Taking the Plunge

by Virginia Aulin (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find USA

I’m not a camper. I like a soft bed, toilet and Wi-Fi. I’m also not an adrenaline junkie. The thought of plunging down rapids in a rubber raft makes me anxious. So, when friends invited me on a six-day white water rafting trip, my first reaction was, “Hell no.” But, since moving to Boise, I’d heard that rafting the Salmon River is epic. The “Wilderness” in Idaho totals more than 2.36 million acres—the largest contiguous National Forest Wilderness in the lower 48. The Middlefork of the Salmon cuts through this diverse, roadless area of jagged mountains and deep canyons (including the ominously named “Impassable Canyon”) offering up 100 miles of nearly continuous class III and IV rapids. Many experts say this is the best river trip in the world. I didn’t want fear to deprive me of an iconic experience. I decided to take the plunge. Given seasonal low water levels, we had to fly to the put in. My anxiety was trigged when I saw the tiny planes that were to take us over the mountains. The flight was smooth but I took a deep breath as we slipped between two peaks to land on a slender strip of gravel. At the river, our guides gave a safety briefing. If you fall out of the raft, float feet first down the rapids. Don’t panic. If you see a rattlesnake, back away. Don’t panic. I’ve never liked the words “don’t panic.” The head guide said the first days would be mellow, so I started in the paddle boat, figuring I’d join a “safer” oar boat later on. As I followed the orders of our guide, perched on the back of the raft, and coordinated strokes with the person in front, we slipped easily through friendly rapids. I could feel my tension slip away too. The water burbled, Ponderosa pines gave off the scent of vanilla, the scrub-covered slopes curved gently against the sky. I felt unexpectedly serene. That night, tucked in my tent, sleep came surprisingly quickly. When I I woke in the night, I did wish for a bathroom as I put on my headlamp and crept to the river to pee (this “dilution solution” was advised by our guides). The stillness, save for the always running river, arrested me. I turned off my lamp and the sky came alive with stars. I don’t often stop to just breath. But here, I felt compelled to At 6:30 the next morning, I approached the “groover” with trepidation. I needn’t have worried. It was private, set on an outcrop with stunning views. An oar crossing the path meant it was in use, so no fears of an awkward encounter. On the third day, as the water got wilder, I switched to an oar boat and felt my fear return as wave trains and bigger rapids (including Haystack, where people have died) came at us with increasing frequency. But the guides were masterful in wrestling the bucking boats through swirling water and around massive rocks, cartwheeling when necessary (spinning around to push off of rocks rather than bluntly crashing into them) and expertly cascading over little cliffs to land hard in deep pools. Waves soared over the bow, whacking my face and drenching me, so cold I gasped for breath. The guides smiled; they stayed dry on their raised benches. One afternoon, clouds suddenly compiled and swiftly darkened, an eerie calm dropped over us, then a hailstorm threw down marble-sized balls of ice that hurt when they hit us. We had to eddy in and seek shelter in the forest. That night, I woke to the boom of thunder and snarl of wind. I feared I might be whisked into the river, tent and all. I tensed, but the tent pegs held firm. My anxiety turned to admiration for the power of nature. I didn’t expect that. We used to speak of wilderness survival as the ability of people to survive the wilderness. Now we speak of the land’s capability of surviving people. That’s why the US Forest Service insists that campers “Leave No Trace” and our guides hauled everything out. The only traces left were on my soul.