Working in the outdoor industry offers me the opportunity to get on the water with friends and customers often. In full disclosure, I probably get the opportunity more frequently than I should. Better yet, I jump at the opportunities more frequently than I should. Either way, through the years I’ve constructed two lists: my backyard favorites (the ones I return to when the levels are up and the to-do list is short) and my wish list.

Back in my dirtbag days when I was guiding for Salmon River Experience, many rivers haunted conversations. Among the most coveted, one always stood out to me, and I’ve been pining for the legendary Illinois River ever since. Earlier this year, I sparked up a conversation with friends at Northwest Rafting Company and River Drifters about getting on its waters in Southwest Oregon. The Illinois River was next on my list.

Before I started pre-trip research, I knew next to nothing about the Illinois River other than the stories I’d heard around campfires. What I did know: when it’s mentioned, eyes widen and hands seem to shoot in the air exclaiming, “pick me!” I knew that it contained substantial water. I’d heard beautiful landscape surrounded its waters. What I failed to learn? My expectations and previous knowledge were far, far removed from the actual truth of the place.

The hardest thing about planning for the Illinois is you can’t really plan at all. Based in the Kalmiopsis Wilderness, the “Illy” is a tributary of the Rogue River and drains the North and South Kalmiopsis Roadless Areas. All rainfall funnels directly into the Illinois due to the lack of topsoil in the area. This can increase flows by thousands within a day, and takes a challenging and respected place and pushes it into the utter limits (and beyond) of raft-able water. I set a number of convenient dates throughout the month of March. We watched flows and weather forecasts. The water spiked the week before our last potential put-in date. We worried it wouldn’t drop enough. We monitored the gauges daily, obsessively refreshing our browsers on the hour. As time went on, the flows kept dropping until it seemed the stars would align. We would be putting on somewhere between 3000-3500 cfs, with water on its way down. This was within my safety perimeters, and with that, and good weather in the forecast, we pulled the trigger and loaded trucks.

Matt, a fellow NRS’er, and I headed out early Thursday morning. Thirteen hours later we scooped Zach Collier from his guide house in Grants Pass and hooked up with the rest of the crew—Nate Wilson with Northwest Rafting Company, Tim Thornton and Trevor Jostad from River Drifters, and the river-rat tag-along Jesse Becker.

The trip in a nut-shell:

Day 1: Put in at Miami Bar and floated through the first incredible portion of fun water and beautiful scenery to Klondike Camp (oh, what a view).

Day 2: Ran class III water with some class IV until we reached Green Wall. We scouted for about an hour (my painstaking evaluation of two certain holes is definitely to blame for the lengthy scout), ran Green Wall with few issues other than a broken oar and a reminder to stay humble. Shenanigans and celebrations (think tequila beach, for those that have been down the Grand) followed at Waterfall Camp.

Day 3: Floated through the spectacular lower canyons, past numerous waterfalls and tributaries, to Oak Flat take out.

Yeah, I’m glossing over some details. But we’ve all seen trip reports, we’ve all chatted beta, heard the logistics—how and where to scout, which rapids to watch for, and so on and so forth. This isn’t a trip report, but a tribute to one of the most amazing places I’ve ever paddled. In a mere 50 hours, the Illinois River captivated and inspired me, challenged and humbled me, reminded me of the basic reasons I’m drawn to water.

I openly admit I’m a humble boater, some would criticize that I’m too humble, too cautious. Evidence exists to oppose both claims—thanks to missed omens, overconfidence and a roaring Lochsa—but that’s a story for another time. On the Illinois trip, one guy in the crew boasted he had never flipped before. If there’s proof river karma exists—he flipped on day one. (I have a scar on my Achilles tendon from such a comment.) The funny thing is, it seemed that he did everything right. He wasn’t off line; he squared up well and, from my perspective, was far enough away from the pour over. And yet he got sucked in sideways, rode the high side for a while, and flipped.

Of the many rivers I’ve rowed or paddled, I can’t think of one that contains such a perfect blend of amazing features, and the incessant need to remain humble and respectful, as the Illinois. This spectacular river no doubt tests the skill and strength of any boater that gets the opportunity to float down its serpentine green waters. Premature celebration will end in a stuck boat. Not paying attention to oar strokes will throw an oar out of your hand, through the tines, and into the water faster than you can say “oh shit!” Class IV rapids (some would argue IV+ at higher water), with continuous class II-III water, and one monster of a class V, provide very little time to recover if a boat flips in the wrong spot. It’s a whirlwind of beauty and chaos, serenity, power, camaraderie and teamwork. It exhibits Mother Nature at her absolute finest and demands the utmost respect.

