The Next Big Idea

Daddys Creek Canyon Race: A New Knoxville Tradition

2012-01-23T19:50:00.006-05:00

We've been kicking around the idea of doing a race in Knoxville for a really long time, but motivation, availability of rain, bureaucracy and other deterents have always stifled the idea before it could blossom. One night at the round table though Karl Whipp mentioned the idea of racing Daddys Creek. I don't know why we hadn't thought of this before, but all of the sudden it seemed like the best place to have a local race. It runs a lot, is accessible to most paddlers, and is hidden deep in the temperately forested canyonlands of Obed country, far from the distractions of the outside world.

So this past Saturday, we all got together to post times and celebrate the thickest piece of wilderness on the plateau; the Obed watershed. It was a balmy 55 degrees most of the day, with a healthy flow of 1250 cfs. South Knox showed up in full, adding tremendously to the completeness of the experience via solid safety and great company. Drew Gunnoe and Adam Kinnon took all of the pictures that follow, being the only people with enough sense to document this silly event. Two brave souls even took a shredder down the canyon, which in my un-inflatably experienced eyes seemed both awesome and terrifying. I didn't see any of their lines, but heard they aced it. Official knuckle-dragging champ of the world Keith Sprinkle even came over from Asheville, putting a notary stamp of approval on the race. I won't mention that there was room in his van for a West Asheville rider who simply preferred to limit his involvement to the shit-talking/texting extent. He knows who he is. Finally, much to Bryce's dismay at having to go run class II, Team Jib made the event in true top down double poach form.

First, a little perspective on the Obed. Only 45 minutes from Knoxville, this huge watershed contains hundreds of miles of streams, all having their own unique character and style. There are four main stems of the Obed-Emory watershed: Daddys Creek, the Obed, Clear Creek, and the Emory. The Emory drains the high mountains in the vicinity of Frozen Head State Park and has a few interesting sections. Clear Creek is the cleanest, longest and most remote stream in the watershed, offering up a sweet 20 mile overnighter up top followed by progressively more difficult water as the creek cuts one of the more majestic canyons in the area. The Obed's main theme high up in the watershed is solitude, with a fun section just below crossville followed by a 22 mile roadless stretch perfect for overnighting, with Gauley sized whitewater when the flows are up. Daddys Creek meanders unassumingly, draining several retirement communities before dropping abruptly through a super cool canyon above its confluence with the Obed. The inner two miles of this canyon have the best whitewater/canyon combination of them all, and runs a lot; providing class III whitewater a majority of the winter and spring in normal years, and rowdy action when the river is running high. Add to this creek runs on tributaries like Island Creek, Little Clear Creek, Crooked Fork, Crab Orchard Creek and Yellow Creek and you can see that the Obed is truly a special place for paddlers and really anyone with an appreciation for unfettered river canyons.

Clear Creek Canyon

Surfing the Obed

Side Canyons Galore

Overnighting on Clear Creek

Crooked Fork

Below the waterfalls on Crooked Fork

Clear Creek Canyon

On the rim of the Obed's main canyon

Upper Obed

Daddys Creek Canyon

Daddys

Little Clear Creek

Obed Whitewater

Upper Obed

Campsite on Upper Clear Creek

Back in 1966, TVA had other plans for the Obed. They were intending to put a high dam at Alley Ford, on the lower section of the Obed, which would have flooded out a good bit of the Obed, Clear Creek, and Daddys Creek. Local paddling clubs and conservation groups fought the opportunists and won, defeating the dam proposal. Over the next 10 years the National Wild and Scenic Rivers Act was being drafted, and continued efforts to include the Obed in this charter legislation bore fruit. In 1976 the Act was passed, and the Obed became the only National Wild and Scenic River to be managed by the Park Service. Now well over 100 miles of river corridor are protected from development, hydro interest and mining. So next time you start to ponder what has succumbed to the dark graves of all the TVA impoundments in the area, remember that the Obed escaped this fate, and flows free and wild to this day. Without the tireless efforts of those who fought the good fight though, this would not be, and it will always be a fight to protect these places.

