Читать книгу Rafting the River of No Return Wilderness - The Middle Fork of the Salmon River - Thomas Walsh - Страница 5

After Lee dropped us off at O’Hare International Airport with tearful goodbyes and strict admonishment that I had better bring back her children safe and sound, Sheila, Tommy and I boarded a United Airlines flight to Boise, Idaho.

Upon arrival in Boise in the early afternoon, we were greeted by a wall of dry hot air. I didn’t realize that large parts of Idaho are semi-arid and very hot in the summer with 90 degree plus being common in July. We retrieved our bags and made our way to the end of the terminal where there was a waiting room for charter flights. We were scheduled to take a charter flight from Boise about 90 miles northeast to Stanley, Idaho, a very small town nestled in the Sawtooth National Recreation Area amid the Sawtooth Mountains at an elevation of 6,200 feet. Stanley was the jumping off point for our trip. We would meet the lead guide and other members of our trip later that evening in Stanley for an orientation session. While we waited for our charter flight we met a middle age couple from a small town in Wisconsin who would be travelling with us.

When our pilot came into the waiting room looking for Wild Rivers passengers I wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. He was the stereotype of a cowboy, but without the spurs and chaps. His name was Hank. He was tall and lanky with a big unclipped mustache hanging over his lips. Hank was dressed in jeans, cowboy boots and a plaid shirt with a belt and big western belt buckle. He had a deeply tanned face with a friendly but sparing way of saying things. He looked to be about 40 years old.

Hank led us out of the air conditioned waiting room to the sweltering tarmac where a handful of small charter airplanes were parked. His plane was a single engine Cessna that could sit a pilot, copilot, 4 passengers and a small amount of luggage. I had flown in a number of small charter planes for business so I was not concerned when I saw the plane. I looked around at Sheila and Tommy and their eyes were as big as saucers. I made light of how much fun the flight would be to ease their anxiety.

After strategically stowing our bags in a rear compartment and behind the last passenger seats, Hank sized us up to decide where we should sit to balance the load. I drew the copilot’s seat. The Wisconsin couple was placed in the middle two seats. Sheila and Tommy sat in the back two seats. The plane’s dashboard had all the requisite dials and knobs and even a few pieces of duct tape, which I hoped did not reflect on the safety of our flight. Other than riding with my knees jammed up against the dashboard controls, the well-worn seat was the best place to see what was coming. Besides, how could you go wrong riding shotgun to Stanley, Idaho!

Once we were all safely strapped into our seats Hank started up the engine which turned over on the first try. After conversing with the tower in pilot jargon he taxied the plane out to an area short of the take-off runway. Hank then began to rev the engine while holding the plane in place with the brakes. He made sure the engine could achieve the necessary power, and other critical instrument readings were satisfactory. With the engine test completed and final clearance from the tower Hank rolled out onto the run way and gunned the engine. We accelerated down the runway and lifted off after a very short distance.

The plane climbed slowly as Hank made a wide circle around the airport to gain altitude. The engine noise was very loud but the sound was masked somewhat by the sound of air. The plane was not pressurized, since it only flew at low altitudes. The sound of rushing air permeated the cabin. We headed northeast over the outskirts of Boise and flew over a reservoir and the Boise River. There were a lot of people tubing on the river below. It seemed strange to see people tubing on a river so close to a large city. This was quite a contrast to where we were headed, and what we would do. We kept gaining altitude so that we could clear some tall mountains north of Boise. As we passed over the mountains you could see their peaks, rugged rock formations and pristine alpine lakes. We flew so low over them that you felt like you could reach out and touch them. The Boise National Forest and the Sawtooth Wilderness Area resplendent in the afternoon sunshine slowly passed beneath us. We crossed the Payette River and flew into a long mountain valley. Hank turned the plane to a more northerly course and headed straight up the valley. On both sides of us were the Sawtooth Mountains with the Sawtooth National Recreation Area to our right. The jagged, sharp peaks of the Sawtooth couldn’t have had a more appropriate name. I looked back at Sheila and Tommy in the rear of the airplane to see how they were doing. Their eyes were glued to the magnificent scenery. I had a feeling that this would be a trip we would long remember.

The plane droned on through the mountain valley for some time. Gradually at the far end of the valley a dark spot began to turn into the outlines of some buildings. As we got closer a dirt airstrip next to the buildings became visible. The buildings grew into a small town – Stanley, Idaho!

Stanley, Idaho, situated on the Main Salmon River, is a relic of the old west that survives as the jumping-off point for river trips, hikers and climbers. The 2000 Census lists 100 residents, but from talking with the locals only a few hardy souls stick it out through the winter. Stanley often has the coldest temperature in the lower 48 states during the winter, and at an altitude of 6,200 feet the snow accumulation can be measured in feet.

After checking into the only motel in town where we would meet the rest of our fellow travelers and the lead guide, Sheila, Tommy and I enjoyed a short walk around the town’s business district. It was a handful of rough-hewn wood plank buildings. We had a good steak dinner in a bar that served food. The bar was run by people that had the same profile as Hank. It was easy to imagine that the town did not look a lot different a hundred years ago, long before rivers were rafted for pleasure.