The Travails of Charlie—First Inflatable Raft Through Grand Canyon

First, you must navigate the crowded, sun-baked parking lot. A multi-colored fleet of polished metal and tinted-windows—Volvos, s.u.v.’s, and mini-vans—jockey for the few remaining parking spots. Rap music blares from the cooler-sized speakers on the deck of the wedge-shaped building. Lost children shriek, running between the rows of cars; schools of bare-shouldered teenage girls giggle in unison, caught up in the excitement and promise of a warm day on the river with the fresh-faced guides in dark wraparound sunglasses and life jackets. It is easier to park on the road.
Brave the parking lot once more, on foot this time; then tiptoe up the steps of the deck and into the lime-green, neon-lit foyer. Soon you are treading water in another sea of youthful exuberance; bewildered parents sway like anchorless buoys, credit cards in hand. Then and only then, if you manage to thread your way through the giddy crowd, eventually you will find Charlie, resting in a glass case in the T-shirt shop cum museum.
Charlie.
The first inflatable raft to float the canyons of the Green and Colorado Rivers; the raft that not only changed the way we boat on Western rivers, but opened these rivers up to anyone with time on their hands and an itch too see what’s around the bend. Charlie, arguably the founding rubber father of modern day commercial rafting in the West, the unwitting progenitor of the merry carnival here at Mad River Boat Trips in Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
The sun’s glare makes it difficult to view Charlie. Not that many people take an interest. Occasionally a day-tripper wanders in, lost or looking for a T-shirt, and wanders out, a dazed look on their face. Despite the vintage boats and the attractive historical mural at their fingertips, these neophyte river runners have other things on their minds. They are on vacation. Here to grab a few hours of fun on the Snake River, not to voluntarily attend a history lesson on boating in the West. It is hard to fault their insouciance or their indifference. Young, strong, tan—they have signed on for a fling, not a long-term romance, with the river. A one-day stand.
Romances, though, have started in stranger places.
Sixty-five years old and sagging, Charlie’s uninflated, rubberized surface is creased and care-worn. The yellow raft has little of the aging charm of the wooden boats on display. In an interesting difference of opinion on the restoration/preservation debate, Utah Historical Society (where Charlie usually lives) insisted that the raft be left as is, refusing various suggestions and/or requests to have Charlie “brought to life,” as some proponents of restoration state the case. Attempts to restore Charlie, according to the historical society, would be a violation of the “integrity” of the raft as well as a possible risk to the raft itself, a historical artifact. A valid point-of-view. And yet, Charlie looks sodden and unappealing, even a bit lonely this morning. Before arriving at the Mad River T-shirt Shop/Museum, the raft had been stored in the basement of the Utah State Historical Society in Salt Lake City for some years. “We can’t keep exhibits on the floor forever,” said one curator. I agreed with her, half-heartedly. A wee voice in my head, though, whispered, “Why not?” That Charlie was even seeing the light of day, far from its traditional stomping grounds, was a credit to Breck O’Neill, owner of Mad River Boats. “Better than nothing,” badgered that same voice as I stared at Charlie. “But what Charlie really needs is a boathouse, a place where it can be permanently on display, along with other Grand Canyon craft.”
As part of the agreement with Utah State Historical Society, O’ Neill had Charlie appraised by a curator from the Maritime Museum in San Francisco for insurance purposes. In terms of its historical value, he listed the craft priceless.
***
“Your voyage floored me,” wrote Amos Burg to fellow-Oregonian Buzz Holmstrom in the winter of 1937-38. The gas station attendant from Coquille had recently completed the first solo journey down the Green and Colorado Rivers in a handmade wooden boat. Overnight the often-shy Holmstrom had become uncomfortably famous. As savvy to the uses of publicity as Holmstrom was reluctant, Burg made his pitch. Why not combine their talents—Holmstrom’s skill as a boatman, his knowledge of the Colorado, and his popularity with Burg’s talents as a photographer, his adventurous background and his numerous contacts—to make a film recreating the solo trip. This film would not only make them plenty of money, but also allow them to do what they both loved. Ever anxious to get back on the river, Holmstrom jumped at the opportunity. Naturally, Buzz would row his wooden boat; Amos, however, had come up with another novel idea. Not only he would he film the epic journey, he would row a different kind of boat—a rubber raft—down the rivers.