Back to Saturday, we arrived at the takeout at 9:30 to find a fire already raging courtesy of Karl. We loaded up and did run number one to dial in the lines. After setting everything up we went back up and paddled down to the start of the race. A few people ran in teams of two and three, and others held their own one minute interval. Everyone had a great time, though we did have one epic swim out of the hole at Rattlesnake. A spot on throw from the shredder crew served as an expedient rescue, and the victim, who shall remain nameless, took a ride in the middle of the shredder down to where the boat had lodged in a fearsome sieve. Once re-united, we all enjoyed the lower gates of the canyon for a while before heading down to the fire at the takeout.

Thanks again to everyone who came out. It was an awesome day in there, and a true community effort. Thanks to everyone for helping organize things. And thanks once again for Drew Gunnoe and Adam Kinnon for the pictures. There wouldn't have been much point of posting without them.

Marshall and Jeff getting ready for the Canyon at Yellow Creek

The boys setting safety at the big hole at the bottom of Rattlesnake

Already out of breath

This hole was very hungry

Sean Camp coming in hot

Nate Helms fresh off the Big Ditch

Master Woodsman Keith Sprinkle

Keith had never run Daddys before untill the race.

Mark Newton and Mary Ann Grell staying tight through the Rattlesnake

Alex Ohman and Ben ?last name? also were Daddys virgins and put up a pretty fast time.

Ben should get a deduction for this money line in the RPM over the fang.

Alex Zendel

Taft Sibley in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle kayak

Taft chews a lot of tobacco. That's why the water was the color it was.

Here is a multi-shot sequence of Bryce and the Son of Dod battling down the back of the beast

Jeff and Marshall coming into the rarely run right side of the fang

Coming into the finish area

Rock Party!

Hanging at the finish line

Tallying the results

Yeppers

Packing up for the takeout

The results:

bankfool 14:42

the helmsman 14:55

t-fat 15:11

son of dod 15:11

leave one behind evans 15:21

oh man 16:00

rpm ben 16:00

ohio gunslinger 16:01

enter handsman 16:39

sir newton 16:40

lone joan 16:51

goldilocks 17:04

drinker of footwear 51:03

Till next year!

Fresh Passion and the Exuberance of Youth

2011-10-25T14:52:00.000-04:00

At this point, I have lost track of how many different little phases Alexander has gone through, being interested in climbing one week and fire-fighting the next. But about 6 weeks ago, he got his first skateboard. This was the first time that he has fully immersed himself into a particular pursuit. He is at the skatepark almost every day now, and his intensity on the skateboard is contagious. Watching him concentrate and push himself is an amazing experience.

The really hardcore skaters drink milk.

Staking out some moves

This happens a lot.

Working on the ollie. It's only a matter of time.

The running start

Focus

Some random fall imagery:

Chilhowee Mtn Campground

I am not sure why this dude was wearing a pink mini-skirt and heading into the restroom at the Ocoee, but he is now on the internet wearing a pink mini-skirt.

Reverend Trey Coleman and Laura

Hanging out with Aunt Gretchen

Looking down Thunderhead at the Sams Creek confluence

Wellness Retreat in the Heart of the Southern Appalachians

2011-10-05T22:31:00.001-04:00

Some of the best days require early starts.

Fall is the season that may just speak to me a slight bit more than the others. I love all the seasons, and feel that the Southern Appalachians are a rather natural place to feel such even-handed appreciation for the whole year. Yet the change from hot and humid to crisp and clear, from green to grey, all ushered in by the most dramatic means, really is my time. Autumn is also typically busy, and it can be hard to get to all the places you think you will. For anyone who really gets out there and looks, the candidates for "favorite place to be" are as many as there are days in the wild. Every place is special, and deserves consideration. I might recommend that if you don't have a favorite place, you should start seeking it out. Don't be too concerned with objective qualities and finding the empirically "best" place. The human experience is a subjective one, so just find the one that speaks to you.

I recently had the opportunity to take a Friday off, not for a kayaking trip for a change, but for the purpose of losing myself in my favorite place. I could cite the water quality, national champion red spruce forests, and protected wilderness as reasons, but as valid as those arguments are, I just feel connected to this place. And having some close friends to share it with was just too rare an opportunity to pass up. Following are some shots from my first go light and fast trip into one of my favorite places.

The first person I saw.

James and Sean employing two different backpack methodologies.

picture by James Locke

Here I am excited to be leaving second growth Cove Hardwoods for uncut virgin forest.

