For those who haven't been paying close attention: I grew up paddling whitewater, but did very little of it in the last eight years or so while focusing more on flatwater racing and ocean-style surfski paddling. In other words, while I haven't just been lying around in the last few years, I have been allowing those skills I'd always used to navigate whitewater to atrophy. Now, with a trip through the Grand Canyon scheduled for a year from now, I'm venturing back onto some swift-flowing mountain streams.
Last week my quest to grind my whitewater-paddling gears back into motion led me to the state of West Virginia and the Gauley River. This river was pioneered by adventurous paddlers in the 1960s and 70s, and back then it was considered the outer limit of navigability. But with the improvement of paddling techniques and equipment, it's become an annual destination for capable paddlers all over the country and even the world. Water is released into the river from Summersville Reservoir every Friday through Monday in the month of September.
It was my first visit to this river since 2014. By Thursday evening I was camping with my friend Amelia, a paddler and raft guide who lives in Sevier County in east Tennessee, at the Summersville Dam campground. Our plan was to meet Amelia's friends Nate and Dave Friday morning to run the Gauley's lower section from Woods Ferry to Swiss.
The lower Gauley is quite a bit tamer than the upper section, and I was happy to be easing into my weekend of paddling. I mentioned here that I was feeling rusty when I ran the Nantahala and Ocoee Rivers a couple of weeks ago, and that rust was still present as we paddled down the lower Gauley on Friday. I'd forgotten just how edgy my Atom C1 is, and I was flipping often and constantly having one edge or the other grabbed by swirly cross currents. But in all I managed to enjoy myself: I think it was only the second time I'd run the lower Gauley, the first time being way back in 1994, and I'd forgotten what a pretty place it is. It was a lovely sunny day, too, with an afternoon temperature in the mid 80s Fahrenheit.
That evening two more friends of Amelia's, Anna and Brent, joined us at our campsite. I'd paddled with Anna on the Pigeon River in July of 2023. While I'd never met Brent before, he would turn out to be an excellent paddling companion: this visit to the Gauley marked his 35th consecutive year of paddling there, so he was intimately familiar with the river, and even more important was that he was a wellspring of positive energy and an utterly pleasant guy to be around. As the weekend went on I found that there was no more popular person on the river: every couple of minutes, it seemed, somebody was paddling by us shouting "Brent! How you doin'?"
The size of the whitewater on the lower Gauley had been a step up from the Ocoee, and I knew that the water on the upper Gauley would be a step higher than that. So I definitely had some jangling nerves as I got ready to put on the upper section on Saturday. We'd had some light rain overnight and the temperature was almost 20 degrees cooler than it had been Friday, and that added to the tension. The first couple of miles of river offered similar stuff to what I'd paddled on Friday, and that gave me a nice warmup. Then came the first significant rapid, called, ironically enough, Insignificant. Since Anna had never been to the Gauley before, Brent was leading her through the cleanest, most reliable lines, and I followed along after them. I had no trouble with Insignificant, but since I hadn't run any whitewater that big since my last trip to the Gauley ten years ago, it got my attention.
We paddled through a few of the lesser rapids (many of which are as big as anything on the lower Gauley), and arrived at Pillow Rock Rapid, one of the truly memorable whitewater landmarks in this country. The riverbed constricts down to maybe a third of its normal width, and the entire flow slams into an enormous rock that juts out from the river-left bank. The water comes back on itself to form the eponymous "pillow," and flows off to the right onto a boulder known as "Volkswagen Rock" because it's shaped like one of those classic Beetle cars. The good news about Pillow Rock Rapid is that it's pretty forgiving: it doesn't have the sort of nasty undercut rocks or boulder sieves that are common elsewhere on the Gauley, and if you come out of your boat, you're most likely to wash into the calmer water below Volkswagen Rock. Still, Pillow Rock is one of the more impressive pieces of whitewater that people willingly paddle into, and I don't think it's possible to sit in your boat at the top of it without feeling at least a little bit nervous.
