I arrived in Lewiston, ID at the confluence of the Clearwater and Snake Rivers this afternoon, making it exactly three weeks on the water, down to the minute as it turns out. I launched at 1:10pm on April 5th, and pulled in at 1:11pm today, April 26th. My itinerary gave me three weeks to do it in, so I guess I'm on schedule. With all the time I've had to myself lately, I've been counting and timing lots of things. My friend Duck inspired me to this end, and so, here is the America's Rivers Expedition: The First 21 Days, by the numbers:
Days on: 21
Days off: 0
Miles traveled: 375
Paddles stolen by wind-blown cow corpses: 1
Elevation above mean sea level: 845'
Dams: 8
Miles portaged: 42
Ounces of Sriracha Chili Sauce Consumed: 40
Pounds of Food consumed: 64 (dry weight and fresh food)
Rivers: 2
Average current in rivers: 3-4 knots
Average windspeed between 10am-4pm: 18 knots
Books read: 3
Mountain Ranges paddled through or over: 2
Number of minutes spent staring at maps: 47 (per diem)
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Onward to Idaho
In a few minutes, I'll head out and put in on the Snake River. From there its exactly 1000 miles to Jackson Hole, Wyoming and the continental divide. Time to turn it on.
I'll catch up a bit more on the blog when I get to Lewiston, Idaho, 140 miles from here. I used to live in Lewiston, ME and I am psyched to see how the Idaho version stacks up. Lots to report on too. Like the Bretz floods, my visit to a full sized replica of Stonehenge, the Bonneville Power Administration, and the Hanford Site. So, stay tuned.
I'll catch up a bit more on the blog when I get to Lewiston, Idaho, 140 miles from here. I used to live in Lewiston, ME and I am psyched to see how the Idaho version stacks up. Lots to report on too. Like the Bretz floods, my visit to a full sized replica of Stonehenge, the Bonneville Power Administration, and the Hanford Site. So, stay tuned.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Roll on, Columbia, Roll on
The wind was contrary and the legs needed a bit of a stretch this morning, so I decided to portage into Pasco, WA. Hauling along Rt. 12 through Burbank, WA (great town, Burbank) and all its center-pivot irrigated glory, I happened to notice a sign in the distance. I as I came closer, I saw that it said "It's more than a feeling- don't stop believin'," which, needless to say, put me in a great mood. You see, Journey is the greatest band the world has ever known or will ever know- 'Don't Stop Believin'' might be the greatest song ever made (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ip1zsUIosoA). So I started singing.
As I began to climb the hill, the rest of the sign came into view. "It's more than a feeling- don't stop believin'...... in Jesus." Foiled again.
I passed the confluence of the Columbia and Snake Rivers today, and expect to begin my ascent of the Snake tomorrow. I have now been traveling 13 days and made 227 miles around dams, through the Cascades and against the power of the mightiest river flowing into the Pacific from North America. It has been hard travel- the hardest canoe tripping I have ever done. I am on the water 10-12 hours a day, always moving, and many days end with me unable to lift my arms over my head. In the morning, I stretch for ten minutes before the tightness moves out long enough for me to get out of my bag. I don't mean to be dramatic- I know it will get easier as I adjust to the pace and to the boat. A solo boat is much harder to paddle for long distances than are the tandem boats I am used to; every stroke, both power and steering, must be done by one person. When that canoe rolls over the Continental Divide, it's passage will definitely have been earned.
The day after my last post, I entered the desert. It was the most dramatic transition I have ever seen, much less paddled through. One day, I am surrounded by steep and densely forested mountains, a wet and moss-covered landscape, and by day's end the trees have completely disappeared and as far as one can see are rolling, green hills. A few miles later, the green fades to brown and the hills to plains. The Cascades form a very effective barrier to moist air flowing in from the ocean, and the elevation wrings much of the moisture out due to orographic lift (elevation equals low pressure, low pressure equals expansion, expansion equals cooling, cooling equals lower dew point & saturation point, that equals rain). So, ergo, I am in a desert now.
Sort of. It has still rained most days, in addition to a lot of other big weather. Afternoon build up, massive tunderheads on the plains piling up to 14-15,ooo ft, and two days ago a hail squall that blotted out the bow of my boat from view. I waited, huddled under my rain jacket, shivering just a bit in the 45 degree air. To pass the time, I made a little snowman from the moist, slushy hail and mounted him on my map case. He had eyes made from sunflower seeds and a little p-cord mouth that looked more like a mustache. So it goes. He lasted until the seas picked up in the late afternoon, the swells rocking the boat until Kaiser Frosty jumped ship. Yes, I named him. Several days alone tend to make one ever more likely to personify things. Like mounds of hail...