Grass-lined single track.

Magic.

4 miles in, where we left the trail.

Reverend Trey Coleman, lost in a sea of Rhododendron

Our natural conveyance to the sacred footprint of the Raven.

Rate Inversion: Hours per mile

Touched by the Untouched

Ancient Forest

Stepping into the painting.

While waiting for Trey, I sat on this log. Turns out my interpretation of this log as being provided for the weary hiker quickly reshaped into a less anthropically based reallity. There is nothing quite like being 12 feet off the creek in the middle of nowhere while getting nailed by yellowjackets to bring about pure concentration. It hurt, but really was a beautifully clear moment of purposeful action. I calmly stood up and slowly navigated the slick log to the far end while the stings continued to acrue, where it finally seemed safe enough to tumble into the thick rhododendron below and quickly downstream.

Our destination.

No 200 foot waterfall, no rugged and wind swept spire, no multi-state view, no summit, nothing to define a clear goal achieved. Whatever this place has to give, it isn't readily discerned. There may be nothing below the surface, and maybe that's the beauty.

James Locke, ichthyo-charmer extraordinaire.

picture by James Locke

Less is more. My whole sleep set up weighed 2.3 lbs.

Sean Kennedy, protector of the wilderness.

James and I hiked out the next morning, and were treated to 4 miles of early morning rock hopping with gusty winds and bluebird skies.

picture by James Locke

Balance Beam.

picture by James Locke

The way the leaves fill the water this time of year is one of an uncountable number of little things that add up to big experiences in the wilds. The shadows and reflected light that they randomly disperse creates a mirror ball-like three-dimensionallity to a sometimes otherwise planar appearance with respect to the water surface.

picture by James Locke

Picture by James Locke

The early fall glow of the green to yellow spectrum, accented by the tall dark green spruce trees striking up into the cloud studded sky blue sky; A vivid and enriching sight.

picture by James Locke

Here we took a secret route up and out to the trail system.

picture by James Locke

Back up the wall to the trail and then the other world.

The truth for me is that I will never find my "favorite place". This ideal lies beyond the asymptotic barrier of our own limited time here on earth. All I can say is that the search is so sweet. Seeking it affords the chance to really pay attention to where I am at all times, and what I feel in all these different locations. It all seems connected, and in this way I feel that I am always in my favorite place. Being in certain spots though, really helps us see that we not only have the potential, but the obligation to ourselves to be as in tune in our everyday life as we are when we are in these special places. Almost more important than immersion in the pure, is the rejuvenation it provides for the days following our return.

Blovolution: A Spiritual Ontogenesis

2011-09-20T16:28:00.002-04:00

It's probably become apparent at this point that I am striving to journey beyond the more typical kayak blog content and journal about bigger things in life. I feel like the deeper an understanding you gain of the places where your passions live, the greater extent to which you are able to see how it relates to everything else. With these means one can progress towards a balanced end where one facet of your life benefits others, and vice-versa. To achieve balance you have to let the waters settle. And once they settle, the resultant tranquility is happiness. It took a while to realize that even though I love kayaking, the relationship between how much I paddle and how happy I am does not produce as simple a curve as I had originally thought.

A harmonious life is not pursued through excessive attempts to fulfill all of your superficial desires at every instance. Our wants can, without consideration of context and purposeful regulation, stretch ourselves thin and weary as if strapped to the rack, though in the moment they may seem key to the cause of our own existence. Self control is the only way to experience harmony, and through it there are moments of conflict and confusion as you tune down the tension on the strings. But through the process of letting our selfish whims pass us by when the time isn't right, we allow parts of ourselves that we didn't know existed to come to the surface, and change us. I don't think you need to spend years sitting in a cave to feel this transformation, and luckily for me, having a son was just the catalyst to accelerate my own discovery of the idea of balance. Some are born with this wisdom, but others never find it. I'm grateful the apple fell from the tree for me when it did.

It's a peculiar feeling when you realize that the most important things in your life are rather common with respect to the rest of the human world. Afterall, most everyone has some type of family. How can the most precious and valuable thing be so abundant? Yet I suspect that kayakers, particularly the full time hard paddlers, draw much of their self worth and feelings of accomplishment from the fact that they are doing things that few have done, while living life on such a delicate and brilliant thread. I only think that because I have identified myself in such ways and perhaps still do to some degree. There is a beautiful power to this idea, to be on the interface between the human element and that which was here before us and holds nothing but indifference to our existence in it's midst. Who wants to suffocate in the middle of the sphere of humanity, smothered by the warmth, when we could be floating through the cold, lonely, great unknown, riding the peak of adventure, sharing it with a few other hardy souls?

