The people’s river

By Ben Olson
Reader Staff

The Pack River begins its life high in the Selkirk Mountains. 

Starting as melted snow that accumulates in Harrison Lake, it spills down the mountain. The clear alpine freshet crisscrosses trailheads to Beehive Lake, Chimney Rock and Fault Lake, wetting the boots of those who leap across her banks. The rocks are large, misshapen boulders that tumbled from the peaks at some point in geologic history — maybe a couple hundred years ago, maybe tens of thousands. The rocks never tell.

The Pack then gains momentum from the numerous tributaries that feed it. The creeks are well known to local mountaineers, who hunch over their maps by lantern light and slowly mouth names like Hellroaring, McCormick, Torrent and Jeru creeks, each with their own stories to tell of the highlands they drain.

Flowing beside the primitive campsites where high-schoolers have partied for generations, the Pack takes on a more grown up appearance. There are the occasional large boulders littering the riverbed, but most of the rocks have been worn down to spheres the size of bowling balls, sometimes clacking as they churn over one another in a heavy spring flow. Secret swim holes and rock slides are coveted locations for the locals, and many a hot summer day is spent listening to the wise voice of water moving over rock.

Farther down, the river gentles as it passes Buck & Edna’s, as if giving a nod of reverence to all the thousands of hearty North Idahoans who spent hot days drinking Olympia beers behind its hallowed walls before they burned to the ground.

Here the river still runs true, devoid of any meandering that happens downstream. The rocks begin to give way to grass and mud banks, and small islands host a few shrubs that have taken hold. It widens, and instead of the rushed gurgle we heard upstream, there’s almost a collective hush as the water calms and prepares for a more contemplative journey past homes and through hidden lands, the oxbows forming and the rocks along the bed growing smaller, separated by long stretches of flat water before it begins to find depth and real flow, finally reaching the bridge at Highway 95 with its fish mural landmark. 

Here, families swim, kayakers and canoeists dump their vessels in the cool water and, at this point, the Pack River becomes the people’s river.

For the next few hours, floaters disappear down the bend, swallowed into a world that exists beyond the pavement. In spring, the flow is brisk, but in summer it’s a lazy current that has been known to lay waste to an entire day, leaving sojourners sunburned, bug-bitten and blissfully full at the other side.

The flora along the river is subtle but striking. In one glance, you might see a dozen varieties of trees. There are western larch, ponderosa pine, birch, yew, the odd juniper, firs, spruces and the ubiquitous cottonwoods that have told travelers where the water flows for generations.

Songbirds flit among the trees, many of which have exposed roots that reach down into the water as the banks erode around them. Others lean far over the water, caught in a slow-motion fall that might take a human’s lifetime before they finally crash into the river. 

Sandy beaches pop up around every few bends, providing quick respites, impromptu bocce ball games or long, lazy siestas that end with a howling dip in the cool water before pressing on.

There are numerous places to pull out along the way, first at the western Colburn Culver Bridge, and again at the jumping bridge on the same road just east of Northside Elementary School. From here, the river enters its golden years, growing fat from all the tributaries that have fed it over the miles, making wide, meandering turns that sometimes grow landlocked from the tons of sediment that moves down its waters every year.

By the time you reach the Pack River Store, most floaters are ready to call it a day, drink a beer and have a sandwich before they shuttle back to the dropoff point. The long-haulers will continue downriver for its final leg, past the golf course that will always be Hidden Lakes in my heart. Here, at Highway 200, waters that originated high in the mountains empty into Lake Pend Oreille, eventually finding its way to the sea before making the long journey back to us, perhaps on the back of a snowflake that falls at the top of Harrison Peak.

Floating the Pack is a rite of passage for North Idahoans. It’s also a damn fun thing to do in summer.

Here’s hoping your next float ends with a smile.