I am in Pasco, WA now, a city that so far has only really shown me one side, that of endless miles of prefabricated metal buildings that sell pipe, pipe supplies, or pipe accessories. It reminds me of Vernal, UT, another town I've spent time in; an extensive industrial strip lined with fabricators and suppliers that support some sort of agriculture or extractive industry. I'll have to read up on which. Downtown is dominated by signs in Spanish, by little taquerias and Mexican grocery stores. About 85% of the folks I've met and talked with here are either Hispanic, Native, or Asian/Filipino.
A few days ago when I was portaging McNary Dam, I paused in the beating sunshine to sit in the grass and let the building lactic acid in my legs drain out a bit. Behind me the rock and concrete of the dam loomed, and hung over a small extension of the superstructure a sign read "Fish Viewing Room". It was far isolated from the powerhouse and the offices, and my curiosity over took me. I had to pause inside the door to let my eyes adjust- inside it was dark and cool, a sharp contrast from the intense desert sunshine outside. The walls were smooth concrete, no windows, and seems slick with moisture as if the dam itself were sweating. Along each opposing wall were huge handpainted murals of fish, dark colors well used and lit by soft yellow track lighting itself hidden in a fold of wall. Pikeminnow, sturgeon, and all the types of salmon adorned the walls- steelhead, chinook, and so on. Two dozen fish, frozen there. On the far wall three giant glass windows let in a green light, filtered through the fast flowing river water of the dam's massive fish ladder.
The place was a shrine. As I stood there in the deep silence, a steelhead fought its way from left to right, disappearing for a moment between the concrete pillars. It was huge, three feet long, and covered in scars. The flow of the ladder was intense, the salmon dogged. Soon it disappeared to the right, to continue the ascent of the Columbia and McNary Dam. It would have been one of the first of the year, as April turns to May the salmon run begins and the steelhead lead the charge.
"A good one. A Fighter."
I wasn't alone. It was a strange little shrine, and on a bench facing the green windows sat two very old men in dusty jeans and ragged mackinaws, the place's only supplicants. The scars on their hands and faces matched the fish's, they too were Fighters. I nodded, and stood in silence for almost twenty minutes. No other fish came, but the men would maintain their vigil, watchful through thick glasses and cloudy eyes.
As I was leaving, I passed a teenaged girl, pretty, and maybe a quarter Native. She was coming to check on her grandfather. "He spends most of the day here. Just watching with Larry there. Funny, huh?"
***
Some long over due photos. Classic too- the camera only comes out when its sunny. In these photos I think I've captured all the sunny moments of the trip. Not really, but close...
1.) My boat, a 16' Bell Magic solo canoe. This photo was taken in the Columbia River Gorge on Day 3, just as I was contemplating my first portage.
2.) The first portage. In early spring the winds in the Gorge begin to blow more consistently out of the west, providing conditions more conducive to upstream travel. Unusually, day 3 saw them roaring at 30 knots out of the east, halting all progress on water and forcing me onto the road. Nine miles, 2100 feet in elevation and two bike tubes later, I returned to the river.
3.) Bonneville Lock and Dam. The furthest downstream hydroelectric dam on the Columbia River, I include this more to show the topography of the Gorge (steep) and the colors (green).
4.) The Dalles Lock and Dam. Quite a portage, with 12-16 foot standing waves ripping into foam below the spillway- glad I took the long way 'round.
5.) The Columbia Hills region near Maryhill, OR. This photo was taken from the Stonehenge monument.
6.) Abruptly, the end of the Cascade Mountains: dark, sheared off basalt cliffs.
As always, all text and photos Copyright 2009 (Alexander B. Martin)
As I began to climb the hill, the rest of the sign came into view. "It's more than a feeling- don't stop believin'...... in Jesus." Foiled again.
I passed the confluence of the Columbia and Snake Rivers today, and expect to begin my ascent of the Snake tomorrow. I have now been traveling 13 days and made 227 miles around dams, through the Cascades and against the power of the mightiest river flowing into the Pacific from North America. It has been hard travel- the hardest canoe tripping I have ever done. I am on the water 10-12 hours a day, always moving, and many days end with me unable to lift my arms over my head. In the morning, I stretch for ten minutes before the tightness moves out long enough for me to get out of my bag. I don't mean to be dramatic- I know it will get easier as I adjust to the pace and to the boat. A solo boat is much harder to paddle for long distances than are the tandem boats I am used to; every stroke, both power and steering, must be done by one person. When that canoe rolls over the Continental Divide, it's passage will definitely have been earned.
