Grant's Getaways: Oregon Adventures with the Kids. Grant McOmie

       Acknowledgments

      There are two words that this television outdoor reporter never—ever—wants to hear while working at some lonely outpost in the Oregon outback. I have learned the hard way that the two simple words usually portend something bad is about to derail my well-laid plans for the day and the words go like this: “Oh-ohhhhh.” Let me give you an example: not so many decades ago, longtime outdoor photographer Mike Rosborough and I made the arduous trek to distant Southeast Oregon, not far from Jordan Valley, to join a 5-day rafting expedition down the Owyhee River. The Owyhee River runs through a corner of the state known as “I-O-N” country because of its close proximity to the state borders of Idaho, Oregon, and Nevada, which mesh together in a vastness covering more than 10,000 square miles.

      If you mention the Owyhee to most folks, they stare back at you a tad bewildered and ask, “Did you say Ow-ya-hoo-ee? Or, Aw-ya-hay?” Well, it’s pronounced “oh-WYE-hee,” as in “Hawaii.” The story goes that Peter Skene Ogden, who led a contingent of North West Company trappers into the region in 1819, named the Owyhee River. Three Hawaiians had been sent to trap for furs on a tributary of the Snake River, where Ogden was camped. The trappers were killed by Indians, and Ogden named the tributary for them. Over the centuries, the “Hawaii River” name has been corrupted into the “Owyhee River.”

      Out of the way? It certainly is! This is a most secluded and pristine river, and with the sound of its water rushing through boulder-strewn rapids, it’s just the kind of territory that stirs my senses and satisfies my soul. It’s where I went looking for adventure with Gerald Moore, the owner and operator of Water Otters. We were slated to float the wild Owyhee River to produce a special outdoor program. So we joined Moore’s outfitting and guide company because it specialized in Oregon’s hard-to-reach rivers. Also, unlike large white-water rafts that seat up to six people, Water Otters (as the name implies) offered a flotilla of small, more intimate, inflatable kayaks. It was a cozy, self-sufficient experience, where you were your own skipper on a voyage of discovery.

      We met our host and his crew an hour before sunrise and made plans to travel across the desert to a special launch point that Moore had arranged for on private land. Mike and I staked out a spot with camera and tripod that would catch the sunburst of dawn and then see the long lineup of rigs and boats. It was spectacular and a scene right out of the Old West—except—no horses, but a lineup of six pickups and SUVs. Mike gave me a quick thumbs-up that he was set—and—just like in Hollywood, I yelled “action” to our team. The rose-colored dawn was perfect and as the long trail of rigs came into view, all seemed right. That’s when I heard Mike utter those two fateful words: “Oh-ohhhhh.” I snapped my head to the left and shot out, “Whaaaaat?” “Oh-ohhhhh,” he repeated. “The camera isn’t working—no power—I don’t know why but you better stop the team.” So with that, I sprinted across 200 yards of juniper and sage, waved my arms high overhead, and yelled “Stop, stop, stop.” And they did! I explained, “We have a technical glitch and need to do this again, but let me check with Mike first.” And then, a quick turn around and I sprinted back to Mike. “Well?” I asked. “Not good, not good, but I’ll try a few things,” said the frustrated photographer.

      Two hours later, the problem was still unsolved and we realized this was going to take far more technical know-how than either of us owned. At a time before cell phones, it meant the entire team had to return back to town to find a pay phone (remember those?) to call to our engineering department who might be able to walk us through a solution. Two hours of phone conversations followed as we shuttled between engineers and news managers until it was finally determined they or we could not fix the camera. They proposed we come home while I suggested that they ship us another camera—that very night. And they did! But it meant a lengthy road trip to the Boise airport to pick it up and a return drive that ate up most of the dark night—I recall but an hour of sleep before a return to our distant desert site for a replay of the previous day’s plan. We were greeted by an even more gorgeous sunrise and believe it or not, still-smiling crew members who were patiently giving the entire effort their all. And so did we! For the most part, I didn’t hear those two words again—at least