I was in fact very nervous as I watched Brent and Anna paddle their entrance route into the rapid. But they were wasting no time, so I didn't have to stew over it for long. I followed Brent's line, and once I was past the monster hole on the river-right bank, I felt like I'd cleared the most formidable hurdle. I started to work my way right so I would miss the pillow, but I was swept into it anyway, and flipped.
It was not the first time I'd flipped in this rapid, and past experience had taught me to hang out upside down for a bit until my boat gets washed down below Volkswagen Rock where a roll will be easier. This time, however, I'd managed to inhale a mouthful of water while going over, and I couldn't hold out underwater for long. My paddle blade had been sucked deep, and I struggled to move it into position for a roll. Once I'd done so I was thinking (hoping) that I was in smooth enough water, but right as I attempted to roll I got slammed into the froth on the left side of VW. By this time I didn't think I could wait any longer, and I popped my skirt and swam out. Amelia was nearby and she helped me swim my boat into an eddy on the left bank. I'd thrown my paddle toward that bank, and another guy kindly grabbed it and delivered it to me.
No paddler wants to swim, but it happens to pretty much everybody sooner or later. Regaining your composure after a swim is always a challenge. For starters, there's the physical impact: even if you don't get banged up (and I did not, fortunately), being submerged in cold water for at least a couple of minutes lowers your core temperature into the shivering zone. And unless you have the unflappability of a world-class athlete, some self-doubt will start to creep in as you face the whitewater that's still to come.
That's the state I was in as I dumped the water from my boat, gathered up my gear, and tried to get warm as our group took a break on a rock in the middle of the river. I was suddenly dreading the rest of the day, and that was totally an overreaction, I know, as my swim was nowhere near the worst I'd ever experienced. But my confidence was already fragile.
Of course, I had no choice but to get back in the boat and continue. I paddled along timidly and was getting flipped by the silliest little wave-holes. Soon enough the Meadow River came in from the left, signaling the next major rapid, Lost Paddle. I took out on a sandy beach at the mouth of the Meadow to drain some water from my boat and get myself focused for the long, constricted rapid that features three or four drops of big, fast water.
I ran the first couple of drops without incident. But sitting in an eddy about halfway through, I sensed that there was a lot of water in my boat, and that made no sense because I'd just dumped it out. It had to be my imagination, I thought, unless... could I have broken my boat somewhere? That didn't make sense, either.
My companions were moving swiftly through the rapid, so I put those thoughts aside and kept going. But in the final set of waves and holes, I had no control over my boat. I got spun backward, and my corrective strokes were ineffective because the boat was basically a submarine. The only thought in my head at that moment was "What in the Wide World of Sports is going on here!?" or some variation of that.
I managed to stay upright as I washed through the final meters of Lost Paddle and into the pool below. But I was completely demoralized by my inability to control my craft. "What on Earth is wrong with me?" I wondered. "Do I even still belong out here?"
I knew I had to get out of the boat and dump it, and as I paddled toward the bank, I got a peek back at my stern. Only then did I discover the actual problem: when I'd drained out water up at the mouth of the Meadow, I'd forgotten to put my boat's drain plug back in.
It's about the dumbest mistake a person can make, but at that moment I was relieved simply to have an explanation for all my struggles in Lost Paddle. Suddenly, I felt a renewal of confidence with just two big rapids left to go.
The first of these was Iron Ring, and I had about the cleanest, driest line through that rapid I'd ever had. Brent and Anna were at the bottom watching me come down, and they were very complimentary of how I looked in the big drop. A little while later we reached Sweet's Falls, and I had a similarly good run there. We paddled a mile or so farther to the takeout at Mason's Branch, and I felt I'd achieved a positive ending to a sort-of-tough return to the upper Gauley. Lest you think I was all gloom and doom on Saturday, here’s a photo in which I managed a smile:
From left to right, that's Anna, Brent, yours truly, and Amelia.