The day after my last post, I entered the desert. It was the most dramatic transition I have ever seen, much less paddled through. One day, I am surrounded by steep and densely forested mountains, a wet and moss-covered landscape, and by day's end the trees have completely disappeared and as far as one can see are rolling, green hills. A few miles later, the green fades to brown and the hills to plains. The Cascades form a very effective barrier to moist air flowing in from the ocean, and the elevation wrings much of the moisture out due to orographic lift (elevation equals low pressure, low pressure equals expansion, expansion equals cooling, cooling equals lower dew point & saturation point, that equals rain). So, ergo, I am in a desert now.
Sort of. It has still rained most days, in addition to a lot of other big weather. Afternoon build up, massive tunderheads on the plains piling up to 14-15,ooo ft, and two days ago a hail squall that blotted out the bow of my boat from view. I waited, huddled under my rain jacket, shivering just a bit in the 45 degree air. To pass the time, I made a little snowman from the moist, slushy hail and mounted him on my map case. He had eyes made from sunflower seeds and a little p-cord mouth that looked more like a mustache. So it goes. He lasted until the seas picked up in the late afternoon, the swells rocking the boat until Kaiser Frosty jumped ship. Yes, I named him. Several days alone tend to make one ever more likely to personify things. Like mounds of hail...
I am in Pasco, WA now, a city that so far has only really shown me one side, that of endless miles of prefabricated metal buildings that sell pipe, pipe supplies, or pipe accessories. It reminds me of Vernal, UT, another town I've spent time in; an extensive industrial strip lined with fabricators and suppliers that support some sort of agriculture or extractive industry. I'll have to read up on which. Downtown is dominated by signs in Spanish, by little taquerias and Mexican grocery stores. About 85% of the folks I've met and talked with here are either Hispanic, Native, or Asian/Filipino.
A few days ago when I was portaging McNary Dam, I paused in the beating sunshine to sit in the grass and let the building lactic acid in my legs drain out a bit. Behind me the rock and concrete of the dam loomed, and hung over a small extension of the superstructure a sign read "Fish Viewing Room". It was far isolated from the powerhouse and the offices, and my curiosity over took me. I had to pause inside the door to let my eyes adjust- inside it was dark and cool, a sharp contrast from the intense desert sunshine outside. The walls were smooth concrete, no windows, and seems slick with moisture as if the dam itself were sweating. Along each opposing wall were huge handpainted murals of fish, dark colors well used and lit by soft yellow track lighting itself hidden in a fold of wall. Pikeminnow, sturgeon, and all the types of salmon adorned the walls- steelhead, chinook, and so on. Two dozen fish, frozen there. On the far wall three giant glass windows let in a green light, filtered through the fast flowing river water of the dam's massive fish ladder.
The place was a shrine. As I stood there in the deep silence, a steelhead fought its way from left to right, disappearing for a moment between the concrete pillars. It was huge, three feet long, and covered in scars. The flow of the ladder was intense, the salmon dogged. Soon it disappeared to the right, to continue the ascent of the Columbia and McNary Dam. It would have been one of the first of the year, as April turns to May the salmon run begins and the steelhead lead the charge.
"A good one. A Fighter."
I wasn't alone. It was a strange little shrine, and on a bench facing the green windows sat two very old men in dusty jeans and ragged mackinaws, the place's only supplicants. The scars on their hands and faces matched the fish's, they too were Fighters. I nodded, and stood in silence for almost twenty minutes. No other fish came, but the men would maintain their vigil, watchful through thick glasses and cloudy eyes.
As I was leaving, I passed a teenaged girl, pretty, and maybe a quarter Native. She was coming to check on her grandfather. "He spends most of the day here. Just watching with Larry there. Funny, huh?"
***
Some long over due photos. Classic too- the camera only comes out when its sunny. In these photos I think I've captured all the sunny moments of the trip. Not really, but close...
1.) My boat, a 16' Bell Magic solo canoe. This photo was taken in the Columbia River Gorge on Day 3, just as I was contemplating my first portage.
