaten me into the water as we took cover on the starboard side of the boat. The only difference was I had my pistol in my hand (which I’d stored in the bucket in front of me) before my feet hit the water.

Get the rifle Tom! “Yes”, said Tom who immediately began moving towards the 30/30 stored along the inside of the starboard side of the canoe just in front of where I sit. We’d submerged the starboard side a bit and I raised the pistol over the port side, pulled the hammer back, took careful aim and dropped the hammer on the clowns. I tried to shoot the clown still pointing the rifle at us between the eyes but I suspect I forgot to account for our 2 knot downstream travel and thus the bullet flew by his left ear. They got the message and left here, turning tail and running as fast as they could up the bank to an old sedan they had parked just behind. They got out of there quick. One needs to think about how stupid of a dam fool this dude was. To point a rifle at two people and pull the trigger for no reason and empty the clip. At that point I don’t think he had any more bullets left. Don’t ever do this. What if the engagement continues? I wonder how surprised he was when we returned fire so quickly. I probably should have continued to try and shoot them even as they ran away. Teach them a lesson, so to speak and protect others from them in the future. However in Amoralka it’s illegal to shoot someone in the back as the rules are written, basically. Even though he might have been running up to his car to get more ammo. Also Tom and I were smart enough to know he was probably the sheriff’s cousin or an off duty cop. In hindsight, I probably should have not jumped out of the boat like Tom but calmly pulled out the 30/30 and started shooting the car, in particular as they got in it and drove away. I might have disabled the vehicle if I’d’ve hit the forward third, it’s a big rifle. Then we could have pulled to the side, hunted em down, and finished em off. I mean this is the third or fourth such occasion.

Coming around a bend one day with Devil’s fence posts in the background a huge great granddaddy coyote ran up to the bank and saluted us. One night after a sumptuous Snake River special Tom and I kicked back smoking and sipping whiskey to the visual treat of the Northern Lights with a coyote pack accompaniment in the background. I had no idea we’d be able to see the Northern Lights from Southern Idaho, but there they were. A stunning display not witnessed by people who live underneath a roof on that night. I always tell people they’re better off not living in a home just to see the wonders around them, and they get to avoid a large share of responsibility for the damages. Tom seemed to think it wasn’t that special, kinda ho hum. I stayed up a little longer than he did sitting back looking to the north enjoying the waves of greenish pulsating light. It almost seemed like the coyote soundtrack was cued or in time with the visual display. It was spooky almost.

We pulled into Payette and I gave Michael John Abbruzzie Jr. a call. He was taking care of Abbruzzie Sr. who was afflicted with Pancreatic cancer. Unable to digest his food, he was starving to death. This was a very interesting man who imparted more knowledge to me than any other person. I talked to him on the phone, he could barely speak. He said, “Keep doing what you’re doing”. Best recommendation I ever got.

Tom and I paddled around a bend and could see a couple of guys sitting in lawn chairs down by the water. We pulled up to shore in front of them and they said, “When we saw you coming around the bend we didn’t know whether to shoot ya or give ya a beer”. Tom said, “Well I’m glad you decided to give us a beer”. I started taking serious note of this whole be’er game. Suddenly we were graced with the presence of a bonified broad. She was around 300 lbs. maybe 18 years old, covered in pimples. You had to see these two guys as they said, “Say hello to Miss. Idaho”. She looked like a potato.

The Boise River flowed into the Snake and the stench of a huge city’s municipal sewage system joined us before we entered Hell’s Canyon. We paddled around Farewell Bend, where the Oregon Trail leaves the Snake, and into Brownlee Reservoir or what Tom and I called Brownlee Cesspool which was polluted with tidy bowl blue foam and stink water. It was horrifying, the drying mud on the side was thick with cracks and bugs. It was a locust farm. We tried to sleep, apparently I’d put my pillow on a toad bigger than my fist that was buried in the mud, cause in the middle of the night it crawled out from its burrow and my pillow and woke me up. I was covered in centipedes, spiders and all kinds of stuff. I couldn’t go back to sleep. Tom rested as if Hell were comfortable. We paddled off into the reservoir still covered in bugs. The spiders were climbing up to the highest point, the tops of our heads, making a parachute of silk, and jumping off.

We pulled over at an A.C.E. park and met a single mom and her young boy, who showed interest in our trip. She said it was difficult for her to find a good male influence for her child. It was windy. Tom and I gave him the short version and encouraged him to do something similar. She gave us a ride to the store up on the hill. We were low on food, but the store didn’t really carry anything we ate, and it was all very expensive devil’s food or junk food. We got a few hot dogs. We were glad to portage the dam into the Oxbow section. Below the dam we met a guy who was shooting carp with a crossbow and bolts tied to a line. He said, “Don’t get caught stealing watermelons in the watermelon patch”. Tom and I had a package of fresh smoking material waiting for us at the Hell’s Canyon Post Office. Yes, they deliver in Hell’s Canyon. We drew straws to see who would go get the goods. Tom drew the short straw. The pickup was successful and we went down a ways to a small creek on the other side of the tailrace that was loaded with blackberries and spent the afternoon eating blackberries in the shade. Hell’s Canyon was on fire and it was approaching 120 degrees in the afternoon.