Expletives are optional; green-eyed envy is mandatory.
“Where you goin'?”
said the guy at the hotel in Ketchum, eyeing my dry bags and fly rod.
From left: Looking down on a Far & Away riverside camp; a river guide in a kayak on the Salmon River.Tom Fowlks
“Middle Fork.”
Have a great time."
Minutes later, at the fly shop down the block: “Where you headed?”
From left: A quiet morning at camp; guides Claire Siderman, Daniela Stokes, and Ali Rusch.Tom Fowlks
To have visited the Middle Fork is to be cursed to daydream forever about returning to the Middle Fork.
I know because I have been living under this curse ever since my first trip a dozen years ago.
Finally, last August, I had the chance to go back.
From left: Local beer, served with a wedge salad in camp; the Pioneer Saloon in downtown Ketchum, the entry point for a trip down the Middle Fork.Tom Fowlks
To each of those men in Ketchum I returned a smile of fraternity: a brotherhood of dreams deferred.
But I wasn’t about to cough up my seat.
The Middle Fork was one of the original rivers included in the system.
Taking the plunge after a riverside lunch.Tom Fowlks
We drifted, easily.
The day was warm.
The sun sat high above the reaching walls.
From left: Guide Walker Royston cooks dinner over an open flame; a camp dinner of lamb with rosemary, potatoes, and green beans.Tom Fowlks
In practice, the smartest way to get on the river is by signing on with a commercial outfitter.
It is exactly what you didn’t know you needed.
The pilot pointed the nose just west of north.
Splashing through the rapids with the Far & Away team.Tom Fowlks
That openness and generosity had extended to me, a stranger who’d asked to join her trip.
Several weren’t even particularly outdoorsy.
Look before you leap.
From left: Far & Away Adventures guides Sage Sauerbrey, Cole Wells, and Reed Stokes strike up a tune; the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, as it winds through central Idaho.Tom Fowlks
Stay warm, but keep cool.
Have a raincoat close.
“you’re able to get all four seasons in five minutes,” she said.
From left: Hiking to Nugget Creek Falls; a wild rose along the trail.Tom Fowlks
The most dangerous weapon on the river, Hilbrich added, is your raft paddle.
Keep a good grip on it, or it can recoil.
The Middle Fork has many personalities.
From left: Idaho’s state flower, the syringa; guide Ali Rusch cooks up a hearty breakfast.Tom Fowlks
On hot afternoons the ponderosa pines that crowd the banks smell of vanilla and cinnamon.
The boulders that have tumbled into the water create some of the rowdiest whitewater on the river.
We talked about books.
Casting a line at White Creek Bridge.Tom Fowlks
We talked about other rivers we love.
We talked about parents who are aging and sick, and who worry us.
On a river, distance between people collapses quickly.
You get to the heart of things.
Seasons change the Middle Fork’s mood, too.
It’s great for families.
The rest of us were novice paddlers, but his strong J-strokes kept the raft on track.
We drifted, easily.
The day was warm.
The sun sat high above the reaching walls.
Wells told us to keep an eye out for wild raspberry bushes.
In a few hours the rafts bumped ashore just below Marble Rapid.
Some of the crew had jumped ahead as they would every day and constructed a village by the shore.
There was another rug out front, like a doormat to my nylon room.
Nearby was a table long enough to seat our entire group.
A keg of IPA was on ice.
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The river tilted, imperceptibly.
Indolent waters turned white.
Pungo Rapid, our first of the week, appeared.
But it was August, in a year of low water.
We slid through easily.
Someone riding in a “ducky” boat a little rubber kayak splashed into the drink.
He told me that many find the idea of a long wilderness trip intimidating.
And yet, a nightstand ultimately isn’t what makes a trip memorable.
In my experience, the right guides do that.
Several of them grew up in the area, and their affection for the Middle Fork shines through.
Upon arrival some of us vanished into tents for a nap.
Some poured a beer.
Some had a glass of wine and played cribbage.
Those guides, meanwhile, turned their attention to kitchen prep.
At dinner there were outrageous true-crime stories and straw polls about who would pay for space tourism.
And, a hot spring at camp," Hilbrich said.
I hopped into a raft with Hilbrich to fish.
Alas, a storm just before our arrival had flushed huge amounts of mud into Marble Creek.
Fishing was done, for now.
Disappointment has a bright side: I set down the fly rod and paid attention as Hilbrich rowed.
The sun sent cathedral light through the branches of tall trees.
An osprey posed on a snag above silver willows.
Hilbrich, rowing, took it all in.
“Every single week is different,” she said of the river.
“I had a guest say, ‘What should we do next?
We’ve been here.
I thought, You don’t know this place.
Sixty trips and I’ve barely scratched the surface.”
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We floated on.
The canyon knitted itself tighter once again.
We talked about books.
We talked about other rivers we love.
We talked about parents who are aging and sick, and who worry us.
On a river, distance between people collapses quickly.
You get to the heart of things.
I took a beer and went in search of that hot spring.
I found it spilling from a rock beside the river, its water almost too hot.
It smelled of deep earth.
I stood beneath it for a long time, scrubbing at the days.
The culture at Far & Away is a culture of “yes.”
Want to fish Loon Creek one day?
Sure, they replied.
In the mornings the river lived in blue shadow, cool and still waking.
The trail was fast and in decent repair.
For miles the canyon felt mine alone.
In the 1930s Tappan and her husband, Fred, homesteaded the place and raised a family.
Like Beargrease Falconberry, who homesteaded on Loon Creek.
Whites called them the Sheepeaters.
But their presence still lingers.
Quietly, guides pointed out to us the dents in the earth where their lodges once stood.
On rock walls, the accounts of Tuka-Deka hunts still stain the rock in vivid ocher.
One day we pulled to shore below Veil Falls, an important site for the Tuka-Deka.
We took a short hike up to a spot where a proscenium of rock yawned open.
A thin fan of spray fell from its arch, 200 feet above.
The rock all around bloomed with life.
No wonder it was a revered spot, with still more pictographs nearby.
None of us wanted to leave.
We lay on sun-warmed boulders picking out single droplets and watching them fall.
The days passed in a pleasing blur.
Paddle all day in warm sunshine, beneath sun-heated granite.
Pull in where the crew assembled the night’s village.
Eat and drink well.
Fall asleep to the sound of the river slapping the sides of the boats.
“What day is it?”
“Do you really want to know?”
Finally forgotten were phones, and Google calendars, and deals to be closed.
What mattered now was the next bend in the river, and then the next bend after that.
A different pulse was taking hold.
At Big Creek the walls pinched closer.
Dark thumbs of rock rose taller.
Bighorn sheep stood by the water’s edge and eyed us, unafraid, welcoming us into Impassable Canyon.
The rapids, when they did appear, were the biggest yet.
But it was not all adrenaline and foaming water.
I closed my eyes and tried to listen, as they must have done.
And I understood what those guests had meant.
Always, more wine.
The conversation went on long after nightfall.
It’s our crutch, he said, our ersatz companion.
But out on the river, we can’t lean on it.
The next day a road appeared, a jarring sight, and the reverie began to unravel.
Not long after, the ramp where we would take out our rafts came into view.
Even as we drove away, we decided we needed more.
We needed to be back on the river, already.
The Curse of the Middle Fork had struck again.