2.) The first portage. In early spring the winds in the Gorge begin to blow more consistently out of the west, providing conditions more conducive to upstream travel. Unusually, day 3 saw them roaring at 30 knots out of the east, halting all progress on water and forcing me onto the road. Nine miles, 2100 feet in elevation and two bike tubes later, I returned to the river.
3.) Bonneville Lock and Dam. The furthest downstream hydroelectric dam on the Columbia River, I include this more to show the topography of the Gorge (steep) and the colors (green).
4.) The Dalles Lock and Dam. Quite a portage, with 12-16 foot standing waves ripping into foam below the spillway- glad I took the long way 'round.
5.) The Columbia Hills region near Maryhill, OR. This photo was taken from the Stonehenge monument.
6.) Abruptly, the end of the Cascade Mountains: dark, sheared off basalt cliffs.
As always, all text and photos Copyright 2009 (Alexander B. Martin)
Friday, April 10, 2009
You have Reached the End of the Oregon Trail!
If you ever played the game Oregon Trail while struggling to get through math or typing class in 4th grade, you remember the moment towards the end when you get the option to caulk the wagon and raft down the river to the promised land, aka the Willamette Valley. Well today was my lucky day, as I had my first lunch at a little riverside park just down from The Dalles, where in the game you get to make that fateful choice. I didn't get to dodge any rocks, however. "Thomas has dysentary. Annie has been bitten by a wind-blown snake. You have shot 978 pounds of buffalo meat- you can carry 41." You get the idea.
I am in the city of The Dalles at the public library, enjoying a chair and some climate control. Public libraries are such wonderful things- even in the smallest town you find one, and it is usually the only place there where you can sit down without any pressue to buy anything. Also, free internet is nice.
The launch went well, a little champagne and a Pabst Tall Boy marked the occasion, along with a few friends and a homeless man that kept asking questions about my kayak. Not a kayak, hombre. With a deep breath and a few hard pulls I was in the current, going upstream. Oh, and I just checked on this- the Columbia is flowing at 200,000 cfs right now. And I'm going upstream- perfectly logical.
The wind and current has been interesting, to say the least. It can be totally calm, softly pissing rain and 50 degrees out, and then you come around a 60 foot rocky headland and all of a sudden you are in the land of the giants. Safe harbors are plentiful, but the giants still peak at you from out in the two-mile wide river, knowing you will have to face them again soon.
The Columbia River Gorge has been unreal- huge, jagged peaks densely forested and always the damp, dark green of moss and pine. Salmon fishermen, some Nez Perce among them, line the banks in the hundreds, hoping for the odd salmon so show itself to them and their line. I portaged once when the winds were blowing- they get to about 15-20 knots every afternoon- downstream instead of their customary easterly direction. I gained 2000 ft on the portage and made 9 miles, finally to an overlook of the entire gorge and the Cascades through which the river cuts. Both tires on the portage cart had long since given out, so I sat there, painstaking stuffing an old bedsheet into the tire to give it some loft. None of the patches had held, but the bedsheet, un-poppable, stood the test of distance and weight.
Yesterday I reached the confluence of the Hood River and the Columbia, and ended up carrying over the huge sandbar at the Hood's mouth. The town there is famous for its wind and kit surfing, and there were dozens of folks out, zipping back and forth around me in the howling wind. As I was finishing the carry, a rather attractive woman came over with her dog and starting asking me about my trip. I hadn't talked to anyone in a few days, not more than a few words anyway, and I obviously couldn't really string coherent sentances together. Turns out she's a boater, and yes, that gorgeous golden retriever is hers. So she completes the pretty girl/dog/boater trifecta, and I'm fumbling to snap my spray deck back on. She asks for the blog (its 2009, of course an expedition has to have a blog...) and then to me, blinded by the power of the trifecta, she bids me aideu and nods towards the river, smiling: "Your boat is floating away."
Wading in, I catch up with the boat in mid current, myself thigh (crotch) deep in the glacial meltwater rushing down from Mt. Hood. Classic. I can handle huge waves, pissing rain, 10 mile portages and 200,000 cfs, but I'm undone by a girl and her puppy.
Oh, and if anyone says "Nice kayak" to me again, I'm going to have an aneurysm. Also, to the four people that have asked "Where's Clark?": he fell off, and thank you for speaking to my Lewis-like qualities.
I am in the city of The Dalles at the public library, enjoying a chair and some climate control. Public libraries are such wonderful things- even in the smallest town you find one, and it is usually the only place there where you can sit down without any pressue to buy anything. Also, free internet is nice.
