Return to the Imnaha

The recent movie Contagion tells the story of a virus that rapidly spreads around the globe, causing death, widespread panic, and a lot of resulting bad behavior. The movie had a happy ending, of sorts, as a CDC scientist develops a vaccine that halts the spread of the virus. Bad as the scenario depicted in the movie might be, the contagions that afflicted the native inhabitants of the Americas were vastly worse. The book 1491 describes the near annihilation of tribes throughout the continent because they had no immunity to the Europeans' diseases. I can barely imagine the horror and suffering those people endured. And yet, they are voiceless; to my knowledge no Native American record describes the misery visited upon them by the Europeans' diseases.

The the extent the voice of the American Indians is preserved at all, it is found largely in the oral histories of their eventual, inevitable defeat in the wars with the US Army following the Civil War that continued almost to the turn of the 20th Century. I have read the sad stories of the Navahos, the Apaches, the Comanches, the Sioux and other tribes of the Great Plains, and more recently, the story of Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce as told in Kent Nerburn's "Chief Joseph and the Flight of the Nez Perce."

Based largely on the oral histories of the Nez Perce, Nerburn's book tells the heroic and tragic flight of the Nez Perce from their ancestral home in near Wallowa Lake to their eventual capture by the U.S. Army in Northeastern Montana, only 30 miles from the Canadian border. There Joseph is reputed to have said, "I will fight no more forever." Remarkably, his undernourished and lightly armed tribe including women, children and elderly outwitted the US Army for three months in a chase that covered much of Idaho and Montana. The Army succeeded only because the Nez Perce were cold and starving and some of their chiefs believed that they finally were safe and could rest before making the final push into Canada. Unfortunately, the relentless Colonel Miles captured them before they had time to gather enough strength to cross the border.

From the book I learned that the Nez Perce' winter camp was on the lower Imnaha River, 30 miles distant and 2000 feet lower in elevation than their summer home on Wallowa Lake. The lower Imnaha was precisely with the location of my first Boy Scout camp 50 years ago. Reading of the Nez Perce kindled in me the desire to return and see what, if anything, has changed in the remote place where my friends and I camped so long ago. My old friend Art Richards and I have talked of taking a man trip for years. Art readily agreed to my suggestion that we return to the Imnaha, and last Thursday, after weeks of anticipation, we finally departed.

Our original Boy Scout trip to the Imnaha was organized by two Johns - Hopfield and Sundwall. Hopfield was Scoutmaster of our troop in Portland; Sundwall, a friend of Hopfield, was Scoutmaster of a troop in Vancouver, Washington. I somehow was appointed quartermaster for the trip. Together Hopfield and I planned our meals and purchased our food -- a dehydrated product called Kisky's. Sundwall, a contractor, owned a large moving van, in which we 20 or so Scouts, together with our food and gear, traveled the roughly 380 miles from Portland to the Imnaha. I had traveled much of the route with my parents on our annual summer trips to Utah to visit my grandparents, but no Utah trip seemed so endless as that ride in the back of the van, where we passed at least part of the time repeatedly singing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall."

We traveled the final 50 miles on an unpaved road. The rear door of the van must have been open because I have a distinct memory rugged hills and of herds of deer, so many that the brown hills almost seemed to move. As we drew near our destination, John Sundwall stopped the van, pulled out a rifle, and downed a deer with one shot. That deer became our first meal after we set up camp.

We camped at a bend in the river near the remains of a washed out bridge that hovers over a deep hole in the river. There the canyon widens and flattens out, creating an ideal camp site. We all slept on cots under plastic tarps suspended from a frame of wooden poles lashed together. The cooking area was a short distance from where we slept, folding tables surrounding a stove consisting of a metal plate welded to four stout legs.

The two Johns imposed strict rules, the most fundamental of which was that we were never to go anywhere without a buddy. To assure compliance, they built and posted a sign on a tree near our cooking area listing our names in descending order to the left, and, in a heading above our names, a list of various locations near the camp. To the right of each name was a series of pegs corresponding to the various locations. At all times we were required to place a washer on the peg showing our location. If we failed to comply, we were sentenced in the Johns' nightly kangaroo court to "run the line."

