It all began with a wedding.

Not just any wedding—one of those magical, sun-drenched mountain celebrations where the air smells like wildflowers and everyone you care about is under the same twinkle-lit tent. Dancing barefoot on a sticky homemade dance floor to a blend of 2000s rap, ‘80s rock and touch of bluegrass. It was perfect. Except for the timing.

Nearly every member of our crew was there (including the bride and groom), celebrating love instead of staging at Boundary Creek. Two of our crew had left from Bozeman. The rest of us? We piled into trucks before dawn, hungover on joy (and probably margaritas), groggy and under-rested.

At 6:30 am we hit the road from Boise headed north. By 8:30, our group chat buzzed. An SOS.

The Bozeman duo had hit a rock the size of a bowling ball coming around a blind corner 10 miles outside Challis. Car crippled. No cell service. They hiked back into town. Unharmed, but desperate. Found a tow number online. Foreign accent. $750 credit card deposit. Then… silence.

Scammed.

Thankfully, they were holed up at the 7C—a local gem slinging legendary boneless chicken, ice cream and deviled eggs better than your grandma’s. The woman behind the counter took one look at them and said, “Don’t call anybody else. Willie is on his way.”

Willie. A legend.

He arrived in a single-cab pickup with two dogs and a calm that said, “I’ve seen worse.” He scooped the girls, loaded the busted car and hauled them to Stanley like it was just another day.

Meanwhile, I dropped our trailer and crew at Boundary Creek, then doubled back through snowy switchbacks and muddy gravel to meet them in Stanley. With time to kill, I posted up at Mountain Village for a bowl of elk chili and a bloody mary that tasted like salvation.

As luck would have it, I stumbled into a surprise set by the Coffis Brothers at the Sawtooth Gathering. John at the gate let me in with a wink and a nod when I explained our current adventure. The universe, for a moment, was on our side.

At 2:30 pm, the Bozeman crew rolled in—dogs, busted car and all. Willie hopped out, looked me up and down. “You must be the guy.”

That’d be me. You must be Willie.

He told me about running the Middle Fork in ’92 at 7.2 feet. “Wouldn’t do that again,” he said with a chuckle.

We got back to Boundary Creek at 4:30 pm. Boats were rigged. Launch time: 5:30 pm. Destination: Joe Bump, 13 miles in. “Joe Bump?” scoffed a grizzled Aussie guide, motioning with his invisible oars, “You better get rowing.” Once again, a word of caution, only this time from a guy who knows exactly what we are getting ourselves into.

Mile 1: Murph’s Hole. A private group pinned left. Our lead boat tried to dodge right only to pin on the rock that creates “Murph’s Hole.” A full hour of wrangling, near Z-drag territory. Finally freed, we limped two more miles and snagged an empty beach. Joe Bump was out of reach—and no group deserves the misfortune we found waiting at this potentially “reserved” site. Wet bags. Wet socks. Soaked-through spirits. But finally… sleep.

Day two dawned cold and wet, and our itinerary slapped us in the face. We had 21 river miles scheduled. But due to the shortened first day, we now had to cover 30. Thirty daunting river miles and an entire day to do it. We rallied the troops, launched at 8:30 am, and rowed like we were being chased by ghosts. Hells Half was a bumpy ride but everybody made it through (thankful for good boat spacing and enough water).

Mile 5: Velvet.

Now if you don’t know by now, Velvet is… different. Forever changed by 2023’s blowouts, the rapid now looked like it had been chewed up and spit out by the river gods themselves. First three boats: clean. Fourth: no show. Fifth boat floats through, wide-eyed: “He’s popped! One tube’s flat!”

A wave of uncertainty hits. The kind your mom would get for the 15 minutes you were late after a night out in high school. We scrambled up the canyon wall to scout. No sightlines. A sweep boat captain drifted by, shrugged. “Three boats down there. One looks bad. They aren’t mobilizing any time soon. Sorry I couldn’t help, they are in a nasty spot.”

While worry still has a hold over the entire group, there is a sense of calmness. The two boats helping are experienced river runners and engineers by trade. They should be able to get this worked out, it just might take a couple hours. We set the timer, kick back on the beach and wait.

Given the snowy conditions the night before and the rain we’d been in, the break in the clouds makes it feel like summer again. Another group rolls through. “Your black and yellow boat is making progress, but they are still in a bad spot.”

Black and yellow? We don’t have a black and yellow boat. How bad is it up there? I wonder.

Sure enough, two hours later, here come all three cat boats. Two looking fine and the popped boat with a mismatched tube. “What in the world is that?”

“It’s the river couch!”

Leave it to the engineers to rig an AIRE river couch as a makeshift cat tube—because obviously, that’s what you want when stuck in a six-foot-deep, cliffed-out eddy in the heart of Velvet. I’ll never paddle without that couch and the 50 feet of NRS cam straps it takes to turn a piece of furniture into a floating rescue device.

Now when you think of a popped boat, usually it would be a puncture in one cell. Heck, in the worst case it would be a large gash too big for even the largest strip of repair material.