The launch went well, a little champagne and a Pabst Tall Boy marked the occasion, along with a few friends and a homeless man that kept asking questions about my kayak. Not a kayak, hombre. With a deep breath and a few hard pulls I was in the current, going upstream. Oh, and I just checked on this- the Columbia is flowing at 200,000 cfs right now. And I'm going upstream- perfectly logical.
The wind and current has been interesting, to say the least. It can be totally calm, softly pissing rain and 50 degrees out, and then you come around a 60 foot rocky headland and all of a sudden you are in the land of the giants. Safe harbors are plentiful, but the giants still peak at you from out in the two-mile wide river, knowing you will have to face them again soon.
The Columbia River Gorge has been unreal- huge, jagged peaks densely forested and always the damp, dark green of moss and pine. Salmon fishermen, some Nez Perce among them, line the banks in the hundreds, hoping for the odd salmon so show itself to them and their line. I portaged once when the winds were blowing- they get to about 15-20 knots every afternoon- downstream instead of their customary easterly direction. I gained 2000 ft on the portage and made 9 miles, finally to an overlook of the entire gorge and the Cascades through which the river cuts. Both tires on the portage cart had long since given out, so I sat there, painstaking stuffing an old bedsheet into the tire to give it some loft. None of the patches had held, but the bedsheet, un-poppable, stood the test of distance and weight.
Yesterday I reached the confluence of the Hood River and the Columbia, and ended up carrying over the huge sandbar at the Hood's mouth. The town there is famous for its wind and kit surfing, and there were dozens of folks out, zipping back and forth around me in the howling wind. As I was finishing the carry, a rather attractive woman came over with her dog and starting asking me about my trip. I hadn't talked to anyone in a few days, not more than a few words anyway, and I obviously couldn't really string coherent sentances together. Turns out she's a boater, and yes, that gorgeous golden retriever is hers. So she completes the pretty girl/dog/boater trifecta, and I'm fumbling to snap my spray deck back on. She asks for the blog (its 2009, of course an expedition has to have a blog...) and then to me, blinded by the power of the trifecta, she bids me aideu and nods towards the river, smiling: "Your boat is floating away."
Wading in, I catch up with the boat in mid current, myself thigh (crotch) deep in the glacial meltwater rushing down from Mt. Hood. Classic. I can handle huge waves, pissing rain, 10 mile portages and 200,000 cfs, but I'm undone by a girl and her puppy.
Oh, and if anyone says "Nice kayak" to me again, I'm going to have an aneurysm. Also, to the four people that have asked "Where's Clark?": he fell off, and thank you for speaking to my Lewis-like qualities.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
The Impending Launch, Hipsters, and the City of Beer
One thing I've realized about Portland, OR is that you can walk to almost any street corner in the city, close your eyes, spin around ten times, throw a rock, and your chances of hitting a hipster are pretty good. They are thick on the ground, thick as alder on a sunny river bench. The difference, I think, is that East Coast hipsters are a bit more confrontational than the Portland, Oregon style. Which is good: getting around this city -if you're from away- without asking for directions from countless hipsters would be a real challenge.
Anyway, I'm here in the City of Beer and Bridges only 26 hours away from launching on my expedition. I've been gathering packages of gear sent to friends, random bits of equipment, and nailing down the logistics of the next few months. Without friends in the city who have generously given couches, food, storage, and transportation pulling this adventure in absurdity together would have been impossible.
More to come later, about logistics and this wonderful city. For now, it is time to search out a pop riveter in this town, finalize the outfitting of my boat, and then buy my fresh vegetables and cheese. Because once you buy your freshies, there is no turning back.
***
The launch is going to be tomorrow, Sunday April 5th, at 1pm at Alder Creek Canoe and Kayak on Tomahawk Island Drive in Jantzen Beach. It is on Hayden/Tomahawk Island in North Portland, OR. Come on over if you can. Media welcome.
If you are in town, I think the plan is to have a leisurely gathering tonight, but who knows- I may be preparing well into the evening. Lots to do. So give a call or send a message if are around and I can clue you in to where I am at.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Launch Dates, a Warm River in Winter, and the Endless Prep
It's a beautiful day in Tucson, about 70 degrees under clear blue skies. It has been full too- the kind of day you plan on spending in a lawn chair and end up on your feet and jotting numbers until your brain hurts from breakfast 'til dinner. Still, that usually makes dinner taste better.