Having a son changed all of this. I can see my dad in me, and myself in my son, and through this four dimensional perspective of my position on the tree, I feel changed. I am more than me. I am we. I am part of the human chain of life. That is a wave worth surfing. To be able to communicate ideas and share experience with humankind is the lynchpin that allows all the endeavoring we involve ourselves in to be of any worth beyond just burning time. Family is our deepest connection to the whole thing. It is where we have come from and where we will go, and who we will share it with. And I am happy to say that everything else is just that; everything else.

Simply put, as your life changes, what's important changes. With that comes different conversations, and different directions to aim your camera. This blog is evolving, and I look forward to the new directions it will take in the future. There is so much more that is worth discussing.

With that, here are some shots from a recent family outing in the Red River Gorge area in Central Kentucky.

Little guy, Little fish.

Red River Gorge

Alexander was really into climbing for about a month. Hopefully he will keep his interest, though he is now at the skate park everyday working on his "ollie".

Ready to climb!

Friction Slab in the gorge.

A little bouldering

Our climbing trips typically involve more hanging than climbing.

The next weekend was the joint Reinholds/Red Barron bachelor party, which was a glorious weekend involving drunken ultimate frisbee canoeing on the Nantahala, a floatilla party on Santeetlah, and swimming on Slickrock Creek. It was great to give Nick a break from the city life in Chicago.

No floatbags, no problem.

One of many re-hydration breaks

As Carlin would say, he's a happy camper.

Alex Thatcher, Best Man.

Despite the prowess shown in this shot, they got destroyed at the falls. Alex got "rescued" by a guy in a playboat, which was rather entertaining.

The usual suspects

A flattering shot of the Son of Dod, in his swaddling clothing

Even though Nik Haase is too cool for Knoxville, he made an appearance, at grave cost to his street cred back in Asheville.

Where's that bacon?

Maxwell

The morning after.....

Was gorgeous

The Hammer

Nick going for the marrow at Wildcat Falls

Too late to change your mind now.

Swimming pool blue

Nick in the middle tier of the falls

Along with a cold blooded relative

Hmmmm.

Preparation for the festivities

Backyard Wedding

Troublemakers

The boys dancing

Nick and Nichole cutting into some seriously tasty vegan cake.

Way past bedtime

First dance.

The wedding went off without a hitch, although it started to rain for the first time in five weeks about five minutes before the ceremony. Luckily Nick and Nichole have great attitudes and waited patiently until the rain was reduced to a light sprinkle. A good time was had by all, and I wish the newlyweds the best.

Nick and Nichole's wedding was but one of a slew of weddings this summer. While a few have already happened, there are still a few more this fall. Congratulations and Best Wishes to Drew and Stacey, Andy and Susanna, Nick and Nichole, Clay and Denita, Nick and Courtney, and Adam and Anna. It's great to see so much love floating around.

After five weeks of not boating, Tropical Depression 13 came in on the heels of the wedding and before we knew it, Tropical Storm Lee was hammering the southern appalachians. The less you get out, the more you appreciate it. This creates a win-win situation in life, and I was thrilled to get a chance to paddle the little at dusk, followed by the Raven Fork the following evening. This was Steve Krajewski's first run on the Raven, and I did my best to show him good lines. It was really fun to be there for his first run. He killed it out there.

Gearing up around 4pm, hoping to get it done before dark.

I swear the leaves are already changing in there. The water was Tea green.

Steve on Razorback

We had 12 inches in there, which ended up being a great first time level for Steve.

Every season is amazing in the Raven. September has a beauty of its own, with yellow accents here and there where the leaves are just starting to change.

Mortal Combat

What a great place to be.

It was kinda dark in here at this point, which added to the intensity.

The epic boof on the centerline at Wet Willy.

