I remember the day I was standing on the riverbank behind my house in Twin Mountain, New Hampshire. I had seen the Grumman aluminum canoes come down the Ammonusic River beforehand I always wondered why anyone would want to do this spot. Later in the summer, Vicki and I were canoeing near Baxter State Park on a lake, and it began to dawn on me that I loved water travel. I had canoed a lot in summer camp years before, and now I was becoming reborn.
It wasn’t long before I bought a canoe, and we were paddling on different lakes and rivers. After a near disaster on a whitewater river, I joined the canoeing chapter of the Appalachian Club and began my apprenticeship under Roioli Schwiker, the eccentric chair of the chapter. Roioli was a taskmaster, who initially was brusque with Vicki and me, since she ahs trained many canoeists, who then had left the club. Once she saw we were committed, she warmed up, and she and I became good friends. She taught me a lot about reading water and managing a canoe.
Over time Vicki and I bought whitewater kayaks, which were much more maneuverable than canoes, but we stayed and went on trips with the club. I loved being on the water. The excitement of being on a river, hearing rapids in the distance, and seeing the water line change was intoxicating for me.
In 1974 we had to move to California for graduate school for me. I was upset to be leaving northern New Hampshire, my second home with its rivers, mountains, and lakes. On the other hand both of us were excited about the outdoor possibilities that existed in the western Unites States. Over the years I had become familiar with the whitewater literature, and gradually a goal had formed in my mind. I wanted to kayak the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, which ran through the Frank Church Wilderness in Central Idaho.
At that time the Middle Fork was seen as a challenging run. However, with the evolution of equipment and technique, it became an acceptable run for intermediate boaters with a strong Eskimo roll. I thought I could eventually do it, but I needed more experience and skill.
Early in our residency in California we went to a 2-week kayak school on the Rogue River in Oregon. I was later to kayak on the Rogue several more times, though my career went dormant for many years. In the early 90”s my neighbor, the late George Sergeant invited me on a trip down the Rogue with his rafting group. I took a couple of kayak lessons on the American River near Sacramento, bought a new boat, and we were off!
I enjoyed my trip down the Rogue in my new Perception kayak. I rolled well, and my confidence was increasing. I tried to enroll in a kayak class on the Rogue at my old school, but they cancelled due to lack of students. This action led to me signing up for a week class at the Nantahala Outdoor Center, the center for kayaking in the East. I was the oldest student in the intermediate class, and though I wasn’t as bold as I would have liked, I accomplished my goals and was ready for the Middle Fork.
A couple of years before Vicki and I had paddled down the main Salmon on a six-day trip with Canyons Inc. of McCall, Idaho. Owner Les Beschel, a former national kayak champion from Penn State, ironically had given me my first kayak lesson on the Androscoggin River in Northern New Hampshire many years before. The Salmon trip was great fun with a nice group of people, fun water, and terrific scenery. The Main Salmon had some big rapids, but it was not as technically challenging as the Middle Fork.
Finally I felt ready. I talked with Les, and he felt I could handle the river after reviewing my resume. We drove to McCall, Idaho and checked in with Canyons, Inc. A day later a small airplane took off for Stanley, where we would meet the group going down the Middle Fork. Our boats were being driven by truck to the put in. Our plan was to spend 12 days on the river, first kayaking the Middle Fork and then going down the Main Salmon. I was excited but nervous.
As we flew towards the river we came in low over a field with elk running across it. I thought for a minute I was in the movie, “Out of Africa!” The pilot landed in the field scattering the animals and within minutes other small planes landed with more river runners.
Eventually a bus showed up and took the twenty something group down to the river, where a ranger was waiting to give a lecture on river etiquette.
In the group there were three open canoeists and a decked single canoe paddled with a man from North Carolina. It was cold out with snow flurries, when we practiced some Eskimo roll in the river. Soon we started downstream. I felt tentative, and one of the guides asked me if I was “ comfortable.” I thought of course not, but I could see he doubted my abilities. I told him Les and I had talked and paddled away from him, as he wasn’t helping my confidence level.
In a short while we came to Velvet Falls, a river wide hydraulic that was dangerous. We all snuck it on the left, and obstacle one was over. The next rapid I remember was Pistol Pete. The water ran into a large rock and flowed left. The idea was to paddle directly at the rock and let the water take you around it. I went a little too left and ended up in a strong eddy to the left. I was trapped for about thirty seconds, before I was able to paddle out and head downstream.
The first day has some of the more formidable rapids, as the river gradient was most steep. Over the next few days I relaxed and began to enjoy myself. Vicki was paddling an inflatable kayak and doing well. The scenery was striking as we paddled through this wilderness setting.
River trips are luxurious in some ways. The guides fixed wonderful meals using propane to cook on. Every morning we had a full breakfast, and at night there was frequently steak of fish. Provisions were packed in ice and brought down the river in large rubber rafts. We pitched our tents on sandy beaches and slept to the sound of rushing water.
In addition to the white water boasters there were about fifteen people riding in rafts. The white water boaters remained separate from the raft riders for the most part.
My best move of the trip came in Hurricane Canyon. The river narrows down forming big standing waves. It is a roller coaster on water. I hit a wave, tipped over, rolled up using the wave’s motion, and then caught an eddy on river left. It all took only a few seconds, but it was exhilarating.
As the days went on, we settled into the culture of the river. The paddling was fun and interesting amidst great scenery. We saw a bear on a hill, deer, and one day a moose swam downriver by our camp and eddied out on the other side. After a hundred miles, we came to a river lodge, where Vicki and I would spend the night in comfort, while the rest of the customers would be leaving the river.
The next day we paddled a few miles to meet up with our next group with whom we would be running the main Fork of the Salmon, another 100 mile journey. The guides and river crew would stay the same, and on the second leg of the trip we were joined by our friends from Del Mar, the Zetumer family.
The Salmon was familiar territory but was great fun. I settled into a rhythm with the river and was very comfortable by now on the water. I rolled in Big Mallard, the biggest rapid on the river. Another time I flipped and disciplined myself to relax until I got away fro the turbulence and then rolled up.
One day I was paddling alone about a mile ahead of the group. I came around a corner and there were a half dozen big-horned sheep on the riverbank looking at me. I quietly floated by taking in the scene.
Soon the trip was coming to an end. The last night we camped across the river from the take out. The guides suggested that I ride the raft across the river with my kayak, but I wanted to paddle those last few yards. I could have kept going for another week easily, as I was thoroughly enjoying the trip that had been born years before on a river in Northern new Hampshire.
Today the clouds were filled with moisture at 6:30 at Fairbanks Ranch Country Club. We moved around the course quickly, shooting our balls over and around the ducks that wandered across the fairways. I greeted the different workmen, whom I have begun to know from my early morning rounds. On hole 8 of the Valley Course my tee shot landed 3 feet from the cup. I had a gallery of one, but apparently that was one too many, as I missed the birdie putt.
