Moments From The Salmon River
The Salmon River, Idaho
Photo credit: Kendra E. Thornbury
Prefer to listen instead? Play the below for the audio version of this written piece.
Tears spilled down my cheeks as I punched out the words.
Hi Kendra…I don't know what moved within me and why now...but I'd like to please be considered to go on this trip.
I had never been off-grid before. Never rafted. Never even really camped. That was all about to change.
Over the past year, I had been feeling the growing desire for more real-world experiences. Like many in my life, I was weighed down by Zoom fatigue and this odd expectation of needing to always be plugged in and "camera-ready." My life had become exceptionally digital—a byproduct of both the pandemic and having an online business.
I was spent. My eyes were weary, and my spirit was tired. I longed for the physical world in a way I hadn't felt before.
Less screens, more in-person.
Less posting, more experiencing.
I craved the outdoors, and I craved rich, meaningful moments with people in real life. These moments were my balm. When I experienced them, it felt like water on parched land. I wanted more.
More of the nature walks and more than just nature walks.
More evenings in the rocking chair and more than evenings in the rocking chair.
I sought a deeper shift…a profound return…a remembering…to something I couldn't quite name.
I wanted, more than anything, to feel alive. Clear. Free. Me...the real me in her truest sense.
So, last August, I did something I never thought I'd do.
I signed up for an off-grid rafting trip in Idaho. The group's leader, Kendra (whom I had met the year prior as a fellow co-author of Born to Rise), had sent me the pamphlet with all the details:
A group of women were set to raft 87 miles down the Salmon River. Six days of no reception, no electricity, nothing. We'd be right smack in the largest space of pristine wilderness in the lower 48 states, living amongst the ponderosa pine trees, bald eagles, and Lord knows what else.
I pored over every word in that brochure, with tears streaming down my cheeks. It was everything I wanted and needed. Every cell in my body was saying, "YES." The River was calling me, and I knew I must go. And so after typing out my message to Kendra, I hit send.
Before We Get Going
The rest of what you’ll read here are excerpts from my journal while on the River. I wanted to share these moments with you and, selfishly, I also wanted to relive them.
My River journal and writing companion
At the time of my writing this, we're in the midst of great change. We just went through another social media whiplash, and we have a new administration taking office. I feel like we're in for a wild ride.
On the Salmon River, we rafted through calm waters up to Class IV rapids. I remember one rapid in particular that looked pretty gnarly. There was no way to avoid the rushing waters—we had to go through them.
Up to that point, I had only felt excitement for the rapids we encountered. However, this one was different. As we rowed closer, nerves flickered deep in my gut as our boat woman encouraged us to secure our life vests and grab onto the handles. It was bound to get bumpy.
So, we did as she said.
I wrapped my hands around some straps behind me and sucked in a breath of air. Our raft picked up speed as the current pulled us into the churning waters. There we went, straight into the heart of the rapid. We bounced. We got soaked. We screamed with excitement. Before we knew it, we made it to the other side with our hearts pounding in our chests. It ended up being such an incredible experience.
I learned many things during those days on the water. The rapids taught me that just because the waters look wild doesn't mean you're going to get tossed out of the raft. I could pass through the rapids feeling grounded and observant. I could stay calm and present even in the midst of risk and the unknown.
There are many unknowns and uncertainties in our communities and country today. In the past, I’ve let the worries toss me out of the raft. This time, I get to choose differently. And I’m choosing to take the wisdom from the River to help me weather these uncharted waters.
So, I thought it might be helpful to share a few writings from a place that gave me such perspective and restoration. A place where I emptied out all the clutter that had filled my head and spirit. A place where I stepped away from the noise and remembered who I was.
I hope you enjoy reading these selections as much as I did experiencing them.