This was worse. It looked like a cheese grater had been ran across the top side of both cells. 1.5 hours later, 11 holes patched, she floats. Holding air, no doubt, but still leaking. With the help of an occasional K-Pump we can still make some miles. Certainly not the 30 we needed to make, but we can make some.

Losing light, we scouted camps, hoping we didn’t have to run Pistol at dusk. The one we had hoped for? Taken. But .3 miles downstream we found the next camp. A slim eddy, barely wide enough for three boats—perfect for our seven.

While unloading, the same woman who’d hit the rock in Challis slipped and took a rock to the face. Chipped tooth. Split lip. Bloodied and bruised, she looked up from a wad of gauze and grinned: “At least I’ll look good for NASCAR night.”

That attitude? It kept us alive.

Later that night, another leak. The other cat tube was now flat. Of course it was. Tomorrow’s problem.

Day 3. Morning. We hauled the tube into camp and discovered six new holes. A bent frame. A punctured dry box. The boat’s frame—a product marketed as “unbendable pipe”—had clearly met its match. Another half a roll of Tear-Aid and we were back in action.

We had 27 miles ahead to get to our first designated campsite. Doable.

Twelve miles in, we were cruising.

WHAM.

An oar flew out of the hand of an oarsman. Granted, he originally rocked pins and clips and through some peer pressure decided this would be the trip he would learn to “feather.” (He should switch back). This oar smashed into his passenger’s head. Concussion symptoms immediately. Dilated pupils. Nausea. Light sensitivity. We made a hasty boat switch to give her some much-needed stability and pressed on.

Morale? Low.

Then—like some grisly waterborne guardian angel—the Aussie guide reappeared on the bank.

“YOU MADE IT!” he howled. “Have you hit any of your designated camps yet?”

“No,” we muttered.

“HA! Well, you better keep rowing.” Once again rowing his invisible oars.

It was the laugh we needed.

That night, 27 miles later, we made our first designated site. Theme night: 19th hole. Golf attire.

If you’re familiar with the game beer darts, our group has put a spin on this. Everybody gets one canned beverage and places it in the layout of a makeshift golf course. Each person is then given a dart and, as a group, we walk the course, stopping to shoot from the prior hole. If your can is hit, you drink it.

Fourteen holes later, a few rounds from the cooler, some much-needed rest for our concussed teammate, and we. Are. SO. BACK.

Day 4: 10.9 miles. Tubes patched again. NASCAR night on deck.

Themed nights on the river are always a hit but NASCAR night came at the perfect time. We are finally on a river trip. It’s almost like we forgot why we do the thing.

But by this NASCAR night, the trip wasn’t over, and everybody knew it. It was almost like we had been conditioned to fear disaster around the next bend.

Yet the rest of the trip went like most river trips go: Comfortable, minimal chaos and great times with friends in the heart of the wilderness. The confluence came and went, slight tears falling as Cache Bar came into sight. One more rapid and this trip is in the books, and we are back to reality.

One last test: Cramer Creek. A wave train finale that felt more like a rite of passage than a rapid. It baptized us.

We hit the take-out at 1:30 pm. The end?

Not quite.

Yes, the lead car knew we were going to Challis. Yes, I did tell him to follow the river until we get to Salmon. Then go to Challis. Yes, the sign says you can get to Challis by following Panther Creek. No, it is not a shortcut.

About 2.5 hours up the winding dirt road that parallels Panther Creek and, with numerous honks and flashing lights, we get to the Salmon truck route.

We chose to let them push on, knowing cell service was waiting 23 miles later. And while we knew the damaged car was hopefully fixed, we had no clue where that might be.

Was this a mistake? Maybe. Did we pop a tire 15 miles away from Salmon? Yes. Once again, a sobering reminder that this trip was not even close to over. Time check: 6:30 pm.

Cell service and another SOS text from the truck destined for Challis the long way. “Popped trailer tire. No spare.”

No spare… from the guy who historically has trailer problems and who everybody in the group hounded to get a spare. Yes, his trailer. Good thing they are outside of Challis.

Willie to the rescue. Again.

We limped into Challis at 8:30 pm. Threadbare. But somehow still smiling.

Now, retelling this story, I can’t help but feel deeply grateful. The car was fixed. There were no major injuries. No flights out of Indian Creek. Nothing that truly ended the trip. Just a crew held together by Tear-Aid, big hearts, respect for each other and the raw beauty of Idaho.

It took everything to row this river: wilderness first aid, swiftwater rescue, in-field boat repair, mechanical intuition, emotional patience, a bit of blind luck—and more river grit than we thought we had.

On the drive home, I seriously considered selling my raft.

After a shower and a night in my own bed? I wished I was still out there with them.

To future river runners: prep well, practice as a group, bring Tear-Aid, and maybe—just maybe—bring an extra AIRE couch.

***

Guest Contributor Andrew Linsenmann is a Lewiston born, third-generation Idaho rafter and NRS diehard. A proud University of Idaho alum, he trades the office chair for oars whenever possible, running wild and scenic rivers with a tight-knit crew of friends and family. His river résumé includes flipped boats, long hauls, cold mornings and an unwavering belief that grit, duct tape and a well-timed push stroke can get you through just about anything.