Rays of light cut down through the water around the raft like laser beams; the already brilliant emerald-colored water glowing even more spectacularly with the added light. A large trout dashed from beneath a submerged rock through the light as we drifted over it. Its rainbow scales shimmered in the light up through the shallow water. An active fish in the frigid cold spring waters was just the sign we were looking for on this trip. The fishing and the company were going to be nothing short of delightful.
After an abysmal winter for ice climbing and other winter escapades, as measured by my winter-loving standards, I only begrudgingly accepted the early spring runoff with essentially no snow below 4,500 feet. As a result, our options were limited for late winter and early spring snow-themed adventures. So we all decided that with the unseasonably warm temps, some river time was in store.
As a group, we have a bit of a habit of planning logistically challenging trips into remote places. This trip was no different. Gathering cold-water gear like drysuits and personal floatation devices, fly fishing gear, overnight camping gear and rafting gear made my gear room look like an explosion had happened. Packing all of that into drybags, then onto my dad’s 16-foot cataraft that I was borrowing for the weekend felt oddly familiar, yet totally foreign. I have participated in, orchestrated and packed for so many different types of trips over the years, but overnight whitewater rafting was not one I had done up to this point. It felt similar to sea kayak expeditioning, but with the big difference being that I had to balance the boat for three full-grown guys, their gear and food, instead of me, myself and I.
The day of the trip finally arrived, and as usual, that Inland Northwest weather forecast was laughably wrong… at least for a minute. We headed to the takeout first under abundant sunshine with an almost comical lack of clouds, despite the time of year. Steven Scarcello, Earl Lunceford and I were in my truck with the raft and trailer in tow. Ben Read and Taylor Jacklin rode in their truck, and Mike Duncan in his truck with his 15-foot raft on his trailer. We arrived at the takeout to a locked gate and a sign informing us we were too early in the season; the ramp at the water’s edge along with at least a mile of the road leading to it were still closed. Under normal seasonal circumstances, this road would likely still be under at least a foot or two of snow.
We reconvened at the top of the road next to the highway after turning the trucks and trailers around on a narrow forest road. We decided that the next closest, and only logical takeout was 20 miles farther downstream. That decision would make for a very long second day on the water.
We arrived at the primitive dirt, cobble and broken concrete boat ramp, situated perfectly in the middle of nowhere. We quickly hopped out of the truck and began sorting through and organizing gear for the trip. The challenge, as it always seems to be, was to balance the frigid water with the unseasonably warm and sunny weather above the water with the potential for a very, very cold night of camping.
After roughly 45 minutes of fiddling around, we were nearing readiness. We managed to pack all of our gear into four large dry bags and lashed them carefully onto the back of the raft frame behind the rowing seat that was situated just behind the middle of the boat. Earl and Steven would be sitting up front, side by side to balance out the center of gravity. If we were to negotiate any sizable rapids, they would be treated to an exciting and wet ride in those positions. Shortly after we finished setting the boat up, Ben, Taylor and Mike arrived. They quickly set up Mike’s boat for the float ahead.
By noon, we shoved off. The section of river we were floating contains only small rapids, and with flows low we did not expect anything more than some minor class 1 and 2 to break up the longer “flat water” sections. It took me the first mile or two to get back into the groove of things; rowing a whitewater raft wasn’t something I have done for quite some time. However, years of maneuvering other types of paddlecraft on moving water gave me the baseline understanding of how the boat would interact with the water and it wasn’t long before I was putting the boat exactly where I wanted it.
Not far downstream of the boat launch, the river narrows and enters one of several stunning and impressively rugged canyons. Steep craggy, multi-colored rock walls towered above the turquoise green water. Massive old-growth ponderosa pines, with their twisted and gnarled branches, seemed to defy the laws of nature growing out of cracks between massive boulders and megaliths. Anywhere there was a shady spot, the ground and rocks were covered in moss; the sunny areas were full of blooming Arrowleaf Balsamroot. The river and the landscape around it were truly a sight to behold.