My Last Post Before Going Off-Grid
This was before we got into the smallest puddle jumper I’d ever ridden. Just as I was thinking, “I don’t know if I can even fit in this plane,” the pilot exclaims, “Oh, they gave us the big one!” 😳
Day One of the River - Friday, August 16
We just set up at the camp for the evening. I’m halfway in/out of my tent. I feel the grit of sand on my ankles and hear the gentle roar of the water.
Wow. The majesty of this place has me quiet. I would say reflective, but I find that my thoughts don’t stick. I’m just here. I just am.
We saw a couple of bald eagles. One had swooped down and caught a fish. He was eating it [on a rock midstream] as we rowed on by. A golden eagle greeted us as we arrived to camp. She circled our campgrounds and then circled around us before she took off. It was like she blessed our stay.
I also peed in the River. It’s kinda what you do here.
I’m so glad I’m here. I feel at peace. I feel grounded. It’s like the River knows me.
Day Two of the River - Saturday, August 17
Cyndi and I so dearly wanted to sleep outdoors under the stars. But a frog tried to maul us (lol), so we ran inside the tent on the right and slept ‘til morning.
Photo credit: Kendra E. Thornbury
Woo, chile! Last night was rough. The stars were bright and brilliant, but that ground. Sweet Lord, I didn’t know sand could be so…firm.
I could feel it pressing into every joint…shoulders, hips, knees. Every time I went to shift positions—ouch-ka-bibs. So while I slept, let’s just say it wasn’t faboo. Definitely not my adjustable bed [from back home]. I could have sworn we were going to get a pad, but maybe I misread and we only get the sleeping bag?
[A little later on…]
I went to grab some coffee. Turns out, as I walked through the tents and looked around, there ARE pads!! Great news for tonight. Wish I would have caught that about 10 hours ago. LOL. Oh well. At least I have my coffee.
[After a pause…]
Last night, we had a women’s circle where we could share what bubbled up for us yesterday. I shared how I wanted the River to wash my mind from all that clutters it. The news. Social media posts. My copywriting business—keep or release? My writing muse has gone.
All these things and more (Why is my crepe myrtle dying? My Carolina Jessamine, too?!) have filled my mind. My mind feels both full and vacant and perhaps tired from all the fullness.
I give it all to the River.
To the River, I give you these things—without expectation or needing an answer. I give them to you. To the River who never changes and always changes—who has new water flowing through her every day—who carries us along—who sings us to sleep each night simply by being.
To the trees that stand because that’s what you do. That’s who you are.
To the bird overheard, awakening the world—our little corner of it—to your song (squawk) as you circle overhead.
To the smell of a campfire.
To all that is within, alongside, and near the River. You don’t worry or fret or overthink. You just be.
May it be so with me, too.
Day Three of the River - Sunday, I think?
This morning’s view as we got ready to leave was hauntingly beautiful. I sat on a rock and watched for a long time.
The sun was just rising over the mountainside. The smoky haze sat low on the water. The dark green—almost the darkest of brown—pine trees peppered the mountainside and crowns of the mountains. The brush looked like closely mowed hay.
The River rounded the curve, its current gently pulling water through to us. It felt as though Henry David Thoreau himself would appear in his straw hat, rowing his little boat.
I sat for a long time and watched. I read the mountain’s poetry. I let it move me with its presence and fill me from the bottom up.
The entire morning, I felt like I was in a living painting. I sat in the raft in awe and in tears—just at the beauty. It swelled within me and overwhelmed me. I thought of Dad—how he would love this. How we’d sit and sip coffee and think deep thoughts and maybe write our own poetry.
I thought of Grandmama—of putting up her Dicken’s Village. The smattering of pine trees on the mountainside reminded me of placing pines throughout her village. What a joy, what a lovely tradition. I’m grateful it gave her and Grandpapa so much happiness.
I feel clear today. Clear and deep and poetic. I’m quiet at times and funny at others. I feel the thinker—the wonderer and wanderer—and the writer within me. It is good.