Pretty adjectives will not, and do not, serve the Illinois justice. The Illinois combines advanced whitewater with fantastically fun foam, and tops it off with some of the most unique scenery I’ve had the privilege to see. The rarely spotted Cobra Lily (aka Darlingtonia) grows in abundance. Hanging over eddies where the mist of a nearby waterfall dampens the air, the carnivorous plant waits for an unsuspecting insect to devour. The Serpentine rock walls, sometimes mere feet apart, give the water its illustrious green hue and distracts paddlers from a flow that demands attention. The sheer majesty and utter power that embodies The Green Wall is not describable, you just have to see it in person. When you get to the scout, the crash of the water can be felt on your very heartstrings, in all of the best ways. For lack of better words: it’s freakin’ huge. You give this rapid respect or you embrace the dire consequences. To portage with a raft is laughable; the scout is covered with poison oak. (Believe me when I say, my inner thighs are proof.) It’s the epitome of a class V rapid. In my 28 short years on this planet, 19 of which have been consumed with rafting, never has the walk back to the boats been filled with more solitude and self-reflection than that day on the Illinois.

This is good, though. Being alone with the Illinois River reminds you of what it is you’re doing and why. It gives you reason to respect her. In that moment between bushwacking through poison oak and running that massive class V, my respect and admiration turned into a deep, profound love. I had found another Important Place. I felt challenged. I felt scared. I felt small. And through it all, I had found a beauty beyond comparison. I had found a friend, a sister, a mother. This is what rivers are to me, and I am sure to many. They’re more than a river trip, a report, a set of photos. They’re more than bragging rights. They’re the life-blood of the planet; they’re un-contained and serene; they are power. The Illinois caused me to reflect on that, specifically in that moment, walking up to run Green Wall, alone. Many people who have rowed or paddled rivers like this (the Grand, the Selway, the Middle Fork, to name a few), look at those rivers more akin to a relative, than to a force of nature. We want to bring people we love into these places. It’s like extending a firm handshake, and knowing in that moment, in that handshake, that you will be good friends moving forward.

The Illinois River, and the Kalmiopsis Wilderness, needs help. Upstream of the put-in by quite a few miles, is a small tributary called Rough and Ready Creek. The waters of Rough and Ready creek flow through a very rare type of Serpentine rock that isn’t often seen at the surface of the earth. This particular type of Serpentine happens to coincide with large amounts of Nickel. Thus, in our failure of understanding these important places, and our incessant need for more, there is a large-scale project designed to afford miners the rights to stake claim and mine for Nickel. I don’t have to speak about the environmental effects of mining, nor do I think that any one person can do much about this problem. What I can do is share why this place is special to me, and what it means. I have only been down the Illinois one time, but I already feel beholden to it. I owe the Illinois my advocacy for allowing my friends and me to pass through its waters and see its wonders unscathed minus a patch of itchy redness and a couple bruised egos. If we all share more of our important places, if we all put these thoughts and ideas into more than just camp-side conversations, then perhaps we can make a difference.

As we floated out on our last day, there was some intermittent conversation on the boats. Mostly though, there was silence. For those that know me, this may come as a surprise—I’m not a quiet person. Tim rowed some, giving me the opportunity to reflect and stare at the incredible canyon walls. The green water seemed even more vivid than when we started the trip, almost like it was changing. Beckoning us to stay longer, that it was not in fact, time to go back to real life, to work, to families, and to responsibilities.

As I marveled at the scenery and intermittently chatted with Tim, another thought kept entering my head. Rafting has changed my life, in more ways that I can count. I think I change a bit more on every trip, but this one in particular struck a chord with me. In all honesty, I don’t know that I can accurately articulate that chord, other than I know I was changed again. If I had to describe it, I think that it pushed me further toward being completely in the moment. I look forward to going back, to further exploring what it is that attracts me to the river so profoundly, but I know I have found another solid piece of my life’s puzzle. I think it’s time for me to find my next adventure. But, if you take anything away from this reading take this: next time you get on the water, wherever your river or important place may be, crack a cold one, think about how lucky you are, and be in the moment. After all, there is no better place to be.

Editor’s notes: All photos copyright Zach Collier unless otherwise noted.
Please visit http://kalmiopsiswild.org/ to learn more about the area and learn what you can do to support protection.