If ever there was an incurable, yet remarkably pragmatic romantic, it was Amos Burg. From an early age, he seems to have been struck by the “holy curiosity,” a wanderlust for travel, preferably by water, and faraway places. The back sloughs of the Willamette and Columbia Rivers near his hometown of Portland were his first playground. At twelve, he shipped out as a cabin boy on ocean liners; soon after he was working his way around the world on cargo ships. By the time he met Holmstrom, he had paddled his canoe down the Columbia, Yukon, Snake, Mississippi, and the McKenzie, often from source to debouchement. He preferred a partner on his adventures, but would go it alone if necessary. Only the year before he had taken what one newspaper article called “a crude toy rubber raft” though Hell’s Canyon of the Snake River. Impressed by the raft’s performance and light weight, he may well have decided then to design a sturdier, more able raft, one that could withstand the pounding he was sure to receive on any journey down a larger river. Burg was always preparing for his next adventure.
With the help of Charles Wheeler, a shipping magnate and long-time friend, Burg contracted with the B.F. Goodrich Company to construct the raft out of a new wonder material—vulcanized rubber fabric. (Eventually Burg named the boat after Charles Wheeler, who also donated two hundred dollars toward the trip.)
Air Inflatable of New Jersey would manufacture the prototype, according to Burg’s specifications. Each of the separate twenty-six chambers of the raft would be inflated with two-and-a-half pounds of air pressure; the bright yellow, five-foot by sixteen-foot, would weigh a mere eighty-three pound when inflated. The craft’s fore and aft compartments would be sealed at the thwarts to provide a waterproof storage area for Burg’s gear and expensive camera equipment. Burg crowed that it “would float on a dewdrop.” Goodrich guaranteed that it would carry a load of five thousand pounds. In his ever-laconic fashion, Holmstrom uttered that he would hate to row a boat that weighed that much through a rapid.
Contrary to popular belief, rubber rafts were not invented by the U.S. Navy in response to World War II. Almost one hundred years earlier, Lt. John Fremont of the United States Army and Horace H. Day came up with the idea of a rubber raft to explore the Great Plains and Rocky Mountain regions. The first recorded use of this ungainly, rectangular-shaped beast was in 1842 when Fremont set out to survey the Platte River, not exactly a roaring stretch of whitewater.
Weeks late, Charlie finally arrived in Green River, Wyoming aboard the Union Pacific. At first sight, Burg was thrilled; Holmstrom remained dubious. Preparations continued. The two Oregonians cobbled together a wooden frame. On August 26, 1938, they launched from Green River Lakes, bound for fame, fortune and the Sea of Cortez.
***
Despite his vast experience on rivers, Burg had his hands full. Not only was he venturing down eleven-hundred-miles of unfamiliar river, he was piloting an untested craft as well. More importantly, he was a paddler not an oarsman. Soon enough, he would have to start thinking and responding differently in his approach to fast, often unforgiving, water. It is a wonder (and a credit to Burg’s judgement, composure and sound skills as a waterman) that he did not get into more trouble. Through it all, Burg somehow managed to avoid a serious, even fatal mishap.
Amos, nevertheless, had his share of trouble on the river, partly due to his inexperience, partly due to the inherent limitations of Charlie.
The journal accounts of Holmstrom and Burg himself confirm that Charlie/Amos did everything but flip. On the shallow, rocky upper reaches of the Green, Charlie functioned as Burg had anticipated, bumping and threading its way through the rock-strewn river. Given his experience, it is likely that Burg was a quick study.
Running on relatively high water, the trio entered the Canyon of Lodore in good shape. Amos ran Disaster Falls without incident; at Triplet Falls, he washed up on a boulder and had to get out on a rock and push Charlie off. It would not be the last time. With the help of Phil Lundstrom and Buzz, he portaged Hells Half Mile. In Split Mountain Canyon, however, Burg had a scare. Trying to avoid the larger waves, he found himself going sideways into a pourover. For an instant Charlie trembled on edge, ready to flip. Then the raft washed out. Ever in good humor Burg wrote that evening, “I left the job pretty much up to Charlie.” Soon enough Amos/Charlie would face a stricter test.
In mid-September they stopped in Jensen for a much-anticipated break. The only problems Amos faced were the unstinting generosity of the locals and their curious questions. What would happen if that thing strikes a rock or runs over a tack? A few days later they set off down river. One-hundred-miles of the Uinta Basin, seventy-miles of Desolation and Gray Canyon, and one-hundred-thirty-miles of the Green River Valley awaited them, followed by Labyrinth and Stillwater Canyons. Amos/Charlie held their own.
Heading into much-dreaded Cataract Canyon, Holmstrom filled Amos’ ear with tales of doom and destruction. An old boatman trick.
At the head of the Big Drops, Amos tried to sneak down the shoreline. Instead he found himself riding into the heart of the maelstrom. The great waves bent and twisted and folded Charlie up double bow to stern. Burg nearly had his head cracked open. There was little he could do but hold on and ride it out. At Big Drop #3, he lined. Holmstrom was having his own troubles in Cataract. Twice he hit rocks, once hard enough to crack the hull of the Julius F. By the time he arrived in Marble Canyon in mid-October, Burg had figured out that the best way to safely complete the eleven-hundred-mile journey as well as film it, no small accomplishment in itself, was to simply avoid the bigger rapids when at all possible. Again, a credit to his judgement. Burg (with the help of Willis Johnson, who replaced Phil Lundstrom at Green River, Utah) wiggled his boat down the eddies and side pockets of most of the major rapids, a time-consuming effort.

