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Hells Canyon, part I
(eleven-five-ninetyseven at argus observer, ontario, oregon)

It was big water, we could see that as we rounded the steep bend in the road above Hells Canyon Dam. We were certain the Snake River was not running at 20,000 cubic feet per second -- the level the Corps of Engineers had anticipated for the weekend. It had to be at least 30,000 cfs, guide Dave Steele thought aloud.

A chill hung in the cool October morning air as we pulled the truck into position at the put-in below the dam. Here we would begin our three-day journey to Pittsburgh Landing, about 30 miles downriver.

It was my first trip to Hells Canyon and my first extended river trip. I wasnÕt sure of what to expect. Some friends had put the fear in me with tales of deep, raging whitewater. Though I took comfort in DaveÕs extensive experience on rivers around the world and his being one of 11 outfitters permitted to run the river, it didnÕt help the fact that I was the only other person along for this wild ride.

Dave, who had bought Freewater Expeditions in the last year, had returned from tours of duty with the World Food Programme in Africa. HeÕs seen a lot and been through most of it.

As we finished tying in the gear, I realized the gravity of what I was doing. By tying down everything in the 18-foot rubber raft, we were preparing for the possiblity we would flip. Even in October, the water was warm, so that wasnÕt the problem. It was the fear of trying to swim in a river as notoriusly dangerous as the Snake.

From the rocky shore I could see the water churn past us, creating a swirling eddy at the base of the put-in ramp. The sun was just beginning to skim the tops of the walls towering high above this canyon, the deepest river gorge in North America.

Soon, everything was loaded, and with a shove and a tug of the oars we slid off the ramp into the current. We were on our way.

The dam faded quickly from view with the river shoving us past the gate formed by the canyon walls at the first bend in the river.

Slowly, the sun crept above the mountains. Soon the massive basalt cliffs on both sides were gleaming. I sat in front. Dave was rowing behind me. We bounced through some small rapids and floated calm sections before we came to the first big water -- Wild Sheep.

As we rounded the bend, I looked downstream and saw the river drop away. On the horizon beyond the drop was the white spray of rapids dancing violently below. We found an eddy and pulled over to the shore just above Wild Sheep and walked up to a bluff overlooking it.

Experienced guides always survey any big rapid before attempting it, Dave said. He explained that the water level changes frequently in water above and below dams, sometimes creating a rapid from a minor bump to a monster, with every sort of gradation between. New lanes are created, others closed and some, perhaps run a dozen times already, become too dangerous to attempt. ItÕs like skiing after an avalanche. Old terrain is suddenly new and unknown dangers lurk just below the surface. If the boat gets too close to one side or another, the riffles, or the curl caused by water being repulsed by rock or sometimes even by more densely packed water, can flip the boat and quickly put rafters in a lot of trouble.

If we flip Dave said, keep your feet pointed downriver and your arms close to your body while you swim. Most of all, keep your head up and watch for big rocks. If you go into a hole created by water rushing over a rock, get air when you can and try to swim out of it. ItÕll probably push you out after a while, but do what you can to get out of it.

After looking at it for several minutes, Dave decided on a route, traced it with his finger so I could see, then we returned to the boat.

We shoved off, me in front, Dave rowing behind. As we slipped out of the eddy I wrapped my hands around the tethers that were keeping the cooler I was sitting on tied to the boat.

Going into the big rapid was a little like the first time I took off in a 727. In that moment between when the plane was merely accelerating to when it was airborne seemed unreal and distant even though it was happing to me.

The current took control of the boat at the peak of that point when thousands of gallons of green water becomes resigned to its fate and with calm inevitability pauses to let it happen.

Everything after that became an orgy of gravity and water in too narrow of a channel.

We shot through it, slamming against the waves. Spray smacked my body and water slapped the sides of the boat.Paddles were almost useless in this storm. The boat rocked and rolled and bucked. Then we slipped out the back side of Wild Sheep and bounced over small rapids.

We looked back. I ordered my bloodless hands to let go of the tethers.

Dave said it was one of the worst routes heÕd ever taken.

No problem, I thought. It was a good ride, but not that bad. I was eager now for the next big one, Granite Rapid, just ahead.

We rode for a short time, before I saw Granite, itÕs massive waves breaking above the drop point. No doubt about it. Granite was huge today.

Just as we did with Wild Sheep, we floated into shore, although Dave nearly missed the eddy and it took several minutes of hard strokes and me jumping out of the boat into the shallow water to keep us there.

As soon as we reached the top of the 20-foot cliff overlooking Granite, I saw the beast. It was a monster called the Green Room and with this much water feeding it, the Room was a deep shade of dark green. The monster roared at the top and foamed at the sides. Whatever giant lay beneath it, was not happy.

A week before this outing, the monster bit Dave and another rafter, flipping their boat and sending them on a who-knows-how-far ride down river. A jetboat helped them get out of the water. And that was at lower water.

After studying it for a long time, Dave worked out a route. It was going to be tricky because the Green room was smack dab in the middle of the logical channel. So Dave was going to take a course slightly to the right of it, between the Room and the giant riffles barreling off the wall beneath our survey point.

We boarded the boat, cast off and as we approached, turned the boat around so the gear that was stowed in the back would now face forward. Dave wanted to use the weight to pull us through, plus it would keep the from from flipping up and back on top of us. At least that was the theory.

We came nearer and suddenly a seriousness I hadnÕt felt before overcame me. Where Wild Sheep was scary to a rafting virgin, Granite was scary like staring down a the barrel of the gun held by a girlfriendÕs jealous ex. However remote the thought of dying was before, became real just then. At the least, I prepared for a hard swim.

We crossed the calm point, this time the climax like the rush of pent-up frustration released.

Then we met Granite.

The boat slid sideways, so that instead of hitting backward as planned, we were sitting ducks for dunking. At the last second, an unseen drop straightened the boat and we hammered into the first riffle. I turned around to see what was happening and É all I saw was a wall of water 6 inches from my face. Wham! Instinct barely had enough time to close my eyes and gulp down a breat before I was covered in foamy green water.

A second later, peering through the streams of water that ran off my head, I opened my eyes and saw more walls of water. But they were passing just outside the edge of the now-swamped boat.

The Green Room passed us on the left, but the riffles were now our main concern. We were getting killed and at one point the boat was mostly vertical on one wave. I had to dive to the high side to keep us from flipping. I kept diving back and forth, shifting weight for what seemed like several minutes, until the last riffle spit us out into the main channel and the calm water that follwed Granite.

Shellshocked and soaked, we sat there. Dave paddled enough to get us straightened out then laid back. A few seconds later he sat up and we both stared at Granite until it was too small to see.

Dave guided us to shore while I grabbed the bucket tied to the bow and began to bail water. The boat was not far above the water line, so much water filled it.

For fun, after Wild Sheep I had bailed and counted how many times I emptied the half-filled, 3-gallon buckets. Wild Sheep took about 15, Granite, more than 30.

Later in camp, we talked about what saved us. Interestingly enought, the first rapid that nearly did us in, probably kept us from flipping. When it washed over the raft, it flooded it and added the weight we needed to pound through the rest of the rapids. Granite gave us a taste of its fury and spared us at the same time.

That night, sleep came easy but Granite failed to relent, even in my dreams.

- copyright by Brien Barnett