The sound of the surf was the payoff we'd been paddling for. We'd had several good dunkings, with 150 miles behind us and 50 miles to go. While the river was running high, cold and green, the rapids were now behind us. Ahead was Indian territory, the confluence of the Trinity River and the Pacific Ocean.
"That outgoing tide might pull us right out into the ocean," said Dean Munroe, the head guide."But first we have to get that far. The spring winds out of the north could stop us dead in the water."
"What if the locals start throwing rocks at us from the top of the river canyon?" asked Bob Claypole at the oars, who had had that experience not long before while steelhead fishing.
"We just don't know what's going to happen," responded Munroe."What we're doing hasn't been done before so we don't know what to expect. But I want to hear those ocean waves, and I want to touch down on a sandy beach.
The final leg of the trip had a set of new problems. Would coastal winds stop us? Would an incoming tide force us to camp on the Hoopa Valley Indian Reservation without permission? What if the local tribes, the Hupas and the Yuroks, objected to our crossing through their lands?
We hit reservation lands at 10 a.m., floating past where the Trinity River pours into the Klamath. The Trinity, a big river, entered as a milky green, mixing with the darker Klamath. No one was in sight, not even at the local store in the small town of Weitchpec.
The river pushed us on, now just 40 miles from the coast, a light wind in our faces. We waved at two Indians on a sandbar as we passed. As we floated silently through Yurok land, Claypole was the first to notice the coastal influence in the trees, vegetation and, in turn, birdlife. Instead of stumpy willows, which we found far upriver, the banks were lined with tan oaks, California laurel, and Port Orford cedar. Instead of slashing a path, the river now widened and rolled on through, carrying us at five or six miles per hour. In most eddies, the Indians had set monofilament gillnets, even though very few salmon migrate upriver in the spring.
I took my turn at the oars and Claypole looked hard at the map.
"We'll be out of the reservation lands soon," Claypole said. Nobody had any intention of setting foot on the shoreline; that would not only have been basic trespassing, but also a violation of trust with the local people.
"Look!" shouted Claypole. He pointed at a tiny bird ahead of us. "It's a surf scooter. We can't be far now." The countdown was on-14 miles to go.
Even at the Highway 101 bridge, just a few miles from the Pacific, the river current was pushing us on. Dozens of harbor seals and sea lions were all around us, jumping and snorting like a greeting party. Yuroks netting candlefish along the shoreline stared at us, then went back to work. Others were catching lampreys.
The feared north winds of spring had gone to sleep. Instead of getting pushed back, we paddled on, sensing the end. You could smell the ocean salt and taste it in the air.
We oared around a bend, and there was the ocean! It was calm and clear, the sun just about to set, a perfect picture. The outgoing tide was swallowing us into the sea, the raft bobbing in the swells.
"Stay hard to the left," Claypole shouted to the oarsmen in the other rafts, "or the tide will get you!"
We could taste our victory. Claypole reached with the oars, caught a wave and surfed the raft onto the beach. I jumped out, up to my knees in saltwater with the bow line. The other two boats were right with us.
Claypole grabbed a bottle of champagne and laughed. "If I'd known I was gonna live this long, I would have taken better care of myself."
Around the campfire that night, the six of us tried to outdo each other as to who was the wettest, coldest, tiredest and hungriest. We'd passed a thousand rapids, covered 45 to 55 miles per day, been kicked out, swallowed and digested by the river.
"I could skin a bear and eat him raw," said Kurt Rogers. "Then I'd crawl headfirst into my sleeping bag and pass out."
But there came the realization that the longer we stayed on the river, the less important seemed the merit of any of the "firsts" on the trip. What developed instead was a feeling of oneness with our surroundings that bonded the six of us.
Every leaf seemed to speak a language. The sound of the river was the mountain song. It was the Klamath bringing the north country alive. Having felt it, seen it and lived it was the real victory.
For information about running any section of the Klamath River, phone guide and outfitter Dean Munroe of Wilderness Adventures at (800) 323-7238 or write 19504 Stratton Acres Road, Lakeshead, CA 96051.
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