Settle back and be comfortable, maybe get a cold one; this could take a while. Drove south this time, looking for the Snake River canyon. It became a trip of about 300 miles into Idaho and maybe 200 years back into history. The first indication of time travel came as I passed through Lewiston. That was a relief to get past this place because skies had been clear for all of this trip, but what seemed to be a perpetual haze hung over the city, apparently smog produced by at least one large industrial installation there. I passed a huge plant owned by a company called Potlach. The odor coming from it resembled the slight scent of burning tires but it looked to be a pulp mill, though I haven’t seen much in the area suitable for logging. After descending a steep grade to river level, a grade that involved at least five truck escape ramps, the route took me out along the Clearwater River. The name rang a bell and I had the strongest sense of deja vu. I had been there before. As I looked over the terrain, I realized I had seen this country or country like it before and plumbing the depths of that thought revealed the circumstance. In my youth there were a lot more western movies than there are today and this area very much resembled what I recall from some of those movies. Then came the sign marking this as the route of the Lewis and Clark expedition. That was one of my favorite episodes in American history. When it came up in class so many years ago I recall thinking I would have loved to go along on that expedition. I followed the Clearwater for several miles before crossing it and turning south into the Nez Perce reservation.
Again the deja vu came up only of a different sort. I passed their casino feeling I had already donated enough to the cause of indigenous peoples.
For a while I was out in the rolling hills of grain again. Much more activity in this area with harvesters working in several fields. The road then passed through forested canyon country with steep rock sides and pine forest. Far off to the east I saw higher mountains, These were the Bitterroots, another name that raised the sense of deja vu. In my youth before Alaska discovered me, it was this country I daydreamed about. I saw a railroad trestle that resembled all those that frontier trains crossed in those movies with outlaws or Indians in pursuit. Dozens of historic markers had been placed along the route mostly noting spots of Nez Perce history. My mind wandered to what I knew about them. It is quite a sad story though from the looks of fields, and farms they seem to be doing OK. Almost 40 years ago I read a book about Native Americans dealing with white people’s push westward. It was called Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee by Dee Brown, a historian at the University of Illinois. One of the last chapters in that tortured history told the story of the Nez Perce and how in 1877 after years of trying to get along under an 1855 treaty, were ordered out of their traditional lands, won a battle or two against the white soldiers and attempted to flee to Canada. Chief Joseph was the leader at the end and when captured in Montana, uttered a long-remembered phrase, “I will fight no more forever.” He was sent to a reservation in Oklahoma where he died wanting only to return to his beloved country in what is now Idaho.
Just a side comment: Another thing I learned from the “Wounded Knee” book (think about how much a book affected you if you remember passages 35 years later). The Oglala Sioux had a word they used when they encountered white men. It was “wasichu” and in early encounters white men took it to mean them, white people. Years later when the first of those plains Indians saw the Atlantic Ocean, they used the same word. Under further analysis the word came to be understood as meaning “something without end.” Those early Oglala were wiser than they seemed to the white men who encountered them.
As I progressed farther south in search of the Snake I stopped at several of the historic markers. Eventually the route entered the Salmon River valley and paralleled the river for some while. I thought at the time it was one of the most beautiful drives I have taken. There were white sand beaches, people fishing from shore here and there and so many rafters at times it looked like bumper cars. The temperature rose dramatically as well.
I finally came to a sign that read “Cow Creek Road, Access to Snake River Recreation Area.“ I took this road. It began as about one lane blacktop, crossed a wooden bridge and devolved into gravel, then dirt as it climbed the slopes toward that elusive river. I took stock of what I had in the car, none of the kind of survival gear I carry for driving around Alaska. Then, too, I had no idea if this road was a mile, 5 miles or 50 miles to the river. Discretion took over and I turned around, figuring if this was a federal recreation area, sooner or later I would run into at least an information booth. Back on the highway, I did, in a town called Riggins, which is something of a resort community with a number of rafting companies and other tourist amenities. Toward the southern end of town I came across a recreation area information building, While the town had been packed with people, there wasn’t one car here in the parking lot. It being a Sunday I wondered if it was closed, but, no, there was someone there. I stepped out of the car into 100-degree heat. (I now own a Charlie Harper shirt for dealing with this kind of weather.) I might just as well have walked into a wall. It almost took my breath away. Inside, the woman there showed me my errors and how much of a trip I had in front of me to the Snake. Just about every access involved dirt roads as long as 20 miles and most got you to a place where you could see the canyon, but not the river. Where is Pooh when you need to launch an expotition? We talked about the university where three of her children had gone. We talked about Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce. I don’t know why that story brings emotions to the surface, but it does.
After talking with this woman for a while, I realized my search for the Snake, at least today, was futile and I would have to save that expotition for another day.
So I wandered back the way I came, stopping to make images of the harvest. My last stop was at the Nez Perce National and Historical Park museum and visitor center. The building held interesting displays, artifacts from the early Nez Perce. The exhibit raised some strong emotions. You go to these things and you see tomahawks and headdresses and other artifacts and they are disassociated from their owners so you take interest but feel little connection. But, in this display there were items actually traced to use by Chief Joseph. It was like I actually knew the guy who smoked this pipe, used this knife, wore this head dress. It held links to other leaders of the Nez Perce, people I had not read about and explained some of the names for geographic features I had encountered on that trip. For a moment the connection became intense across more than 100 years. And there was a quote from another Nez Perce chief. This is from memory and paraphrased because I didn’t write it down but it went something like this: “I and my people don’t come from anywhere like the white men. Nature put us here and this is where we have always been.” Perhaps it explains why the Nez Perce put up such a battle, fled for 1,800 miles in a running battle with federal troops and only in the dead of a harsh winter surrounded by soldiers, finally succumbed two years later only 30 miles from the refuge of the Canadian border.
And maybe why in such frustration Chief Joseph would, “fight no more forever.”
NOTE: River picture is the Salmon. The deep valley is the White Bird Battlefield where the Nez Perce fought federal troops for the first time and beat them badly. The others are obvious.
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