Free Ancient Echoes by Joanne Pence Page A

Idaho until it reached the confluence with the Snake River near the Oregon
border. In the course of its fierce journey, the Salmon River forged a canyon
deeper than Arizona's Grand Canyon with looming unscalable walls surrounded by
dark, impenetrable forests.
    The first white men known to attempt to navigate it were
mountain men, four trappers for the Hudson’s Bay Company in 1832. Two drowned
and the other two lost their canoe and traveled overland, arriving three months
later, naked, at Fort Nez Perce.
    Forty years later, the Northern Pacific Railroad Company
wanted a route from Montana across Idaho to Washington State and sent a party
of twenty-five men and four boats under the direction of the railroad's chief
engineer to survey the river. The group set out from Salmon City in July, 1872,
and didn't reach the Snake River until November. The engineer’s summary of the
trip concluded, “This survey down the Salmon River may, I think, be regarded as
the most difficult instrumental survey ever made in the United States.”
    The railroad selected a different route, bypassing Central
Idaho altogether.
    The area remained, to this day, a roadless, fiercely impassable no man’s land in the heart of Idaho.
    They gathered the students, who complained they had no cell
service and couldn’t text their friends about this latest adventure. Rempart
climbed into a raft with Brandi, Ted, and Vince. Rachel, Devlin and Brian got
into the second one. Melisse had no choice but to join them, her nerves tense.
The Salmon River swallowed up proficient rafters and kayakers, even guides,
with frightening regularity. Some said the Indians had named it the river of no
return because so many men who set off down it were never seen again.
    The day grew chilly, so everyone put on their jackets then
donned life preservers. They strapped their backpacks onto the raft to keep
from losing them if the vessel overturned. Big Kyle took charge of Melisse’s
raft. She felt him ogling her as she settled into place and glared at him. He
grinned, and then openly leered at Brandi as she struggled to draw the sides of
her life jacket together over her generous breasts.
    Big Kyle then gave a quick lesson on rafting. “Listen up! If
you get dumped into the water, lay on your back, feet downstream. Push off any
rocks that come close, use your arms to paddle, and don’t stand up until you
can sit on the bottom of the creek and still keep your head out of the water.
The worst thing you can do is try to stand where the water’s deep and get your
foot stuck in the rocks. It’s a death sentence. And hang onto your paddle—it’ll
help others pull you to safety.”
    “That’s right,” Skinny Buck contributed.
    “We’re the captains,” Big Kyle said. “When we say ‘all
forward,’ you paddle. At ‘all rest,’ you stop. And at ‘all
back,’ you back-paddle. Can your brains keep that straight?”
    The students nodded.
    Big Kyle set out first, pushing the raft toward the center
of the creek. The swift current took hold and pulled with a sense of
unstoppable momentum. Soon, the small beach disappeared. Creek banks, covered
with vines and rock, dropped steeply to the water.
    A red-tailed hawk lifted from a nearby tree with one slow
powerful flap of the wings, then circled over the water before disappearing
from view. Dark green foliage grew thick along the banks but beyond it, lay
arid grassland punctuated by pines. The view, barren and
harsh but beautiful in its desolation, stretched for miles.
    They floated peacefully for a few minutes, then heard a churning sound up ahead. Big Kyle assured them
they approached rapids so weak and mild they scarcely deserved the name.
Nonetheless, they were strong enough that Devlin and Brian whooped with
excitement as the raft plunged headlong through the turbulence.
    The raft coasted out the other side and the creek grew tame
again. A doe raised her head, still chewing, then loped away, her white tipped
tail held high.