Down the Columbia

by Lewis R. Freeman

NIGHT WAS FALLING AS WE HEADED INTO BOX CANYON (above)
THE COLUMBIA ABOVE BOX CANYON (below)

The rock-littered channel of Moneghan’s or Buckley’s Rapids was easily threaded by the launch, and Equilibrium or “Jumbo” Rapids, three miles lower down, did not prove a serious obstruction. The official name is the former, and was given the riffle by Symons on account of a round-topped rock which rolled back and forth in the current because of its unstable equilibrium. The local name of “Jumbo” derives from the fact that this same rolling rock has something of the appearance of an elephant, when viewed from a certain angle. Ten miles more of deep, evenly-flowing water brought us to Mah-kin Rapids and the head of Nespilem Canyon. The next twenty-four miles, terminating at the foot of what is officially called Kalichen Falls and Whirlpool (Box Canyon in local nomenclature), is the fastest stretch of equal length on the Columbia except on the Big Bend in Canada. It is one continuous succession of rapids, eddies and whirlpools all the way, and the much feared Box Canyon is a fitting finale. I was distinctly glad to be running through in a motor-boat rather than the skiff. As to the raft, I never have been able to make up my mind as to just how she would have fared.

The roar of the savage half-mile tumble of Mah-kin Rapids was a fitting overture to the main performance. The river narrows down sharply between precipitous banks, and most of the rocks from the surrounding hills seem to have rolled into the middle of the channel. There was an awful mess of churned water even where the river was deepest, and I wouldn’t have been quite comfortable heading into it even in the launch. Earl seemed rather of the same mind, too, for he kept edging out to the right every time one of the big combers lurched over at him. With the engine running like a top, he kept her in comparatively good water all the way through. It was a striking lesson in the value of power in running a rapid—as long as the power doesn’t fail you.

Rock-peppered rapids followed each other every mile or two from the foot of Mah-kin, but—thanks to Earl’s nose for the best channel—we were not taking more than an occasional shower of spray over the bows where the water was whitest. It was not too rough for reading, and, anxious to prepare Roos for what he was about to experience at Kalichen Falls and Collision Rock, I dug out Symons’ report and ran rapidly through the dramatic description of how his party fared in running the sinister gorge ahead. It seems to me rather a classic of its kind, and I am setting it down in full, just as I read it to Roos and Ike that afternoon in the cockpit of the launch. I only wish I could complete the effect with the diorama of the flying canyon walls, the swirling waters of the river, and the obligato in duet by the roaring rapids and the sharply hitting engine.

“The shores of Nespilem Canyon are strewn with huge masses of black basaltic rock of all sizes and shapes, and this continues for several miles, forming a characteristic picture of Columbia River scenery. The complete ... lifelessness of the scene makes it seem exceedingly wild, almost unearthly. And so we plunge along swiftly through the rolling water, with huge rocks looming up, now on one side and now on the other. Every stroke of the oar is bearing us onward, nearer and nearer, to that portion of our voyage most dreaded, the terrible Kalichen Falls and Whirlpool Rapids. We hear the low rumbling of the water, and see the tops of the huge half-sunken rocks and the white foam of the tumbling waters. For a few moments the rowing ceases, while brave old Pierre gives his orders to the Indians in their own tongue. He knows that everything depends upon his steering and their rowing or backing at the right moment, with all the strength they possess. Years ago he was in a Hudson Bay Company batteau which capsized in these very rapids, and out of a crew of sixteen men eight perished in the water or on the rocks.

“The Indians make their preparations for the struggle by stripping off all their superfluous clothing, removing their gloves, and each ties a bright-coloured handkerchief tightly about his head; poles and extra oars are laid ready in convenient places to reach should they become necessary, and then with a shout the Indians seize their oars and commence laying to them with all their strength. We are rushing forward at a fearful rate, owing to the combined exertions of the Indians and the racing current, and we shudder at the thought of striking any of the huge black rocks near which we glide. Now we are fairly in the rapids, and our boat is rushing madly through the foam and billows; the Indians are shouting at every stroke in their wild, savage glee; it is infectious; we shout too, and feel the wild exultation which comes to men in moments of great excitement and danger. Ugly masses of rocks show their heads above the troubled waters on every side, and sunken rocks are discernible by the action of the surf. Great billows strike us fore and aft, some falling squarely over the bows and drenching us to the waist. This is bad enough, but the worst is yet to come as we draw near with great velocity to a huge rock which appears dead ahead.

