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16 EAST IDAHO OUTDOORS MAGAZINE — SPRING/SUMMER 2016 Americans painted slashes on stone as proof of their hunting success. My boys giggle at the well-endowed chief on the wall. "I want people to have respect for this place and to know people lived here," says Diana Yupe, Native American interpreter. Yupe is a descendent of the Sheepeaters. She sits riverside in socks and sandals, visiting with rafters about Native Americans and their historic prominence on the Middle Fork. "My goal is to share the human interac- tion of this place and provide a new under- standing of life and the use of everything here." Day 6 – Grin and Bear It We get our lost camp back and we're grinning about that. We stop at Flying B Ranch for ice cream around mile 60 and the ranger tells us we can camp in the hot zone, but we can't wander. The camp is an unscorched sandy beach, but the earth around it is lit up like fi reworks from a lightning-caused blaze. We row our way to fi re camp and count chuckars, osprey and fi nally a black bear. Our animal tally is 616. I see yellow and orange through the haz- ardous haze and realize it's a fi re crew at a fl aming tree. It's going to topple. We fl oat by wishing them well and offer thanks for their hard work as we pull into camp. "You turn around and look back and it's all black," my son says. "That's not good." Day 7 –Time for Take Out Resigning yourself to settling in a hot zone is uncomfortable yet intriguing. The Day 5 – Finally Fish On Our camp is near a creek and our raft is not in charge of dinner by design. We make a run for the creek as soon as our tents our staked. It's a hot afternoon. The creek is cool. Our fl y rods trick one fi sh after another. Six to eight inch fi sh are common. Every now and then a 12-14 inch cuttie comes up. Our water shoes make quick work upstream and we lose count of our sets. We holler over the current. We pound knuckles. We smile with satisfaction as we soak in the late slant of sunlight. It's the only time on the trip that my rod owns me instead of my raft. fi re is across the river from us. It smolders slowly through the brown grass and wraps its way up the trunks of ponderosas that seem more everblack than evergreen. Your nose bleeds a bit. Your throat is scratchy. Your eyes tear up and your hair smells charred. All of this is uncomfortable and yet you can't help but stare with wonder. At fi rst light on our last day, I scramble through boulders to sit on a high, rocky point midriver. Chukars are calling for their covey on my right. Fire is feasting on the for- est to my left. Smoke is swirling all around. I mentally recap our week. We caught dozens of fi sh and counted hundreds of game. We fl oated 100-miles of rugged river by day. We slept in wildfi re by night. After take out, I watch a chopper hover over the river with a hose. It sucks up clean liquid then rises into dirty air and fl ies over my head to the wild heat billow- ing behind me. The Middle Fork is glowing in all its wild glory. From wildlife to wildfi re, it is wilder- ness at its fi nest.