I am in Tucson at the NOLS Southwest base after having worked a wonderful course on the Rio Grande in west Texas. I had never paddled the Rio before but was excited to do so- in the winter months when most other classic rivers are covered with ice and snow, the Rio is 70 degrees and running well. We had a strong student group, fair weather and good flow, all this in February. Here are a few shots from the course:
Pretty spectacular. There were semi-wild cattle and gun-toting Border Patrol about as well, but nothing we had to worry about.
Next up is 14 hour drive north to Utah and a course on the Green River in Desolation and Gray Canyons. After the warmth and sun of the Chihuahuan Desert, Utah in March is surely going to be a doozey. Racing ice flows through whitewater has its charm, however.
Things are coming together on the ARE, dates are firming up, food is being purchased and support arranged. With the close of the Desolation Canyon expedition, I fly to Portland, OR on March 31st, and after a few days of prep in the city, I launch in the early afternoon on Sunday, April 5. If you are in the Portland area, there is going to be a little send-off party on Saturday, and the launch of course on Sunday.
On a final note, we are excited to partner with Bell Canoe & Cooke Custom Sewing for the expedition- more on that soon.
I am in Tucson at the NOLS Southwest base after having worked a wonderful course on the Rio Grande in west Texas. I had never paddled the Rio before but was excited to do so- in the winter months when most other classic rivers are covered with ice and snow, the Rio is 70 degrees and running well. We had a strong student group, fair weather and good flow, all this in February. Here are a few shots from the course:
Pretty spectacular. There were semi-wild cattle and gun-toting Border Patrol about as well, but nothing we had to worry about.
Next up is 14 hour drive north to Utah and a course on the Green River in Desolation and Gray Canyons. After the warmth and sun of the Chihuahuan Desert, Utah in March is surely going to be a doozey. Racing ice flows through whitewater has its charm, however.
Things are coming together on the ARE, dates are firming up, food is being purchased and support arranged. With the close of the Desolation Canyon expedition, I fly to Portland, OR on March 31st, and after a few days of prep in the city, I launch in the early afternoon on Sunday, April 5. If you are in the Portland area, there is going to be a little send-off party on Saturday, and the launch of course on Sunday.
On a final note, we are excited to partner with Bell Canoe & Cooke Custom Sewing for the expedition- more on that soon.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Scouting from On High
I once saw a tourist in a Starter jacket gaze carefully over the edge of the 90 foot cliffs that make up Class V Rip Gorge (on the West Branch of the Penobscot in Maine) and casually remark: "Honey, isn't Class V the biggest? It doesn't look too bad from here." She had a fanny pack and everything. Too easy.
It demonstrates a point though. It is never a great idea to scout from on high. Looking down on a rapid from an elevated position flattens out it's hydrological features and might goad you into a poor decision. It's a spatial trick of the eye to lose the depth of field proportional to the distance from the object.
Sometimes, of course, you have no choice but to clamber over rocks and up to some promontory to see around the next bend or get a better angle on an OK-but-not-quite-good chute on the other side of the river. Still, scouting is best done from river level and then complimented with an overview later.
So, just now I was looking at satellite images of Sheep Creek Rapid in Hells Canyon on the Snake River and thinking to myself; "Well now, it doesn't look too bad at all... I bet I could sneak up river right no problem..." The sat image showed the river to be about 2 inches wide with a few tiny, blurry comet-shaped white splotches depicting the Class IV/V monster; the point of view was probably 1000 feet up.
I reached down into my fanny pack for my chap stick, grimacing and clicking over to the next sat image.
All text Copyright Alexander Martin 2009
It demonstrates a point though. It is never a great idea to scout from on high. Looking down on a rapid from an elevated position flattens out it's hydrological features and might goad you into a poor decision. It's a spatial trick of the eye to lose the depth of field proportional to the distance from the object.
Sometimes, of course, you have no choice but to clamber over rocks and up to some promontory to see around the next bend or get a better angle on an OK-but-not-quite-good chute on the other side of the river. Still, scouting is best done from river level and then complimented with an overview later.
* * *
So, just now I was looking at satellite images of Sheep Creek Rapid in Hells Canyon on the Snake River and thinking to myself; "Well now, it doesn't look too bad at all... I bet I could sneak up river right no problem..." The sat image showed the river to be about 2 inches wide with a few tiny, blurry comet-shaped white splotches depicting the Class IV/V monster; the point of view was probably 1000 feet up.
I reached down into my fanny pack for my chap stick, grimacing and clicking over to the next sat image.
All text Copyright Alexander Martin 2009
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