Rafting a Canyon

I took a break from ranching last week to raft through Hell’s Canyon on the Snake River with my mom.

I drove along the curvy, scenic route on purpose, knowing I needed to slow down and smell the trees.

After a smoky summer of choked out grass and gray haze across the prairie, the scent of Idaho’s pines and sound of the rushing Salmon River revitalized me.

Before the raft trip even began, I loved this latest “if it doesn’t kill you it makes you stronger” experience -- 15 mile-per-hour curves that wind down the side of a mountain on a narrow road that makes a pack horse trail look like I-15.

My mom and I signed up for a 6-hour ride that would take us through a couple of Class 4 rapids and a few Class 3s.

Our guide closely watched my 80-year-old mother straddle the side of the raft and boost herself in. Satisfied, he turned and discretely offered his hand to the round, red-faced, 50ish Texan next in line.

That guy needed the help.

This canyon was different from my favorite Rocky Mountains, yet so similar.

Our raft was the singular mode of seeing this stretch of Hell’s Canyon, deeper than the Grand Canyon with almost vertical walls rising all the way to the clear sky.

It was created by tectonic plates smashing into one another, the same tectonic plates that pushed the Rockies toward the same clear sky.

Just like the mountains, the canyon exudes power, authority and a delicate beauty.

Massive granite boulders resist constant rushing rapids, insisting on their place in the middle of the river.

The water pushes and gouges so mightily that it carves through volcanic basalt, smoothing the rock to glistening, slippery ribbons and baubles.

Grass braids the steep hillsides, with hackberry trees and an occasional Ponderosa pine accenting Nature’s bracelet.

Hell’s Canyon doesn’t need us to exist.

In fact, I had the sense that the canyon barely tolerates the visitors it hosts -- just as the mountains tolerate my visits with benevolent patience, yet intolerant of any stupidity I might express.

As we floated past small flat areas deposited by tributaries to the river, our guide pointed out a tin roof on a homestead cabin.

While I enjoy living on the vast prairie in Montana, I saw where families claimed 20-acre flat spots in Hell’s Canyon. They planted apricot trees, hauled supplies down steep, narrow trails and raised their cattle and children.

They split their own shingles for the cabin walls and built a comfortable, north-facing porch on to the single room.

Our guide said the canyon floor rarely freezes, but temperatures commonly reach 100 degrees.

No wonder they wanted a shady porch.

Homesteaders were not the first Hell’s Canyon residents.

Pictographs painted with red ochre on ancient basalt and granite tell uninterpreted stories.

As I write this story on a computer that will not last five years, I know none of my stories are so important that I would take the time to paint them on a canvas that would last a thousand years.

Many other beings call Hell’s Canyon their home.

We spotted a blue heron, a bald eagle, a small bunch of bighorn sheep that leapt among boulders as easily as you and I would leap over a chalk line of hopscotch.

A fat, shiny black bear sat in a blackberry patch shoving berries into his mouth so fast that he finally had to stop and lick juice from his paws.

A mountain goat stood on a ledge above the dock and let her kid nurse as we watched.

All of these animals are familiar from my Montana experiences and so are my feelings of gratitude and appreciation toward them.

As they say, sometimes a change is as good as a rest.