Summers by the Portneuf River

For much of my youth, I lived next to the Portneuf River in Pocatello, Idaho. Over the years, the value I place on that time has changed, and how I view those events has evolved.

I remember that the river water level was higher in the spring with all the runoff from the snow-topped mountains flowing into it and then running through the town on the West side. My Huckleberry Finn experience with this river included fishing from rafts built from logs and branches as we floated downstream. Our home was right on the bank of the river, in the middle of the town’s residential section. I could look out of my second-story bedroom window straight to the river. The banks were thick on both sides with bushes and trees, and when we floated down the river on rafts we built, it was like being in another world.

Fishing from the raft was achieved with a traditional pole, but fishing from the shore, mostly in my backyard, was different. There were lots of small minnows in the shallow water near the beach, so no poles or hooks were used; instead, a pint or quart glass bottle was our fishing tool.

Masson and Ball brand glass jars with threads on their outer perimeter, so they could accept a metal ring when it was screwed down, were our unique fishing tool for minnows. My mother and aunts all used these jars to bottle raspberries, peaches, cherries, and other items, by sealing them in them and putting them into a boiling kettle bath. Raspberries were my favorite.

An empty bottle, strong string, lid, knife, and some bread, were all needed. The string, usually six feet long, had one end tied and fasted around the top by putting it between the lid and bottle before screwing it down. Using the knife, a hole could be cut in the middle of the flat metal lid, creating a punctured X, then pressing the X to open so that four short sections of the cover are depressed into the bottle. At this point, a few bread pieces would be scattered in the bottom of the bottle before the lid was replaced. The bread pieces needed to be big enough so that, when the bottle was filled with water, they wouldn’t float up through the opening in the lid.

With the filled bottle secured by the string, doubled up if needed to support its weight and pressure, it was tossed offshore into the river under overhanging branches or close to a large rock.

This type of fishing was not complicated, and we would wait at least ten minutes, maybe even an hour, to see what treasures the river would yield. When the bottle was pulled back to shore, it almost always contained minnows that had swam in to get the bread but couldn’t figure out how to get out.

The small fish could be used for bait on a hook with a fishing pole, especially if a trip to the Snake River was coming up where bigger fish would bite on minnows, or they could be sold for bait, like worms. The minnows were also an option for more riverbank activity.

Mud and rocks could be used to make a little pond on the bank of the river to hold them. Of course, letting the fish go was the best option, which sometimes happened, too. When a pool was created and loaded up with the minnows, the next step was to back away, hide or even leave and come back in an hour or so. Sooner or later, a snake would find this little pool and slither in to eat the fish. With good timing, the snake could then be caught.

What to do with a live snake presented more of a challenge. Several attempts to keep the snake in a cardboard box under the front porch failed, as they just disappeared. I always hoped they wouldn’t find a way into the house.

Leaving the river behind when I was about fourteen, our family moved to a new house in a traditional neighborhood on the east side of the town. A few years after we moved, something terrible happened to the river. Spring runoff was higher than it had been in years, and all along the river, the neighborhoods were flooded as it ran through the town. The town brought the Army Corps of Engineers in to evaluate the situation, and they decided to make a cement ditch of the river for its entire length as it twisted and turned through the town. The project began in 1966 and was completed in 1968. The river was replanned by the Engineers, and 6.2 miles were changed. 1.5 miles of the changes were right through the West Side of the down, where our previous home sat almost in the middle.  A concrete channel was poured 40 feet wide and 10 to 16 feet tall. I don’t recall any protests or concerns that the engineers were wrong in their actions, and no one asked my opinion.

A river in a cement ditch is not a river! When they completed their plan, the banks had no trees or bushes. It was just an ugly, sterile ditch. Any path to revisiting my Huckleberry Finn days and my youth had been eliminated by bureaucrats and a town happy to receive some federal funding.

I had to wait a few years before returning to where I grew up, where this work was done. After that first trip back, I waited a long time before I ever went back again. For over 50 years, I have only visited the area I grew up in a few times. It is just a heartbreaking site

John Steinbeck said, “You can’t go home again because the home has ceased to exist in the mothballs of memory.” Maybe he was right, but my memory of home is much better than the reality today. It points to the fact that there is no sense in looking back. And so, we get up and press forward.

Maybe I can’t go home again, but I am glad I wrote down my thoughts about the river that was such an essential part of my childhood. That documented memory is a plot point in my life story that looks different each time I read it, demonstrating how my thoughts and conclusions about it have changed. For example, when I first wrote the story, I didn’t even consider the government’s role in deciding to reduce the river to an ugly cement ditch.

This is a chapter in my book, “Why Life Stories Change: As You Look At Your Own Life Story, You See Yourself Differently.” See “My Books Section” Or order the book at https://www.amazon.com/Brent---M.-Jones/e/B07WTRSLC1.