Running low in its boney bed, the


high desert stream rattled through nar- row clefts and boulder-studded chan- nels. Each rapid we came across—and there were many—commanded us to pull ashore and scout. We ran a few and played safe with the rest, lining anything that looked dicey or gathering all six of us to hump our bloated hulls over spots where the boulders were just too close together. Canoes had turned out to be the right


choice of boat—rafts would be diffi cult to work through the boulder fi elds and infl atable kayaks don’t slip over rocks as well as hard Royalex—but our two 16-footers were nearly too big for the Owyhee this late in the season. We paid the price in busted thwarts, deep gouges and more grooves than a vinyl 45. Though still stable, the nearly lame Duck Hunter had to have its gunwales lashed together to make the distance. After days of paddling, carrying, hik-


ing, hunting and fi shing we would hud- dle in the sand around a crackling fi re, turning like fl apjacks every few min- utes to warm our backs or bellies. Sol- ace seeped from a bottle of Bushmills we passed around while the water in our canteens froze up tight. Though the river here runs through


one of the least-populated regions in the lower 48, we were far from alone. Chukar partridge were thick as fl eas on a cat and hanging low to the water. They live in the scree and rimrock on the canyon walls. We would routinely round a corner and fi nd a covey of birds staring us down from the bank. It was an incongruous sight to see our hunters slip onto the earth-tone shore and give chase in their neon dry suits and PFDs.


predatorial focus of true canyon deni- zens like the coyote and the osprey; ours was a mere patch on the fabric of the primal imperative of hunting to survive. The satisfaction of feeding my- self directly from the river canyon I was travelling through, without a thousand middlemen and miles between nature and my plate, brought me closer to a leaner style of life. The den I was resting in was littered


with small bones, fur and coyote scat. I fi ngered through the sand thinking I might turn up an arrowhead or chip- pings. I could imagine a hunter of long ago ducking in to escape the weather. To the north I could see a thin plume


of smoke rising from camp, which meant Cookie (he’s better at cooking than we are at giving nicknames) was fi ring up coals for the Dutch oven. Last I had counted we were a few birds short of a meal; it was time to get the two partridge tucked in my game pouch back to camp. I got up stiffl y, shut the breech of my gun and looked for the best route to scramble down the ridge. I could feel dinner pressing against


my lower back as I hiked. In the dis- tance, downriver, an old jeep trail scratched down from the rim, one of only two tracks leading into the can- yon sanctum on this stretch. On a fl at along the river two trucks were parked at a camp. I’ve camped on rivers that way


many times, driving in without worry- ing about tying gear to thwarts, pinning canoes against rocks and sustaining lower back pain. But we were on the Owyhee to feed ourselves from the land, not from a drive-through lane. Better to do that from a canoe than a


It was an incongruous sight to see our hunters slip onto the EARTH-TONE SHORE and give chase in their NEON DRY SUITS and PFDS


Not having packed any dinners, we


ate what we could shoot. Abandoned mines upstream had left a leeching legacy of mercury in the fi sh, so I knew what I wanted on my plate. Hik- ing out of camp with my shotgun on my back, I was looking for dinner no less earnestly than the eagle hunting his mouse. The alignment of function with purpose, of hunting to eat, was a pow- erful motivator. Granted, we hadn’t the


truck. Headed toward the half-broken canoe on the bank I had a feeling the birds in my pouch would taste better than the ones the guys in the trucks had taken, even if they had bagged a few extra birds while we had our guns tucked away and our paddles out.


ROB LYON is the author of ‘Water Marked: Journal of a Naked Fly Fisherman’ and lives on a small island off the Washington coast.


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