93 Miles of Love: Smallmouth, Trout and White Water Rafting

Growing up on the banks of a well-known smallmouth bass river in West Virginia, I have been fishing for that species nearly my entire life. My introduction to fishing was a simple affair—a walk down to the riverbank when Dad got home from work with a closed-face reel to cast a worm I gathered by flipping rocks along the way.

My fishing career trajectory was boosted when float fishing replaced bank fishing, utilizing canoes and running sections between bridges that provided easy access to the river for put-ins and take-outs. Learning to paddle the shoals and minor rapids was a learning curve; doing it correctly kept us dry and prevented the canoe from sinking and losing our gear. It took many years to become efficient at running the river, competently navigating the water while keeping us in the prime fishing spots for the best chances of hooking up. That was a skill only time in the seat could hone. Luckily, I had plenty of time back then. Little did I know that learning to read the water to both run the river and fish would be a skill I would use for the rest of my life.

On a rafting trip in the gorge of the famed New River with my father and brother when I was 10, my world changed. My fascination with whitewater and how to run it safely using rafts led me to focus on whitewater fishing as my new pursuit. I was all in. In fact, I became a fishing guide and outfitter as a side hustle and later chose it as my career after college for many years.

Although I never was a commercial whitewater rafting guide—it seemed silly to me to only run the river when you could run the river and fish—I ran trips on many sections that contained some serious rapids and held some serious smallmouth bass. My craft of choice was a whitewater raft outfitted with a rowing frame and two seats for anglers. Learning to read the slower water on the Elk River of my youth prepared me to run the bigger water of famous whitewater rivers, always with one purpose: to catch fish. I now live, work and play in the heart of whitewater in West Virginia and have been part of the river community for more than 20 years.

I’m always up for a whitewater fishing adventure, and so last year when a friend drew a permit to run the Main Salmon River in Idaho and invited me along, I immediately accepted. The U.S. Forest Service has the best description I have read of the river and area. The Central Idaho Wilderness Act of 1980, in addition to establishing the River of No Return Wilderness (renamed the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness in 1984), amended the Wild and Scenic Rivers Act to include the 79-mile section of the Salmon River from Corn Creek Campground to Long Tom Bar as a Wild River. The Wild segment of the Salmon River is located in central Idaho and originates at Corn Creek Campground, 46 miles west of North Fork. It flows 79 miles west to Long Tom Bar, 28 miles east of Riggins. The upper section passes through the Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness. The lower section forms the southern boundary of the Gospel Hump Wilderness. Depending on water-flow levels, the Wild section of the Main Salmon provides a moderate to fast-paced whitewater floating experience.

PROFICIENT PLANNING

I live in a whitewater town, and being asked to join a party where someone has drawn a permit for a Western river is not uncommon. Finding someone who understands whitewater but primarily aims to fish it is rarer. After several calls, I found a local guide and outfitter who had run the Salmon and fished it. The only problem was that he fished at a different water level and a different time of year than our permitted timeslot. In whitewater, river levels change everything, from the size and difficulty of the rapids to the ways of running them and the techniques of fishing them.

Our permit had a launch date of Aug. 29 at Corn Creek, and we had a planned take-out at Spring Bar boat access on Sept. 4. With the use of American Whitewater’s online river information, a Middle Fork and Main Salmon River guidebook, YouTube searches and, of course, asking locals in my community about their experiences, I began to understand the significant rapids we would encounter on our week-long whitewater adventure. Finding a reliable fishing report, well, took a little deeper search.

Our float would consist of roughly 93 miles with many gradient changes, and spring creek influences would add volume and water temperature variances. Fish species would vary as well. To keep things simple, I landed on trout and smallmouth bass. Both are right in my wheelhouse since I spend most of my time fishing in West Virginia for both.

