Psalm 46:1 - Smoke on the Salmon River

Описание: At the end of August, my husband and I floated down the Middle Fork of the Salmon River with a guide. His beard, Indiana Jones hat, and polarized sunglasses made me smile. By far, he was our favorite wilderness captain because of his easy conversation, humor, and confident navigational skill of veering toward a large rock and bouncing off, strategically pinballing through the narrow passageway by plunging an oar into the water.

Years of traversing swift waters in Idaho’s Frank Church Wilderness Area made his reflexes sharp. Our group of travelers included twenty-four floaters and seven guides. While the lips of some pressed into a straight line, our guide smiled, laughed, and spun our raft so the big waves of class-four waters didn’t crash over the top of our heads.

Despite the adventure, my heart twisted when I spotted the smoke-filled sky between the canyon walls in front of our raft. I had just finished reading Norman Maclean’s Young Men and Fire for the third time, haunted by not knowing what happened at the Mann Gulch Fire in the Helen National Forest on August 5, 1949. Only three smokejumpers made it out alive.

As I watched smoke thicken around the shoreline, tree trunks smolder from flames, and fires descend toward the water’s edge, I’m sad to admit I didn’t pray. My eyes widened at the darkening canyon as the guides chatted raft to raft to discuss our safety.

Plan A included camping in our assigned spot and holding up for the night before proceeding through the narrow valley with smoke and smoldering brush on one side, hoping flames wouldn’t jump the river and scorch our tents.

Plan B meant passing up our camp spot, plunging through the gauntlet of fire, and not stopping for miles. If we proceeded to Plan B, we were at the mercy of a benevolent outfitter or family sharing their camping spot with seven additional rafts. Most travelers were generous and willingly pitched in any way they could in emergencies.

Plan C meant docking our crafts along the shoreline and hoping helicopters would airlift us to safety. I imagined a Bambi bucket filled with water dumping its load and lifting several passengers stuffed inside.

We beached at our assigned camping spot: plan A. Embers reached the vertical shoreline on the opposite side of the canyon of our rafts. Above our campsite, an animal trail followed along the cliff’s edge. The guides talked about hiking out as an escape method and how rattlesnakes frequented the hot crevices and rocks. Which was worse: getting bitten by a rattlesnake or my boots burned?

Overhead and around the first bend of the valley, the whop-whop of a chopper’s blades whirled against blackened smoke. Vivid images of the burnt flesh of Mann Gulch Fire casualties pressed against my mind, yet the presence of the Lord of all angels washed over me like soothing waters. The faithful chopper and aerial angel dumped load after load and extinguished flames that could have torched our rafts.

I wish I could tell you I slept well that night. Instead, I stood near the shoreline in the dark, talking to stars like old friends. I thanked my heavenly father for providing cozy tents, sleeping bags, and guides who knew what they were doing. But if help couldn’t reach a fiery shoreline—God and His angels could.

Our rafts bumped downstream the following day, silent and quick. Past the fire, I thanked God with each oar stroke for sending the helicopter and aerial reinforcements. I was so grateful because I knew God was my refuge, a present help in trouble.