It was the summer of my midteens, a time when most kids are convinced they are invincible. My friend Charlie and I decided to replicate an adventure fraught with danger and foolishness: We were going to hike the 12 miles, or so, of the Snake River Canyon in southern Idaho, from the Murtaugh Bridge to the Hansen Bridge. We had heard stories of others who both succeeded and failed, and we were convinced we would fall into the former category.
So, at about 8 a.m. on a warm summer morning near the end of July, Charlie’s mother drove the two of us down into the canyon where the Murtaugh Bridge crosses the Snake River and dropped us off for the adventure of a lifetime. Each of us carried a canteen of water and a sack lunch; Charlie needlessly packed his .22-caliber rifle.
“Tell my dad to be sure to pick us up before dark, probably around 7:30. We should be at Hansen Bridge by that time,” I told Charlie’s mom. With that, we were on our way.
The sun was already above the horizon and the temperature was rising, even in the wall-shaded canyon. The first few hours were more difficult than we had anticipated, as ancient volcanic lava rock can be jagged, brittle, crumbles easily and is difficult to walk on or climb over. But we were convinced we were making good time and sat down to eat our lunch around 1 p.m.
By midafternoon, we had expected to see the Hansen Bridge just around the next bend in the distance, but after hiking around six or eight bends, we realized that the 12 miles between the two bridges was “as the crow flies,” and that the canyon did not follow the same pattern. Our youthful confidence began to wane.
“This may take longer than we thought,” Charlie said. “I didn’t know it had so many curves in it.”
The number of bends in the river was not our only problem. We also came upon a large landslide and were forced to climb over, around and between many large boulders.
At another point, the river swirled against the vertical wall of the canyon. We didn’t want to turn back that late in the day and were too tired to attempt climbing out of the canyon. There was an old tree — more of a bush really — with one large branch hanging over the water. “We could grab that branch and swing across the water,” Charlie said.
“You’re kidding!” I replied. “We can’t reach that.”
“Sure we can, we just jump, grab the branch and swing to the other side.” We discussed the pros and cons for awhile, then decided it was probably our best option. I can’t believe we were that brave (or stupid), but we made it without falling into the water. We continued our labored hiking until the sun set and the canyon grew dark and cold.
We had not anticipated spending the night, but there had been too many bends in the river and too many rocks to climb over. Finally we found a bit of level ground, gathered some branches from canyon brush and built a small fire. Then we shivered through the night with no pillows and no covering. It was a miserable night.
As the sun peeked over the canyon rim the next morning, we rose cold, tired and achy. We drank some water from our canteens but had nothing to eat, as we had consumed our only food the day before. Our stomachs were growling.
After about two hours hiking toward yesterday’s destination, we heard an airplane flying overhead. Immediately we both knew our parents had hired someone to try and locate us in the canyon. We hurriedly removed our T-shirts and frantically waved them above our heads as the plane disappeared beyond our sight. Tired, hungry and discouraged, we decided we had better try to climb out of the canyon. We had heard stories of others attempting that feat and falling to their deaths, but we figured they must have taken foolish risks. We were too smart for that.
Twice we located areas that looked safe to climb out, and managed to get about halfway up the sheer canyon wall, only to be stopped and have to climb back down. We had no ropes, no helmets, no one spotting for us and no previous rock climbing experience. Now we were getting a little scared and wondering if we would ever find a way out.
Finally, on the third attempt, we reached the top, pulled ourselves over the edge and collapsed. We lay there for a long time, exhausted. Then we noticed a farm house in the distance. Weary but grateful, we trudged to the farm house and called our parents to let them know we were safe.
Our relieved parents came and picked us up. Charlie and I crawled into our own beds and slept late into the afternoon, totally exhausted, but much the wiser.
Later, we learned that not only had there been the airplane trying to locate us, but also a volunteer search party hiking the canyon from Hansen Bridge to meet up with us. For all our effort, Charlie and I had only made it halfway between the two bridges. We learned the reason it is called the Snake River: With all its bends and curves, the distance between those two bridges is closer to 30 miles.
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