The line consisted of two rows of Scouts armed with switches, which we cut from willow bushes that grew near the river. Each offender had to run barelegged through the line as his fellow Scouts swatted the back of his legs. A Scout could be punished not only for failure to properly mark his location or be with a buddy, but also for such offenses as failure to take a full swing at a Scout running the line or throwing a dead rattlesnake at one of the Johns. It was not uncommon for a Scout to emerge from the line with his legs bleeding and covered with welts. While no one wanted to run the line, the line was in fact a source of high amusement for the both the Johns and we Scouts.

I imagine that a similar trip today could result in prison time for the two Johns. If not the poaching, the child abuse and lack of seat belts in the van would have done them in.

We spent most of our time either fishing or hanging out naked at the swimming hole near our camp. In the ten days we spent on the river, we did not see another person. We all were sunburned in places that never before or since have seen the sun. We hiked one day the 5 miles to the Snake where instead of the usual bass we caught a few catfish in the shadows of the high walls of Hells Canyon. On our hike back several of the Scouts straggled far behind under the watchful eye of a young adult leader who assisted the Johns. Hopfield led the hike while Sundwall stayed behind at camp. While we were away he went deer hunting. We returned to a delicious dinner of fresh venison, corn on the cob and watermelon. Never had food tasted better.

After the first two or three days, the thrill of our adventure had worn off. We frequently talked of home and counted the days till camp ended. Art and I craved Cheerios and bananas, which was in fact my first meal when I returned home.

Aside from the Hells Canyon hike, the single most memorable event on the trip was the night an unfortunate rattlesnake slithered near our camp. The first Scout who saw the snake ran into camp yelling "rattlesnake!!" The rest of us arose as one and ran toward the snake. One of the older Scouts poked at the snake with a stick, causing it to strike. With the snake fully extended, another Scout grabbed the snake by the neck and quickly sliced its head off. We then triumphantly skinned the snake and ate it, each Scout receiving a small morsel.

We were, it seems, a bloodthirsty band, having no more remorse about the dead snake than we did about the fish we caught, the deer Sundwall shot, or the welts and bruises we inflicted on each other.

But we did not lack some kindness for each other. We stuck together in our misery, and, when the Exlax the Johns made us take to keep us regular struck, we accompanied each other to the latrine, even when the need arose in the middle of the night.

After so many years, I longed to see how much had changed and how much my memory of the camp corresponded to reality. Also, having recently read about the Nez Perce, the Imnaha now was of historical interest. I hoped to learn more about where and how the Nez Perce lived and how they evaded the U.S. Army for so long.

Art and I departed on our journey from the Portland airport late Thursday afternoon. We drove immediately to Tad's restaurant on the Sandy River, near the west end of the Columbia River Gorge. There we met my brother Ron, from whom Art managed to coax stories I had never heard, and ate Tad's signature dish, chicken and dumplings. We topped off the main course with marionberry cobbler. After dinner we continued on to Pendleton. There we got rooms at the Travel Lodge, where I would swear I stayed nearly 40 years ago. When I advised the desk clerk of that fact, he informed me that I was wrong. He insisted that the Travel Lodge had formerly been known as the Longhorn, and had only recently changed its name, long after my visit. Oh well, this would not be the last mistake I would make on our trip.

In the morning we visited the Pendleton outlet, where, as Tauni noted, I demonstrated my shopping compulsion by purchasing three wool blankets. I thought they would be great for the cabin or gifts. Her reaction after I presented the blankets upon my return, "Sure, just what we don't need. Wool blankets. Good luck finding someone who would like to receive one as a present."

We next stopped in the town of LeGrande, gateway to Wallowa County. There Art purchased a few of his favorite pocket t-shirts at JC Penney. Meanwhile, I stopped at a neighboring bike shop to inquire where I could find a fly fishing shop. A very helpful and fit looking sales guy asked where I was headed.

Me: "The IM-na-ha River."

Him: "You're not from around here, are you?"

Me: "No. How can you tell?"

Him: "It's the Im-NA-ha River."

Me: "Oh."