During a call with some local Idaho fishing guides, I was informed that I should expect gin-clear water, akin to fishing in an aquarium at Bass Pro Shops. They recommended I concentrate on trout for the first few days of the trip and then switch my efforts to smallmouths for the remainder of the float. The local knowledge had one thing in common: expect numbers, not size, at that time of year. The last question was whether to fly fish or spin fish, and arriving at the answer was not as simple as I thought.

This river trip was a 100 percent DIY endeavor, meaning we had to independently gather all our resources. The group was responsible for the rafts, frames, trailers, vehicles, camping gear, safety supplies, coolers, food, water (for drinking, cooking, washing dishes and sanitation), cooking equipment, groovers (portable toilets) and everything else needed to spend seven days in the wilderness, including the mandatory gear on the permit’s required equipment list. The list of necessary equipment that came with the permit was designed to not only keep us safe but also to ensure we left no trace of humans during our float—as it should be. We found every camping spot we landed at—mostly sandy beaches—spotless, and we were all dedicated to keeping them that way for the following permit holders.

Simply put, if we didn’t bring it, we didn’t have it. There were no places along our route to obtain supplies in the remote wilderness, except for one location to fill up empty water containers about halfway down the 93-mile section.

A typical day on the trip would consist of lots of loading and unloading gear to set up camp, including a kitchen; a dishwashing station with means of straining water for micro-trash to be placed in large ammo cans to transport out with other garbage; a campfire area with a mandatory fire pan and ash bucket; camp chairs for relaxing; and an area for sleeping with tents, cots, sleeping bags and the star of any river trip, Paco Pads. Coolers would be taken off the rafts every afternoon for dinner and breakfast the following morning. We knew setting up and breaking down would take hours every day, and all the gear would have to be securely placed back into the rafts to run whitewater again. We encouraged everyone to pack light, but we’d still have lots and lots of dry bags.

With that in mind, along with the scarce information I received from fishing reports, I had to decide what fishing gear I truly needed to be proficient. I was an old fishing guide, after all, and I was there to catch fish.

WHITEWATER TACKLE

As I looked through my fly-fishing and spinning gear, my mind went to simplicity and tried-and-true equipment I could trust. I also had to consider that it might not make it back home with me in one piece. Getting in and out of rafts multiple times a day and packing them with heavy stuff like coolers and water jugs tends to be hard on equipment. Running steep drops in major rapids can cause rafters and gear to bang around. In whitewater, everything gets soaking wet unless placed in dry bags secured with straps.

I had to be light and efficient. There was no room for multiple rods, and heavy tackle boxes were out. Losing fishing time by digging in the bottom of a raft for a strapped-down dry bag in search of a fly or lure was not an option. Additionally, we all wanted to switch rafts to spend time with others, so my fishing gear needed to be handy and portable.

My head hurt trying to simplify my fly vest. Like turkey hunters, we who choose to fly fish carry way too much in our vests. There was another important factor in gear selection: To keep on track with our reserved camping spots, we’d have to move somewhat quickly in the rafts by riding the current as much as possible. On several days we were scheduled to cover 13 miles or more. Eddying out to fish for an hour or so was not an option. Casting a fly rod all day from the main current line, often in the middle of the river, is not enjoyable, and neither is trying to set up camp in the dark because too much time was spent fishing the eddies.

I landed on spinning gear. Over the years, I have learned to use only rigid, medium-power spinning rods with reels that can stand the abusive whitewater environment. Medium-action rods allow me to cast a long way and don’t wear me out retrieving lures in heavy currents. And if I’m lucky enough to hook a toad in stiff whitewater current, I have enough backbone in the rod to finish the job. I have witnessed too many light rods snap before, and on the first day of a seven-day float, it would not be a perfect experience.

