Road Trip #12 Going Rouge on the River

State of the Art white-water rafts at Grant's Pass

  

     I have been so carried away with Texas History, Barbeque and Family members that I have neglected any of you who are vaguely interested in the road trip.  Sorry about that.  I'll try to keep the updates a bit closer together in the future.  If you remember, Wayne, Ron and I returned from Crater Lake by way of a fish hatchery.  The story continues the next morning.    

     On Sunday morning, we had our usual breakfast at Ron’s house, hot coffee, canned peaches and cottage cheese---good “stick to your ribs” food.  Today, we will ride the Rogue River rapids, along the same route taken by John Wayne and Katherine Hepburn in the movie, “Rooster Cogburn,” which supposedly took place in Oklahoma.  I think Marilyn Monroe and Robert Mitchum rode a raft down this same stream in 1956 in “The River of No Return,” but I could be confused.  With Marilyn in a tight, wet, blouse, I didn’t see much of the background.

     There is a good reason movie producers like to film along this river.  It doesn’t look like Oklahoma. The scenery is spectacular.  The river cascades through rapids in narrow canyons and broadens into a peaceful stream in the wider gorges.  There are magnificent trees and mountains on either side, but no high lines, fences, electric wires or other signs of civilization to spoil the view. Some few vacation homes dot the surrounding hills, but the area is too remote for much development and must look very like it did one hundred years ago.

     When we first spoke of “riding the rapids,” I had visions of four or five of us, with a guide, paddling for dear life in a small canoe or rubber raft through impossibly swift, narrow stretches of rock-strewn white-water.  As with many things now days, that image was off-target.

     At the headquarters in Grant’s Pass, we signed all sorts of hold-harmless legal documents and picked up the reservations Ron had made for our trip. The office was combined with a gift shop containing every imaginable type of tourist paraphernalia, from sweat shirts and gimmie caps to highball glasses.  All were marked with the “Hell Gate” logo and apparently made in that pueblo outside Beijing.  After a shopping spree (tee shirts for the grandkids), we walked about a hundred yards to join dozens of tourists in line at the loading platform.  Several custom made boats idled in the river at the dock.

     The boats were aluminum, maybe nine feet wide and forty feet long, each made especially for touring people through the rapids on the Rogue River.  There was a short bow section, with a low, but wide, windshield to protect the entire width of the boat from overspray.  Behind this windshield, bench seats filled the open hull all the way back to the captain’s bridge, which was on a small platform at the stern with its own windshield and all the controls for three Chrysler Marine engines.  The engines were mounted side by side beneath the platform, each churning out three hundred fifty horsepower, a total of over a thousand horsepower per boat to simply haul tourists up and down the river.

     These boats were shallow draft affairs, with nine bench seats designed to accommodate six adults each, for a total of fifty-four passengers.   A captain and two crew members operated each craft, which was secured to a floating dock.  We walked to the boats on these docks and stepped down into the space between the seats.  Passengers filled each boat in an orderly fashion as directed by the Captain over a self-contained public address system.  When all fifty-four of us were seated, the Captain recited a memorized speech interspersed with stale jokes, pulled out into the broad river and turned upstream.

     The trip was fantastic!  We rode the river comfortably through the verdant forest, surrounded by sheer rock walls and majestic mountains.  The water was sky blue, clean, cold and swift.  When the stream widened, the current slowed but remained fast enough to splash cold water over the windshield, refreshing the passengers and reminding us that we were outside in one of the most beautiful places on earth.  The Captain pointed out a bald eagle in the top of a very tall tree and otherwise entertained us with a running commentary over the speaker system.

     After about eighteen miles, our boat passed a makeshift landing dock and came to the Hell Gate, a narrow passage with some of the most violent rapids on the river.  We inspected the gorge, which was impassable for our craft, then turned back and moved downstream to the landing dock we had passed.  We disembarked there and walked up the hill to a massive, comfortable-looking lodge where we were scheduled for a champagne brunch.  Wayne and I couldn’t wait---Ron’s canned peaches and cottage cheese were delicious, but after the morning’s trip, we needed something a bit more substantial.



Just a little old country place for breakfast with Ashli



     Brunch was served outdoors on a gigantic, heavy-beamed covered deck that overlooked the river.  Our server was a beautiful young lady named Ashli---about twenty, with sparkling teeth, bright eyes, and athletic shape---fresh and bubbly, a real cutie.  She brought us our choice of champagne, orange, apple, or cranberry juice, milk and coffee, or all the above.  The drinks were followed by toast, biscuits, pancakes and eggs any style, cream gravy, French toast and three kinds of potatoes.   Bacon, ham, sausage---link or patty---or corned beef hash was available. We had our choice of a tray of fresh-baked pastries, lovely fruit, whipped cream, jams and jellies---you name it and Ashli would find it.

     I, of course, was fascinated by Ashli.  She had grown up in Spokane, but her Washington accent was not as pronounced as I would have expected.  She was going to college in Eugene, on an athletic scholarship.  She played softball, and evidently played very well.  She had played at Centenary, in Shreveport last year, but chose to move closer to home this year.  I’m sure that time in Louisiana added the soft, musical quality to her speech patterns.   Every northern girl should be required to spend one year in Louisiana before she is turned loose on the male population.

     After a very satisfying brunch, we boarded the boats for the trip back to Grant’s Pass.  To keep the trip interesting, since we were, of necessity, returning along the same route, the Captain would rev up the engines and spin the wheel, seemingly almost capsizing the boat.  The resulting 360 degree turn thrilled everyone and scattered several gallons of icy water over the occupants.  Our fearless leader repeated this maneuver several times, usually without warning, to the delight of most of the passengers, especially the children.  I wondered if I really should have had that last biscuit and sausage with cream gravy.

      We were back at Ron’s house in Medford by three pm and decided it was a great time for a nap.  We had dinner plans for that evening and Wayne and I would both renew old friendships.

Hell's Gate!  Really, how many tickets do you think they would sell if they just called it the entrance to the rapids?