Earl, Steven and I floated along conversing about everything from geopolitics to relationships, from rock and ice climbing to kayaking to stock investments. Having the likes of these two old, highly intellectual friends along for the ride was the perfect addition to what was shaping up to be a fantastic weekend. Nearby, and often alongside us, Mike, Ben and Taylor floated along sharing in the conversation and taking in the scenery. Almost immediately Ben pulled out the fly rod and started throwing flies with arrow-like precision into any seam, eddy or pool that could potentially hold those elusive trout that we all hoped to catch.
Three-quarters of the way into our day, we rounded a corner and spotted a massive megalithic boulder sitting at the water’s edge. In front of it was a deep eddy with a deep water channel flowing out around it. On the very top was a massive, 4-to-5-foot-diameter ponderosa pine. As we approached it, Steven and Earl immediately and seemingly simultaneously decided that they wanted to climb it and cliff jump off of it. I positioned the raft near a shelf that allowed them to hop off and begin climbing. What they initially thought was going to be a 35-foot-tall jump ended up being a 60-plus-foot jump. Mike, Ben, Taylor and I watched with great amusement as Steven and Earl took turns leaping off a ledge on the boulder into the frigid early spring waters. Luckily, the sun was out and it was “hot,” at least for that time of year.
After another couple of bends in the river, the valley opened up and we came to our campsite for the night. It was a gorgeous cobblestone and sand beach at the confluence where another large creek poured into our river. We pulled the rafts up on shore, tied them off to some large boulders and unloaded our gear. We quickly set up tents and established our camp for the night right in front of one of the best fishing spots on the river. Mike, Ben and Taylor prepared delicious steak-kabobs for everyone.
As darkness fell, we all sat around a large fire in the middle of camp discussing how incredible the day had been. We reminisced about how Ben, Taylor and Mike all caught nice trout out of the incredible honey-hole right in front of camp. All afternoon we watched massive fish actively feed on a hatch of small bugs flying along the surface of the water. As is usually the case, my feeble attempts at fly fishing resulted in one bite and exactly zero netted fish. Honestly though, I fly fish more for the scenery of the places I visit and the camaraderie with friends. In between shared stories we all stared into the fire, enthralled by the dancing flames and the sounds of the crackling fire and surging river.
The following morning we woke just before sunrise and packed up camp. We had 20 miles of rowing ahead of us with well over half of it being in unfamiliar waters. As we drifted and rowed onward, we worried out loud between boats about the distance we had to row that day. The time it would take to row that distance was at the forefront of our minds right alongside a persistent and ever-increasing headwind blowing right into our faces. Our initial estimates indicated that it could take upward of 8-10 hours, this wind had the ability to stop the rafts entirely if we stopped rowing. We were also concerned with the weather that was building all around us. Our unseasonably sunny skies were quickly changing to dark and ominous.
We exited our final canyon and watched as the towering cliffs and ponderosa pines transitioned to cottonwoods and vibrant meadows filled with new growth. At this point we had two simultaneous new challenges to contend with; avoid rowing down the wrong channel in this meadowy, 10-mile-long braided section of river, and avoid getting struck by lightning by one of the several large, black thunderstorms that were barrelling down on us. It is an odd feeling staring down a thunderstorm knowing you are the tallest object in the vicinity and there is nowhere to hide.
Despite the ever-increasing wind, dropping temperatures and worry over being electrocuted, we rowed on as a group. Finally, we rounded a corner and came into view of civilization. We could relax a little as we knew there were only two more miles of river in front of us to the boat launch. It wasn’t until we slid the boats up onto the boat ramp, just as the rain started coming down, that we realized we had just blown our worries entirely out of the water; we had just rowed 19.8 miles in 5.5 hours. We all laughed at how the events of the day had unfolded while we unpacked the boats and prepared to run a shuttle to retrieve the trucks and trailers up at the place we started the journey some 30 miles and nearly 48 hours prior. In the end, I think we made the right decision spending the weekend on the water instead of in the mountains. Ultimately though, the location matters not, we will strengthen friendships and make incredible memories no matter where our adventures take us. N
As seen in the 2026 Winter/Spring edition
By: Chris Celentano