We pushed our boats through the lower reaches of Hells Canyon, dragging our sopping, sleep-deprived selves towards the confluence with the Lower Salmon. As we made our way into the land of jet boats, we readied to make big miles down to whatever scrappy little camp we could get. Drearily rounding the corner past the confluence, I stared downstream, where, to my utter shock, the huge beach at Confluence Camp was wide open. Overwhelmed by relief and frankly, a bit of awe, I started whooping hysterically.

Hells Canyon is, at its best, austere, grand—breathtaking. At its worst, it is harsh, aggravating, and exhausting. It felt every bit the latter in Spring of ’21 as we pushed off on one of the dreaded “Four-day Snake trips.” Our outfitter runs a few of these every year, instead of the traditional five-day trip, with the thought that high water should make it an easy 80-odd miles.

The catch, this year, was that instead of the historical 30-50,000 cfs, we were running on 6,000-9,000. The low water level was comically absurd. But as they say, the show must go on. We woke up early, pushed all day, and barely got to camp by dark. Ulli, the trip leader, determinedly ploughed through the wind and rain, followed by Jack, Kale, myself, and first-year guides Aron and Ethan. By day two, we were completely delirious.

Confluence Camp is one of the best beaches on Hells Canyon. The popular camp is almost always taken, and I couldn’t fathom our luck when I saw it was open. As a crew, we cumulatively lost it. We ran around the beach with airplane arms. We rolled in the sand, high-fived, did handstands, and walked on our hands. Our clients watched with curious fascination as we celebrated a major victory in a battle they had no idea we were fighting. In predictable fashion, we got a little tipsy, cooked steaks, and went to bed.

The not-so-funny thing about Hells is the “tides.” Hells Canyon is a dam-released river, but unlike most rivers where you can look up the release information for your trip, it feels wildly unpredictable down there. I think sometimes the powers that be at Hells Canyon dam take a shot of espresso and say, “Let’s f*** with them tonight.”

When you think the water is going down, it comes up. When you think it’s coming up, you wake up high and dry in your boat, beached 50 feet from the river’s edge. The only predictable night, in my opinion, is down below the confluence of the Lower Salmon, where the water pretty reliably peaks at about 3 am.

The Confluence Camp beach was positively massive when we arrived. We put the kitchen a perfectly reasonable distance from the water’s edge and tucked the groover behind some rocks. Aron, Ethan, Jack, and myself all opted to sleep on shore, while Kale and Ulli suffered the bouncy eddy to sleep on their boats.

At, you guessed it, 3 am, a voice roused my sleep-addled brain. “Mia, the kitchen is floating away,” Aron said. “Total chaos,” I responded. “Mia, what do we do?”

“Chaos,” I mumbled, dragging myself out of the blissful serenity of sleep. I blinked the grog from my eyes and stumbled after Aron towards the kitchen. Sure enough, the floating components of the kitchen were steadily swirling in the river, which had risen drastically enough to submerge them.

I woke up Jack and Ethan, and shouted to Kale and Ulli on their boats. We went into rescue mode, dragging comm boxes, tables, and the rest of the kitchen further up onto shore. As my eyes adjusted, I looked out into the eddy, where dry bags, buckets, and various expensive pieces of equipment bobbed towards the current. “ETHAN!” I shouted, “Let’s GO!”

We ran down to the boats, which were slamming violently against the shore, bowlines loose, sand stakes buried underwater. Kale and Ulli were still sleeping, despite the commotion, noise, and abrasive slapping of waves against their boats. I ripped the knot on the paddle boat loose, shoving the boat into the water. Ethan and I paddled into the eddy, headlamps shining on the camp debris bobbing everywhere. We hauled the floating remnants of the kitchen into the boat, cackling a little as we paddled back to shore, victorious. We moved the sand stakes higher and pulled the floating island of boats securely to shore.

I surveyed the camp, the clarity of wake having finally set it. Ethan and I high fived as Jack and Aron came down, starting to laugh at the culmination of 30 minutes of insanity. Suddenly, I realized, ”SHIT! The GROOVER!”

Jack and I raced down the beach to the toilet. The deep sand pooled under my feet, slowing my desperate strides. The light of our headlamps swung through the darkness, searching for the silver gleam of the tank. The sweet, sandy little groover spot was gone, replaced by a swath of dark water. I beamed my light out into the river, turning my head this way and that as I searched the blackness. “There!” Jack shouted, as his headlamp reflected back the metal of our Jon-ny Partner groover tank. It was floating, by the grace of physics, upright.

We waded into the chest-deep water, Jack snatching for the tank as my light caught the yellow edge of our sideways pee bucket, seat still firmly clicked on. Jack heaved the groover back to shore, balancing it awkwardly on a pile of boulders. I threw the pee bucket haphazardly beside it.

We slumped as we walked back to camp, exhaustion finally overcoming the hilarity and adrenaline high. As we walked past Jack’s sleepkit, he stopped and started shining his light around, whispering “No, no, no, nononono…” His orange Watershed dry bag, with all his clothes and worldly possessions, was gone.

Ethan and Aron came to our shout, and the four of us beamed our headlamps out into the eddy, searching. We walked up and down the beach, straining our eyes for a flash of orange. There was none. “I think…I think I left it open,” he muttered, distraught. We waded in the shallows, running our hands through the water, hoping to catch the edge of an open bag. We found nothing.

Defeat settled heavy over our shoulders as we gradually gave up on finding Jack’s bag. I gave his shoulder a squeeze as I walked back towards my own sleepkit. I drug it all into the middle of the remodeled kitchen, determined to not let the water dupe us again. If it rose to the new kitchen, at least the water would wake me up before it started floating. The last thing I saw before I went to sleep was Jack, sitting on the rocks, with his head in his hands.

Ulli, who had slept as blissful as a baby through the entire ordeal, woke up early the next morning to make coffee. He felt vaguely displaced in the predawn light, but didn’t register the nighttime rearrangement of camp. He wandered into the kitchen, nearly tripping over my sleeping bag. “What’s Mia doing sleeping in the kitchen?” he pondered. “She’s not making coffee.”

The thunderstorm roar of the blaster woke me instantly. I sat bolt upright in my sleeping bag, stared wide-eyed at Ulli, and shouted, “PANDEMONIUM! It was utter PANDEMONIUM!” before unceremoniously dragging my sleeping bag and paco pad 15 feet away and falling facedown, immediately asleep. He stared after me, blinking, wondering what the hell I was on about.

About 20 minutes later, a jetboat pulled up to camp, the driver waving to Ulli. He walked down to the beach as the jetboat nosed to shore. The driver hefted a tightly sealed orange Watershed over his head. “This yours?” he shouted. “Found it floating in an eddy down by Heller Bar.”

***

Guest contributor Mia Clyatt is a professional river guide and freelance writer. She is an advocate for wilderness and loves to play in the high country, be it skiing, hunting, mountain biking, or dirtbiking. Her writing centers around the outdoors, travel, and sustainability. You can usually find her out on the mountain or the river, wearing lots of glitter. Learn more at www.miaclyatt.com