The Snake. In my youth, it ran wild and free through America’s deepest gorge, Hells Canyon. Upstream from the canyon, a placid surface cunningly hid eddies and undertows lurking to pull the unwary into its depths. Venomous reptiles occupied the river’s banks and bluffs, but its name is not for them. In sign language, the Shoshone people used swimming motions with their hands to indicate a river of many fish. Early explorers thought the motion signified a snake. Thus, the name: Snake River.

Annual migrations of those many fish (anadromous salmon and steelhead) fought their way upstream from the Pacific Ocean into the river’s tributaries to spawn and die where they were born. A few would pound their way up our little stream called Dry Creek as it roared through our ranch during spring runoff. Dad speared them with a pitchfork. I tried, but my weak, youthful thrusts bounced off harmlessly.

As I grew older, bait fishing became a passion. A good spot for steelhead and salmon fishing was near my hometown of Halfway, Oregon, where the Powder River cascaded into the Snake. On a sunny Sunday Spring morning, two buddies and I wetted our lines in the swirling waters there. We had been at it for about two hours with no luck. Pete Peterson was driving that day. Hunger took over, and Pete volunteered to get some hamburgers from the nearby town of Richland.

Just then, an unmanned sixteen-foot runabout came floating down the Snake. It caught in an eddy and floated close to the shore near us. I managed to grab its bowline and pull the derelict ship to shore.

At age fourteen or so, Bob Schultz and I quickly became experts in maritime law. In our view, we had salvaged an abandoned craft from imminent destruction on the rocks in the bowels of Hells Canyon. Therefore, it was ours.

Pete was a few years older and counseled moderation. His view was that the craft likely belonged to someone upriver who would soon be along looking for it. We were hearing none of that. We had salvaged it, and it was ours. Our only problem was how to get it out of the river and home. So, we crafted a plan.

We decided to float it downriver a few miles and hide it. I had an old pickup truck. We would come back the following weekend, load it up, and take it home. We would dock it up at our favorite lake, Fish Lake, and fish all summer. Maybe we could even save up and get a motor and water ski. We were dreaming big. We put away our fishing poles and found some driftwood to use as oars.

Pete told us he would catch up with us later and got in his car. We two brave sailors launched our craft, waved goodbye to our land-lubber friend, and set out on our new adventure.

The boat was sound and well-crafted for river running. That was a good thing. Two untested sailors with no life jackets, navigating one of the West’s most dangerous rivers with nothing but pieces of driftwood for oars… what could possibly go wrong?

The river ran fast. By the time Pete caught up with us, we had floated 10 or 15 miles downstream and were nearing the landmark bend in the river called the Oxbow. We had managed to cross the river to the Idaho side and back. That, in our youthful minds, made us worldly navigators. We sang snatches of Cruising Down the River as we floated along. It was an afternoon to remember.

We paddled into a secluded cove surrounded by brush and undergrowth and beached our prize, then piled into Pete’s car and devoured our burgers. We swore Pete to secrecy, and he went along with us. It was not the last adventure we would share, but it was the best to date.

An agonizing week-long routine of classroom boredom went by. Saturday finally arrived. Schultz and I got in my old truck and headed for the river. Our hiding place was still there, but the boat was gone. It was a disappointing end to a teenage dream. But the memory remains.

Starting in 1955, man tamed the wild river of my youth. It is now a series of three long lakes behind dams. Gigantic turbines spin out renewable energy to power our world. But the dams block the steelhead and salmon from their annual migration. They no longer pound their way up Dry Creek to spawn, die, and renew the species. Some call that progress. Some call it an ecological disaster. The debate goes on.

Robert LaRue 2025