Still, I hadn't completely moved past the day's difficulties. Besides my swim, I had flipped many times and struggled a bit in the big-water conditions, and I spent Saturday evening wondering if I would have better control when we ran the upper Gauley again on Sunday.
There was also the philosophical question of just how badly I want to revisit the whitewater experiences of my past. Even when I was running stuff that's quite a bit steeper and more challenging than the upper Gauley, the sport was never really about adrenaline for me. Most of my satisfaction came from a sense of accomplishment of attaining the skill level that was necessary to run a given river or a given rapid. In the last decade or so I've been finding that sense of accomplishment on open water, riding downwind swells and stuff like that. It's every bit as challenging as navigating big rapids, but I'm not getting slammed into rocks.
Now here I was back at the Gauley, and I was wondering if, at age 57, I still had it in me to run this caliber of whitewater. I'd already decided I don't need to go and do steep creeks and Class V water anymore, but was the Gauley now beyond my reach too?
Sunday morning I shared my misgivings with Brent. He reminded me that everybody swims once in a while, and he said "Man, the whole rest of the run you looked solid! I wasn't worried about you at all. And then you went and styled Iron Ring! You're fine, man... just go out and enjoy yourself."
It was what I needed to hear. Once I was in my boat just a while later, I felt quite a bit more sure of myself. I wasn't flipping a lot like I'd done the previous two days. I was still following Brent's lines through early rapids like Insignificant, but I was paddling more aggressively and reading the whitewater more confidently on my own.
Of course, I wouldn't truly feel better until I'd redeemed myself at Pillow Rock. I entered the rapid in the same spot Brent did, just to make sure I was on the right line to miss the nasty river-right hole, and once I was past that I took a couple of strong strokes to propel myself to the right, away from the worst of the pillow. I hit the bottom-most bit of the pillow, but I was able to surf it to continue my rightward momentum all the way to the right side of Volkswagen Rock. A photographer from West Virginia Sports Photography got several shots of my descent, including this one:
I'm thoroughly buried in white froth, but I'm still upright!
With a certain monkey off my back, I was able to savor the rest of the river for real. I remembered to keep my drain plug in and had a delightful run of Lost Paddle. I think this rapid might be the most beautiful spot on the river: the riverbed constricts between two steep slopes, and boulders are strewn everywhere, and the whitewater is big and interesting and pretty. Lost Paddle is not too gnarly, but it's challenging enough to get your attention as you avoid several deadly undercut spots.
I got to the bottom of Lost Paddle with a smile on my face. I tried to repeat my perfect run of Iron Ring, and though I didn't succeed entirely, my run was plenty good enough. I flipped at the bottom of Sweet's Falls, but I hit my roll, so hey... it was a serviceable effort. I got to the takeout feeling happy about my run--not just because I didn't swim and didn't flip much and stuff like that, but because I felt like I was starting to hit my stride, to rediscover a comfort zone on this classic river.
I should note that on Sunday I had the pleasure of paddling with a couple of the people who will be part of my Grand Canyon trip next year: Jessica ("Sparkles") and Brian. Amelia went out and recruited them for me.
The obvious next step would have been for me to get one more run in on Monday to solidify my feelings of confidence. Alas, I was planning to visit a cousin in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, Monday evening, and I really wanted to get a good visit with him and his family. I wouldn't be able to do that if I arrived late in the evening. Everybody I knew with whom I was comfortable paddling was planning a late-morning putin, too late for me to paddle the river and get to Oak Ridge at a reasonable hour. So I skipped paddling on Monday and hit the road.
I enjoyed seeing my relatives Monday evening, and I got back to Memphis in the late afternoon on Tuesday. Since then I've just been recovering physically. Three long days of whitewater definitely left me with some aches and pains. The weather here at home has turned foul, too: the remnants of Hurricane Francine have been hammering us all day today. In the last couple of years we've had several bouts of hurricane remnants passing through here, and this storm is by far the worst of them. I'm definitely not eager to be in a boat on the Mississippi River in this weather. Maybe by the weekend I'll venture down there.
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