I floated the lower Owhyee river in Oregon’s SE corner this spring and although I’ve run it over the years, this Spring was roughly 50 years after I canoed from Leslie Gulch to dam in 1968. The turmoil of Vietnam, Woodstock and the rest of a significant year was a long way away from Boy Scout Troop 382, from Hood River, Oregon on that voyage. Flash floods, rattlesnakes and headwinds were our main concern.

1968

East of the mountains, in an ancient lake bed, a river snakes restlessly.

River bank red mud paints my white feet.

The hammering thunderhead rain has ceased and the tangy wind of sagebrush is bitter and sweet.

We fish for crappies and bass and tye the unlucky ones off the stern of the dented, aluminum, boy scout canoe. We fried them up for dinner on a small fire of juniper.

The troop slept in flannel-lined sleeping bags under the canoes with a star-filled sky sliced out the side. Our dad’s built elaborate, plastic longhouses.

After breakfast, with a northern breeze kicking-up, we sailed the canoes using a sheet of plastic between two sticks. One guy steers, the other fishes and trims sail. Vietnam surplus ranger hats for head shade but sunburt knees in the cuttoff jeans.

Afternoon of wetness and fear in an electrical storm, trikles of brown water followed by a four foot wall of it. Somebody yells “run for it” and we do.

My brother scrambles up a cutback as a gully washer rages below. Sitting in the safety, panting wide-eyed. Break into an old miners cabin and cook oatmeal with raisins for dinner.

We dry our sleeping bags on sagebrush in the hot morning sun.

One of the scouts killed a rattlesnake, outside of camp, with a rusty shovel blade. Six rattles for the effort and danger.

Swatted mosquito and worst in Vale and the bird-watching station Malheur refuge.

Hot blacktop, dun humpy hills, the Boardman flat back down the Columbia. Scoutmaster Ned got a ticket for speeding.