So Art and I have been mispronouncing Imnaha for 50 years. Reminded me of what yokels we thought Easterners were when they spoke of the state of Or-e-GONE, rather than OR-e-gun.

Despite the sales guy's efforts to direct me with a map, we couldn't find the LeGrande fly shop. We proceeded to Joseph where we had no trouble locating the Joseph Fly Shop. We chatted awhile with the owner, Rob Lamb, who like the bike shop sales guy got out a map and painstakingly described every fishing hole and landholder on the Imnaha. I purchased a few flies and a net, and further indulged my shopping compulsion by purchasing a Sage sweater and a Joseph Fly Shop ball cap. Lamb was an interesting guy. He explained that he made and lost a lot of money buying and selling land on the Columbia River. Eventually he accumulated enough to purchase 4000 acres near Joseph, where 20 years ago he opened his fly shop. About 10 years ago Lamb led an effort to spruce up Joseph's main street, which now is lined with boutiques and galleries. That didn't endear him to the locals at the time, but I am sure that the cash left behind by the resulting tourists has helped ease their pain.

The entire town of Imnaha

My plan had been to check into the Imnaha River Inn, the B&B where we stayed, have a relaxing evening, drive the next morning downriver to the location of our Scout camp, and then take the 5-mile hike to the Snake River and Hells Canyon. It was not to be. After a brief stop in the town of Inmaha, we drove quickly past the Inn and headed down the canyon to the location of our old Scout camp. Rob Lamb had warned us that the first part of the road was high above the river. He wasn't kidding. The road was not only high but seriously exposed, enough to awake my dormant fear of heights.

High above the River

Along the road we saw a couple of deer, a flock of wild turkeys, and a herd of mountain sheep.

Sheep

After a harrowing 13 mile ride that seemed to last a couple of hours we came to a bridge and there, before our eyes, was the swimming hole and camp site where we spent ten days 50 years ago. We quickly located the the sleeping and cooking areas, the willows, the site where the unfortunate rattlesnake met its demise, the trail to Hells Canyon, and the rocks where we sunned ourselves above the swimming hole. While much was as we remembered, it was jarring to see two canvas tents near the bridge, a truck, tent, 4-wheeler and gear in our old sleeping area, a rather large piece of machinery that looked like a crane, and a large porous cone shaped device in the river that apparently was connected to the crane. Fifty years later, our remote, pristine spot had been discovered. We later were told by our innkeeper that the tents belonged to the Indians (the Nez Perce?) and that they use cone shaped device to count fish. I question that, but there is no doubt of a semi-permanent human presence. A small sign on the bridge announced the Historic Nez Perce Trail. The Nez Perce crossed at or near the bridge and then hiked an ancient trail over a hill westward to the Snake on their flight from the pursuing Army.

After we determined the lay of the land it was time to fish. My good friend Scott Loveless insisted that I could not visit a river like the Imnaha without fly fishing. He outfitted me with a rod and reel, fishing vest, line clipper and hook extractor. I assembled the rod, tied on a fly and began to cast at a quiet hole near the shore. To my surprise, a few small fish immediately surfaced and nibbled at my fly. I continued to cast and the minnows continued to nibble. After an hour or so, it was evident that the fish were in no danger from me, and Art had long since become bored, so we packed our fishing gear and at last embarked back up the canyon for relaxation and dinner at the Inn.

Heading for the Inn

Not only did the return drive seem shorter, but the terror factor disappeared. It helps to be on the mountain rather than the cliff side of the road. We arrived at the Inn just before the appointed dinner hour.

The Imnaha River Inn

The owners, Nick and Sandy, welcomed us to the Inn. After they showed us our rooms, I joined Nick on the deck behind the Inn, where he barbequed pork chops on the grill. After years as a homebuilder in the Portland area, he spent two years building the Inn. He and Sandy opened it to guests to raise the funds needed to realize their dream of living in paradise. Thanks to the crash of the real estate market, Nick's plans to build homes in Wallowa County came to naught. He has nonetheless managed to find work where he can and, even with a dwindling number of visitors, he and Sandy have survived. Rob Lamb warned us against discussing politics in Imnaha. Nick was good natured enough as he described his plight, but the combination of high unemployment and government policy discouraging anything but green jobs in Wallowa County have resulted in very strong feelings.