Amos lined Soap Creek, then House Rock; when he ran North Canyon, Charlie was swamped and nearly capsized. On October 17, Johnson wrote, “We almost lost Amos in his rubber boat today. His boat is too flexible and half the boat was sucked straight down in a strong whirlpool. It is a wonder the rubberized fabric it is composed of didn’t rip for there was a terrific strain on it. It was very tough though… The wooden boat goes over the waves a lot better. We have been whirled around several times in whirlpool, but can always get out of them with little difficulty.”
Amos lined 27-mile Rapid, then Hance on the left. In the tailwaves at Sockdolager, he nearly turned turtle. After helping Amos line Charlie around Eighty-three Mile Rapid, Holmstrom himself nearly turned over in an unnamed wave a few miles below.
Below Horn Creek Amos wrote, “This afternoon Julius F. ran Horn Creek Rapids and Granite Falls, while ambitionless Charlie lined a few yards around the head.” He also lined Hermit. After Burg had yet another close encounter in Turquoise Rapids, Holmstrom remarked half-in-jest, “That thing isn’t safe!”
Ruby Canyon and Serpentine Rapids were no kinder to either boater. Once again, Amos dribbled Charlie along the rocky shore while Buzz narrowly escaped another sound thrashing.
One afternoon after a long day on the river Amos asked Willis, “What did you write about the trip today?” A bit coy, Willis laughed and said, “Well, we carried Amos’ boat around this rapid, that rapid, all the rapids.” Chagrined, Amos replied “I wish you wouldn’t mention that in your writing.” Willis mumbled O.K. Of course, he continued to record the mishaps of Charlie (and the Julius F.) as well as his sincere admiration for Burg.
On October 25, Johnson revealed yet another close encounter for Charlie/Amos. “In one rapid this afternoon a very large cliff splits the river into two very narrow channels. We chose the right channel and came through very nicely, but Amos was not so lucky. The strong current hurled him against the right cliff, his oar was knocked out of the oarlock and he was held helpless against the cliff by the strong current while we were being carried further and further downstream all the time. He was finally able to free the boat before it could be sucked under. It was his narrowest escape from disaster.”
At Waltenburg, Burg portaged again. Holmstrom tore a three-by-eight-inch gash in the bottom of the Julius F. Two days later, Burg/Charlie plunged into Forester Rapids and was nearly upended. Having nearly lost his “office equipment,” i.e. his pencils, pens, notebooks, maps, journals that he had neatly arranged in his cockpit, he landed on a sand bar below the rapid to recoup. In the style of boatmen then and now, he made light of the incident. Dubendorf and Lava Falls waited downstream. Burg lined both of these major rapids; Buzz ran both.
As tempting as it is to compare the two boats and the two boatmen, it is a faulty comparison and a temptation best avoided. Though Burg and Holmstrom were running on low water (10,000 cfs) and carrying heavy loads, there were significant differences between them.
Holmstrom knew his boat and the Canyon. Certainly he was confident of his skills the second time around. Amos, oddly enough, had assumed the greater burden—an untested craft, an unfamiliar river, a brief time to learn the trade of the oarsman besides carrying on the duties of filming and photography. Intrepid by nature, proficient through practice—Amos would never match the technical rowing skills of a Holmstrom. Under the circumstances, it is doubtful that anyone (even Holmstrom) could have rowed Charlie any better.
Later Holmstrom wrote of Amos, “He sure did a fine job of rowing as Charlie rows much harder than Julius.” Burg said of Holmstrom, “Buzz is a superb boatman, very rhythmic in thought and action, accurate as a knife thrower.” Despite minor disagreements, both men were in the habit of giving credit where credit was due.
A few days later the trio encountered the rising waters of Lake Mead at Separation Rapid. The yellow raft with the patched-together rowing frame, no doubt underinflated and overloaded, slipped down the dwindling current into slack water, the first inflatable to pass through the canyons of the Green and Colorado Rivers.
A dozen or more linings, four near flips, two or three portages, numerous encounters with rocks, and probably numerous, unrecorded near misses—by modern standards, Amos/Charlie got hammered. In many respects, though, the 1938 trip was an unvarnished success. The journey was completed; life-long friendships established; even Amos’ film garnered a nomination for best short film from the Academy of Motion Pictures. Charlie became the first inflatable to go down the river; Holmstrom became the first boatman to run every rapid, as far as they knew. In spite of their grand plan, the two Oregonians didn’t make any money to speak of.