“Has old Pierre seen it? The water looks terribly cold as we think of his failing eyesight. Then an order, a shout, backing on one side and pulling on the other, and a quick stroke of the steering oar, and the rock appears on our right hand. Another command, and answering shout, and the oars bend like willows as the Indians struggle to get the boat out of the strong eddy into which Pierre had thrown her. Finally she shoots ahead and passes the rock like a flash, within less than an oar’s length of it, and we shout for joy and breathe freely again....

“For half a mile the river is comparatively good, and our staunch crew rest on their oars preparatory to the next struggle, which soon comes, as some more rocky, foamy rapids are reached. Here the swells are very high and grand, and our boat at one time seems to stand almost perpendicularly.” (“Them’s Eagle Rapids,” Ike interrupted; “sloppier ’n ’ell, but straight.”)

“For about nine miles further the river continues studded with rocks and swift, with ripples every mile or so, until we reach Foster Creek Rapids. Here the rocks become thicker ... and the water fierce and wild. For a mile more we plunge and toss through the foaming, roaring water, amid wild yells from our Indian friends, and we emerge from Foster Creek Rapids, which appear to be as rough and dangerous a place as any we have yet encountered. We are now out of Nespilem Canyon and through all the Nespilem Rapids, and we certainly feel greatly relieved....”

Ike, renewing his quid, observed that they didn’t call it Nespilem Canyon any more, for the reason that that sounded too much like “Let’s spill ’em!” and there was enough chance of that without asking for it. Roos, in bravado, asked Ike if he was going to strip down like Symons’ Indians did. The old Roman replied by pulling on a heavy mackinaw over his “toga,” saying that he’d rather have warmth than action once he was out in the “Columby.” That led me to ask him—with a touch of bravado on my own account—how long it would take him to “submarine” from Box Canyon to Kettle Falls. He grinned a bit sourly at that, and started slacking the lashings on the sweeps and pike-poles. Roos was just tying a red handkerchief round his head when Earl beckoned him forward to take the wheel while he gave the engine a final hurried tuning. Ike, saying that we would be hitting “White Cap” just round the next bend, gave me brief but pointed instructions in the use of sweep and pike-pole in case the engine went wrong. He had spat forth his quid again, just as at Hell Gate, and his unmuffled voice had a strange and penetrating timbre.

White Cap Rapids are well named. Two rocky points converge at the head and force all the conflicting currents of the river into a straight, steep channel, heavily littered with boulders and fanged with outcropping bedrock. In that currents from opposite sides of the river are thrown together in one mad tumble of wallowing waters, it is much like Gordon Rapids, on the Big Bend. If anything, it is the rougher of the two, making up in volume what it lacks in drop. It is a rapid that would be particularly mean for a small boat, from the fact that there would be no way of keeping out of the middle of it, and that is a wet place—very. The launch had the power to hold a course just on the outer right edge of the rough water, and so made a fairly comfortable passage of it.

With the “intake” above Kalichen Falls full in view a half mile distant, Earl went back to his engine as we shot out at the foot of “White Cap” and gave it a few little “jiggering” caresses—much as a rider pats the neck of his hunter as he comes to a jump—before the final test. Then he covered it carefully with a double canvas and went back to the wheel. Roos he kept forward, standing-by to take the wheel or tinker the engine in case of emergency. The lad, though quite without “river sense,” was a first-class mechanic and fairly dependable at the steering wheel providing he was told what to do.

The sounding board of the rocky walls gave a deep pulsating resonance to the heavy roar ahead, but it was not until we dipped over the “intake” that the full volume of it assailed us. Then it came with a rush, a palpable avalanche of sound that impacted on the ear-drums with the raw, grinding roar of a passing freight train. It was not from the huge rollers the launch was skirting so smartly that this tearing, rending roar came, but from an enormous black rock almost dead ahead. It was trying to do the same thing that big island in the middle of Hell Gate had tried to do, and was succeeding rather better. The latter had been able to do no more than split the river down the middle; this one was forcing the whole stream to do a side-step, and pretty nearly a somersault—hence Kalichen Falls and Whirlpool. Collision Rock was distinctly impressive, even from a launch.