Day Three of the River – Later That Evening
I like to call this one “Ashley In The Wild”
A sneaky snapshot by Kendra E. Thornbury :)
How do I even begin to describe my view to you? I’m sitting under a tree—a towering ponderosa pine—and I’m witnessing the most magnificent sight. A backdrop of mountains sprinkled with pine trees. Down below, what looks like a meadow with pines, boulders, brush, and burnt tree trunks.
At the foot of the mountains and the meadows is the rush of water—rapids flowing, flushing, roaring downstream. The Salmon River.
We rode over 20 miles today. Class III and Class IV rapids. Towards the end, Kendra and I jumped in. It was so cold! I definitely sucked river water up my nose. *crosses fingers for no amoebas*
A few of the other women jumped in, too. I was amazed that you could feel a strong current despite the surface looking so calm.
When we got to our camp for the day—wow. I just can’t describe it. We all are stunned at how beautiful it is. Our tents are set a little back from the shore. We’re in the shade under the trees. Not once since we’ve been here have we not heard the sound of the River.
The Last Night on the River – Tuesday? Wednesday? Who Knows…
I’m ready to wash my hair and bathe in lotion…and wow, this experience has been such a gift. I feel complete and yet I’m not ready to re-enter the over-stimulating bustle of modern life. Good thing I don’t have to quite yet. The boatwomen just called us over for appetizers.
[Later on that night…]
Susanne blessed me with her eagle feather.
May you be blessed with wonder
With wonder and curiosity
And love
For your whole life.
Aho.
I wept.
While on the Flight Back Home
I’m not ready to step into the swift current of digital life. Being away from it didn’t make me miss it—I didn’t miss my phone once.
Four days ago, we stepped out of our rafts, and I still haven’t checked Facebook, Instagram, Linked-In, WhatsApp, Messenger, ... I haven’t responded to all texts. I haven’t cracked open my emails. I haven’t played music on my phone or turned on the TV. I haven’t even read the book I brought.
At home
Photo credit: Kendra E. Thornbury
Before the River, I knew I wanted less technology, less digital living. What I didn’t know was just how plugged in I still was. Look at the list above! It’s so much. So very much.
As Kendra said to me the night we stepped off the River, I’m more nature than programming now. I want to hold onto as much of it as I can for as long as I can.
What was so meaningful for me was to witness another way of living. An analog life. Ways of being, ways of earning that aren’t dependent solely on the digital as the center of the universe. It’s possible.
How will that look once I’m back home? How do I want that to look—in my body, my job, my business, my marriage, my relationships, how I get my news, …
It’s the spaciousness in my mind—the cleared-out noise and clutter—the tuned-in-ness to my body and what she needs… I want to protect that. To have that calm…the syncing with nature. I want that to be the sun in my solar system.
For I am a slice of nature. This trip showed me that. And it reflected to me just how disconnected I was living from it. I’ve said for years that I want to live in a place and not on a place. And I think this River experience added a new dimension to that.
I am a slice of nature. May I remember that and carry that deep within me.
A Closing Note
Once on the River, it took three days before my mind finally stilled and cleared. Three days of zero technology and full immersion in nature.
During our time on the River, my true self started to unfurl. The one I had buried under responsibilities and news feeds and the myriad of ways people could reach me. Like I had written on my last night while on the River, I had no idea how much I was plugged in until all the cords were yanked from the outlet.
While on the River, I not only remembered that I am a slice of nature, I got to experience it. I saw nature, and she saw me.
I had no idea when Kendra sent me the brochure months prior just how much I needed to remember that.
I hope that by reading some of my journal entries, you, too, remember that you are a part of nature. You are a slice of something bigger, more mysterious, and more beautiful than any screen or digital experience can offer.
May these words bring you the same comfort and fortitude they have brought to me in these months following the River.
I’ll leave you with this poem I wrote a couple of weeks after getting off the River.
The intro and outro music used in the audio recording was created by Jeff Cook and is used with permission.