***
The following year (1939) Burg brought Charlie on a trip down the Middle Fork of the Salmon River with several prominent boatmen of the day. In one article Brad Dimock wrote of this meeting, “They eyed the inflatable with suspicion as they launched their fleet of wooden boats. By midway down the river their opinions were changing. They envied Charlie’s ability to run the shallow water, bounce off obstacles without lengthy repairs, and have dry shoes at the end of the day. By the end of the trip, the future of whitewater boating was forever changed.”
Running rivers took a back seat to the exigencies of WW2. Throughout these years, Burg traveled regularly to distant locations around the world, both on his personal adventures and later in his work for the U.S. government. Charlie’s next adventure did not come until 1946 when Amos ran the Snake River/Hell’s Canyon a second time. For the most part, however, Charlie remained in the shed next to Burg’s home in Juneau, Alaska for the next thirty or so years.
In 1978, Amos rafted Hells Canyon of the Snake River again; two years later he boated the Yukon with family and friends. He was seventy-nine years old. Age, safety, the number of people involved, the condition of Charlie—all may have factored into Amos’ decision to leave the yellow raft behind.
Burg did strike up a friendship with Cort Conley, Idaho boatman and writer, in the early 1980s. Visits and frequent letters between the two river runners, generations apart, drew the two men into a sturdy friendship. Eventually Conley persuaded Burg that Charlie was an important piece of river history. Charlie should be placed somewhere safe, Conley insisted. Burg had considered putting the raft in the Columbia Maritime Museum in Astoria, Oregon, at the mouth of the Columbia River. (“In my own backyard,” said Burg.) Conley sympathized with Burg’s desire, but argued persuasively that Charlie should be placed in a museum closer to Grand Canyon, where more people would appreciate the role it had played in whitewater history.
With Burg’s blessings, Conley approached Grand Canyon Museum on the South Rim in the late 1970’s. The ranger-in-charge at the time seemed emphatically disinterested in securing the raft much less in putting it on display. Conley was dismayed by the response. He would have to look elsewhere.
Conley also feared, rightly so, that Charlie would end up like so many historical artifacts, squirreled away in the basement of a museum waiting for a sympathetic curator. If not on the edge of the Grand Canyon, then where?
Next, Conley approached the Utah State Historical Society in Salt Lake City. He struck paydirt. Gary Topping, a curator with an interest in the history of the Green River area, was excited about acquiring Charlie. Delighted, Conley put him in touch with Amos. Topping made such an impression that Burg agreed to place the boat at Utah State Historical Society. On February 13, 1982, Amos wrote to Topping, “Your enthusiasm for Charlie certainly makes your museum seem like the logical place for its last resting place. You win.” Whatever the agreement, Burg wrote further, “I’d appreciate it greatly if you would write Mr. Wheeler in your enthusiastic prose to tell him that the boat named Charlie in his honor is to be a permanent exhibit in your museum (italics mine). Mr. Wheeler is over ninety and this would mean a great deal to him.”
Soon after Amos brought Charlie down to Salt Lake City. Conley was there for the annual wrga meeting and he, along with Topping, met Amos in the Utah State Historical Society basement. Together they inflated Charlie. After nearly fifty years, the modest yellow raft still held air. Conley lugged the raft over to the wrga meeting to show it off while Amos gave a talk about Charlie and his amazing trip through the Canyon in 1938.
At the time, the prevailing philosophy concerning fragile historical artifacts seemed to be one of minimal interference. Since one can’t “preserve” rubber, the best approach would be to make it “presentable.’” Thus, Charlie was cleaned up as best as possible, flakes and all, and put on display. The idea of placing a bladder inside Charlie to “restore” the craft was unacceptable. Charlie would have had to been cut open and then resewn. The entire process meant excessive handling of the frail boat not to mention putting added pressure on existing seams, according to museum curators. (The bladder technique, though, has been improved in recent years. Made of a very thin, but non-stretchable material, the bladders are designed to slip in through the valve hole, thus requiring no surgery. The bladder is then inflated, a bit smaller than the original raft, putting little if any pressure on the old seams.)
Between 1982 and 2000, Charlie resided at the Utah State Historical Society, occasionally on display, more often in storage in the basement. On June 11, 1986, Amos Burg died in his hometown of Portland, Oregon. Gary Topping left the Utah State Historical Society in 1991. In the summer of 2000, Mad River Boat Trips contracted with the Utah State Historical Society to display Charlie for a period of time.
Go visit Charlie! Despite the crowds, the little yellow raft that started it all might be glad to have visitors with romance on their minds and rivers in their hearts.

Vince Welch