At dinner we discussed, among other things, fishing, hunting and family. Steelhead currently are running and Chinook salmon spawn in the river early in the summer. Nick told of 40+ pound salmon being pulled from the river near the Inn. He complained of a dwindling deer population due to reintroduction of wolves in the area. Dwindling or not, we saw a lot of deer in two days, though not near as many as I remember 50 years ago. I asked Nick for a recommendation for a mountain bike ride. He advised that with hunting season opening the next day I should avoid most roads. He pulled out a map and showed me a the location of nearby Trail Creek Road, which was closed to hunting because it traversed land owned by the Nature Conservancy, and recommended I give it a try.

After dinner Art lectured me on the virtues of Richie Havens and open D guitar tuning. He then demonstrated. Notwithstanding Art's explanation of chord structures, I failed in my attempt to figure out how to play "I Will," and so went to bed.

After a hearty breakfast of French toast, bacon, fruit and juice, we set out for a mountain bike ride on Trail Creek Road. After a bit of haggling, we agreed that Art would meet me at the top of the road at a place Nick described as the Zumwalt Plateau. This was not smart, because I had no idea of the distance or elevation gain. Nor did I allow for the possibility of mechanical failure. It took me about 30 seconds to fall while trying to change gears. In so doing, I managed to bend the rear derailleur hanger. Consequently, the chain wouldn't stay in gear in the rear sprocket. Loose dirt and rocks on the road surface made for poor traction, and a flat front tire added another degree of difficulty. The benign flat road at the beginning of the ride soon became far more challenging, rising to what I would estimate was a 4-6% grade. All of which meant that after riding for a very short distance I gave up and started to walk.

Trail Creek Road

I started riding at 9:30. By 1030 I thought that boredom would have caused Art to come looking for me. By 1130 I wondered if Art had found the road to Joseph and driven into town. I debated whether to ride the bike back down the mountain, but concluded that if I did I might never find Art. As I walked I imagined the each successive curve in the road would lead me out of the canyon and onto the high plateau where Art would be waiting. But as the road climbed I entered ever denser forest and found no end to the steep canyon walls that framed the road. I finally shouted Art's name into the silent forest, not expecting him to hear me but hoping for a telepathic connection. At last, around 12:30, I saw Art's SUV in the distance. I was both relieved and happy to see him.

I told Art it was my bad for not communicating a better plan for keeping in touch during my ride. I added that I was flattered he thought I could ride so far on that steep, slippery road. He replied, "I was glad it was you out there and not me. It was bad enough driving." He added that it had never occurred to him that equipment failure could be a problem. That hadn't really crossed my mind either, and I should have known better. Turned out Art had lost track of time while photographing an abandoned two-holer outhouse he spotted at the top of a hill.

The Two-Holer

We drove to Wallowa Lake, and then spent the balance of the afternoon more or less where I began, thinking about the Nez Perce. At the north end of Wallowa Lake, there is a memorial of sorts covering several acres of ground that is sacred to the Nez Perce. A trail meanders through meadows to a pond.

Sacred Indian Pond

From the pond the trail proceeds to a small graveyard at the top of a hill overlooking the lake. There Chief Joseph is buried.

Joseph's Grave

In town there is a small gallery of historic photos dedicated to the Nez Perce. A fundraising effort is underway to purchase and restore land to the tribe. The Nez Perce have owned no land near Wallowa Lake since they were driven out in 1877. If nothing else, it is easy to understand the fierce attachment of both the Indians and white settlers to the rugged and beautiful Wallowa country and how their competing cultures could never peacefully coexist.

As for Art and me, the next morning we drove a few miles back down the canyon to get one final look at the Imnaha. I would love to return to hike and fish, and show this magical place to my children and grandchildren.

Art

I returned a place that has a powerful hold on my memory. However lovely it is, it is of interest mainly because I experienced it then and now with one of the truest friends of my life. The Wallowa is sacred to the Nez Perce because it was home to a people. The Imnaha is sacred to me because it is a place of friendship.