A Rite of Friendship

It was one of those almost warm days when winter is letting go. The sky had just enough clouds to not be perfect blue, and the weather was just chilly enough for a layer or two under the dry suit....but the first pogie-less day nonetheless. I had put off boating all day, passing up many of the swollen creeks to have a go at a late afternoon with a good friend, on a run that had called to us for the last month.

We met at the gauge, as boaters will do, late enough in the afternoon that working was over, and that the sun was in the tail end of its winter descent to the afternoon horizon. The level was a bit over zero, pretty good for a run that neither of us had done before, so we left a car and headed up.

Being careful to walk the white line farthest from the double row of no parking and no trespassing signs, we launched from right next to the bridge, bouncing down the rocks to splash into the river. I welcomed the drenching which didn't bring an icy chill to my face, and I welcomed the swell of the current under my paddle blade as I peeled out into the flow and floated between the rows of trees which separated the river from the pasture in this wide part of the valley.

About a half mile of pasture later, the forest pinched in on our tiny aquatic conveyor belt. Dark green hemlocks loomed closer and closer, and then the walls closed in as well. Water which had recently rippled over gravel bars deepened and surged between the banks, rearing up into waves which snapped their way over the slanting shelves and between the boulders which signaled the beginning of the gradient. Not more than fifty yards passed before we could see the first horizon line, so I dug in, my paddle blade pulling steadily toward the river right eddy while my boat pivoted and rocked over the rising waves.

From where I sat in the swirling eddy, I could see that it looked like about a ten footer, and Trip, out of his boat on shore, said that it was a simple line that he would show me. He slid into his boat, into the river, and disappeared over the lip of the drop, boofing to the right off a bit of flow 6 feet or so from the slab of rock which formed the right bank. I followed, sweeping a big c-stroke and thrusting my hips to make the offside boof into the pool ten feet below. I eddied, grinned at Trip, and took in the stretch of river to the next horizon line, which was not very far from where I sat.

We eddied on the left this time, and hopped out onto a rock shelf which ran along the bank, about two feet above the steadily flowing water. As soon as I pulled my boat onto the ledge and stood, it became clear that the gradient storm was about to reach its full fury, as I saw the river cascading over drop after drop and disappearing over a horzon line on the edge of my sight. I stepped through the puddles on the rock ledge, squishing carefully through the soft mud and moss that filled the path of a tiny stream that ran through a tributary tunnel of rhododendrons to join in the tumult below. I edged along the bank, ducking and dodging the branches as I wormed my way downstream for a better view.

The first drops weren't as bad as they had looked. There was a two foot ledge with a little hole for starters, then a fast approch to a twelve footer angled from right to left with a notch in it that afforded a vertical drop into a deep spot between rocks, without following much of the flow off of the farhtest downstream point of the drop and into the left bank. The current over the deeper landing spot fed a fast moving sheet of water, which slid with increasing speed for twenty or thirty feet over shallow low angle bedrock before the slide angle increased to sixty-five degrees or more, rushing the water another eight vertical feet into a rooster tail sort of hole and onto another rock shelf. It looked like you could bang over to the right on that rock shelf and get out before the next horizon line, another 30 yards or so downstream, or you could eddy in another deeper spot at the base of a cliff on the left. It also looked like this was going to be one hell of a fun rapid!

Trip ran first while I watched, nainling the line on the first drop and running the slanting ledge left of center, so that he could swing into the eddy at the base of the cliff. He gave me a big thumbs up with a grin, as he climbed out of his boat to stand in the eddy and reached for his rope. My turn.

I slid off the shelf which we had pulled out on, and ferried back and forth above the first two foot ledge while I got my bearings. Then I leaned hard right, dug in a bow draw which swung into a forward stroke, and then planted another stroke for the boof as I went over the first small hole and onto the rush of water headed for the big one. I boofed through the notch in the drop, missing rocks on both sides and landing flat in the deeper spot ten feet below. I angled right and drew that way to slide myself over before going over the upstream river right end of the next slanting drop. I banged over the shallow shlef below it, slowing to a stop on the rocks a few feet from the lip of the next horizon line. What a screamer!

We headed over to the right to check out the next drop, which proved to be far more obstructed than we had guessed. It turned out to be super technical on the right, but Trip squeezed his way down beteen the boulders and logs on a nearly waterless route that seemed to be the best option to run from where we were. I ferried over to the left and carried my boat back up to where I could run the proper line, which went through a couple small slots and then over a sweet five foot boof. The next drop seemed like a gushy one, and Trip got out on the left to scout. He waved me on through, seeming to mean that I should head for the left at the bottom. When I was about 3/4 of the way down the pulsing channel, he shouted, "right, right!", causing me to have to snap it back around to get right for the hole at the bottom.

We were down in the gorge now, weaving along a beautiful riverbed through the hemlocks and rhododendrons, bopping over class III slides and ledges while wispy lines of white snaked across the deepening blue of the evening sky. Trip had one good unintentional surf in a hole at the bottom of a slide, and we crashed over one more good sized ledge. We didn't need to talk, only to smile and laugh and paddle as we immersed ourselves in the wetness and joy of one of the most important rites of our friendship. We moved smoothly and quicky downstream as a unit, like always, until we eddied left above the only spot on the river which I had seen before.

This is how it must have been. Good friends, laughing and playing and smiling their way down the river, checking out the day, enjoying a rite of friendship, and the joy of a beautiful afternoon mountain creek at winter's end.

I slid over to the left and bounced over the rocks in the sneak slot. I pulled up on the beach and turned to look at the rapid from the angle I was used to. I pulled my skirt, pulled my thigh straps, and unclipped my throw rope without ever taking my eyes off the drop. Trip was standing at the top, scouting. He headed back for his boat and got in. As he pulled his sprayskirt on, I turned to look at the log, sitting there on shore, gnarled and bumpy from branch stumps, smoothed and battered barkless by the water, and placed too late on the bank by forces other than the river that wore it.

Trip peeled out, and I turned my attention back to him as his boat slid down the current next to the undercut, pierced into the water, and sprang up over the foam pile on a little back ender. He swung into the eddy, and I headed back for my boat.

I stared at the rapid again as I put my straps back on, drinking in the beauty of the place as I pulled my skirt back over my cockpit and slid off the beach. Then I peeled out into the current, and paddled on down the river away from Pablo's place, to drink in another evening on a creek, and to celebrate a beautiful, fragile, frightening moment of friendship, of nature, and of wonder while the river and my heart still allow it.