To be efficient and quick, all the terminal tackle needed to be easily accessible. I pulled some old tricks from my memories of summer float trips before our adventure and my years of whitewater fishing. I am adamant about wearing my whitewater PDF all day, even in the pools, while on any whitewater river. In front of my NRS life jacket is a large clamshell pocket with built-in compartments. That large pocket makes the perfect tackle organizer, and since I would always wear it on the river, my gear would be with me no matter what raft I was riding. Using gallon-sized Ziplock bags, I created a tackle organizer to hold enough gear to last me through a week of intense fishing—that is, if I brought the right stuff.

“Trout and smallmouths; water so clear I’ll see every rock on the bottom; tried-and-true lures, something I can cast a long way; simple lures that have always worked; nothing I mind if it gets broken or is lost; gear must survive whitewater abuse” was what I wrote on my packing list. I reviewed every memory of past similar situations for several evenings leading up to my packing deadline. Knowing I couldn’t take everything in my arsenal, I narrowed it down to two basic categories: large inline spinners and soft plastics to rig on jig heads.

Quarter-ounce Blue Fox Vibrax spinners have saved my tail in clear water with spooky fish many times. I can cast them a mile, retrieve them in various water depths and fish them at multiple speeds from fast at the top of the water column to slow and deep if needed. Soft plastics rigged on jig heads offer many options, apply to smallmouths and trout, and are dependable and long-lasting. Z-Man soft plastics constructed with ElaZtech, such as the TRD and GrubZ, last a very long time and are fishing-catching machines. I’d have the option of swimming them in current or vertically jigging them in pools. I was finally confident and ready to pack.

NEW WATER, OLD HABITS

As expected, on the first day of our river trip, we were presented with hyper-clear water, technical rapids featuring lots of rocks above and below the water’s surface, and very heavy rafts loaded with a week’s worth of camping and river-running gear. It was perfect for fans of whitewater—warm weather, cool evenings ideal for sleeping, grand rapids that offered challenges and remoteness that’s hard to describe.

What I did not expect was the quality of fishing, particularly the size of the fish caught. It didn’t take me long to fall back into my old habits and routine of casting long distances and retrieving quickly in the current, then slowing the retrieve speed in the eddies, eddy lines, and micro voids behind obstructing rocks above and below the water’s surface. I was a long way from home, but the fishing experience quickly turned into something I had seen before, a feeling that I was fishing someplace very familiar.

I am afraid that my words on these pages cannot do justice to the amazing fishery that the wild river provided. The fishing for trout and smallmouth bass was as wild as the river itself. You almost had to be there to understand.

The sound of a roaring rapid just downstream, the smells and sights of water crashing over rocks, the swirling current lines being pushed and pulled in multiple directions at the same time, and the sinking feeling of seeing a recirculating hole in the river—knowing that would not be an enjoyable place to be—just before witnessing the stroke of an oar at precisely the right time spin the raft safely past the downstream danger … this is why I run whitewater rivers. The Salmon gave me plenty of these things.

Being a speck on the location map of my nightly Garmin inReach satellite texts to my family perhaps gave them a sense of the remote, 2.4-million-acre Frank Church-River of No Return Wilderness. The Main Salmon is designated a National Wild and Scenic River, and I couldn’t agree more with that assessment. The wildness and beauty of the ruggedness blew me away. The only regret I have is not taking more photos, but then again, it was a delightful break to live in the moment. After all, that’s why so many of us long to be in far-off places removed from this busy world.

Permits and Licenses

• Requirements to float-fish the Salmon River.

For information on permits for the Salmon River and all required equipment, go to recreation.gov, or contact the Salmon-Challis National Forest River Office at sm.fs.salmonriver@usda.gov or 208-481-2625.

Contact Idaho Fish and Game for fishing license Information at idfg.idaho.gov, licenses@idfg.idaho.gov or 208-334-3700.

All watercraft must be clean, drained and dry upon arrival at the launch site. Each boat must have an appropriate Idaho Invasive Species sticker. Information can be found at parksandrecreation.idaho.gov or by calling 888-922-6743.

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• This article was featured in the June/July 2025 issue of Game & Fish magazine. Click to subscribe.

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