When you're on the wrong side of the river, a little luck helps

N.S. NOKKENTVED

Originally published June 19

The closest I've come to actually dying -- or rather, thinking I was going to die -- in the outdoors was near the end of an otherwise splendid canoe trip down the South Fork of the Snake River in eastern Idaho.

On my first trip down a large moving river, I paddled an overloaded aluminum canoe. I lacked the experience to give proper directions to my paddling partner in the front of the boat. And he was no good at taking orders.

We had set ourselves up for disaster -- I'm still surprised that things didn't go worse.

The first day, except for a couple of nervous moments, went well enough. Late in the day we found ourselves hopelessly fighting the current. We took a channel that eventually got us where we wanted to go.

We met the rest of our party and camped that night on a wide bank under cottonwoods in the wilderness along the South Fork. September was starting its magic, turning the high country foliage golden.

Drift boats with fly fishermen slid past on the strong current -- better than 3 mph -- as hissing propane cooked up a big pot of pasta for our party of seven, plus two dogs.

A good start

The second day started well. With a mist rising from the river in the frosty morning, Orville and I shared a cup of espresso, made on the propane stove.

Even here in this seemingly pristine wilderness, the Snake -- termed a working river by those who profit from it -- is harnessed for irrigation and hydro power.

The river level depends on the amount of water released from Palisades Dam by the Bureau of Reclamation. And that depends largely on how much water irrigators need. In September, the river typically runs at 7,000 cubic feet per second -- more than 3 million gallons per minute.

As we floated downstream through riffles and placid pools, the feet of the Teton Mountains on the right reached their rugged toes right into the river. On the left, rolling foothills hinted at the vast Eastern Snake River Plain that cuts a wide swath across southern Idaho.

The river here flows through one of the few remaining intact western riparian forests, dominated by black cottonwood and coyote willow thickets. Bald eagles floated overhead. A moose cow and calf at water's edge cast us a wary glance.

But with the end of the trip in sight, circumstance found us on the right side of the river. It was the wrong side. A navigable passage was near the left bank, and the river seemed 100 yards wide.

Follow the basics

The basic rule of running a canoe through rough water is to keep it pointed downstream. But we would have to paddle across the current to run the opening head on.

Pointing downstream would run us into the rocks. I could envision the broken canoe floating downstream, gear bobbing in the water and myself mangled on the rocks.

I encouraged my partner emphatically to keep paddling. We cleared the rocks -- barely. My last paddle stroke hit rock.

We turned into the opening and bounced through a standing wave to quiet water below. The incident added a charge of adrenaline to a beautiful trip.

For me, the risks that come with outdoor adventures sharpen the experience. With heightened awareness, I note more clearly the sounds, colors and smells.

Ideally, that awareness is supposed to help you avoid winding up on the wrong side of the river.

N.S. Nokkentved survived the trip and now covers the outdoors for The Olympian. He can be reached at 754-5445.

The Olympian Copyright 2001

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