Sandstone Steeps and Tennessee Canyonlands

2011-08-23T16:01:00.000-04:00

When pressed to describe their impression of creeking in the southeast, Most paddlers who don't reside here conjure up an image of Asheville, NC, Gorilla on the Green, the mythical gorge of the Raven Fork, and the big slides on the Toxaway. It's true that Asheville has a good lead on the top creeks in the south as far as bigness and overall quality, but there is a whole other world on the west side of the divide, with an uncountable amount of isolated sandstone canyons just stocked full of stout whitewater.

If Western North Carolina is the place to cut and keep your teeth sharp on class V, and run some of the biggest the east has to offer, then the Sandstone ridges and tablelands in Tennessee and dipping into North Alabama and North Georgia are the places to run free and wild when it rains, with over 50 class V canyons spread out over the region, most of which do not see regular use. When winter and spring rains hit the area between Fort Payne, AL and Wartburg, TN this is THE place to be in the south.

Following is a pictorial sampling of a handful of these creeks. It would take 20 diligent years of boating and living in the Tennessee Valley to try and see every corner of all the worthwhile creeks in the area, and there is no one person who has done them all. But we gave it our best shot this season and got on scores of new creeks. So here are some classics, some exploratory type runs, and some soon to be classics. Whether you run them or not, they are there, pumping with intense whitewater every so often. If you ever get bored with the region you usually boat in, there is a whole new world over here.

First good slide on Henderson

Smokin' Steve, getting his spine tapped

It's this good.

Caleb, coming together with his plan on Spoonman.

One of the great disappointments that can occur in a boater's life: wood in Fire Escape

Henderson is grade A creeking.

Early morning runs have a real mystique on Walden Ridge.

Sean contemplating breakfast on the Tiny Piney

Me, hoping mine doesn't come back up.

Sean skipping breakfast.

A poor conveyance of the grandeur of Aircraft Carrier

Whites Creek is a true surfers dream.

Bad-ass Caver Jeff Moore trying for once NOT to go deep.

The Mayor of Whites Creek, Kemper Begley.

Casey Cutter, one of many school teacher / whitewater junkies in Knoxville.

Andy Dodson on McGill Creek at a proper level.

If I hadn't just told you, you never would have guessed that Andy just dropped this side falls coming in. The water was cranking this day.

Tons of great boogie on McGill.

Classic drop on McGill

Stacked up moves on this big rapid. The holes were hungry this day.

The Son of Dod on the same, wondering, "How would Vonnegut run this drop?"

Random clean waterfall near the end. Celebration was had by all.

The standout half-day mission on Walden Ridge, Falling Water Creek.

Caleb coming in to the Dragon's Lair

Same drop.

Dodspeed.

And in three seconds he rose again.

Dod be with you.

Hair of the Dragon is a drop that you're glad you ran, but aren't sure you'll run again. This is the top half.

Pastor Daniel Talley, a man of few words, and many sick boofs, shredding Mullens Creek.

Nathan McDade

Mullens Creek has the cleanest water on Walden Ridge, and couldn't seem further from Chattanooga, though it is only 10 miles away as the crow flies.

Mo dropping as McDade looks on.

Doesn't this run look great?

Little Brush Creek flows into the Sequatchie Valley. With the shortest shuttle around, this run delivers solid class V action from beginning to end.

Goldilocks wetting them curls.

The level was just right.

Steve Krajewski embodying a little perfection for our viewing pleasure.

Tricky slots amidst subtle hazards are the name of the game on Little Brush.

Smoking Steve finishing up Krispy Kreme. This thing was a sight to behold, and required conviction in the face of artery clogged doom.

Random action

The space rudder.

Looking west across the Sequatchie Valley, one of the more distinctive landforms in Tennessee.

Little Brush breaking through the plateau and into the Sequatchie. There are four other substantial watersheds that do this, all creating their own unique whitewater playgrounds as they drop to the pastoral valley below.

Looking towards the southern end of the valley, where the classic Pocket Creek run lies.

If the fresh angles on some of these forgotten creeks have you breaking out your maps, be sure to watch for the new guidebook for Tennessee, which is currently being developed. The new standard in guidebook production is finally coming to this area!

Winter: Part Two

2011-08-16T18:16:00.000-04:00

It really is too late for another post on this previous winter/spring, but it was one of the best on record with many days on the water, not to mention how often I got little Alexander out in the wilds. Here is a collection of shots from the greatest paddling season I've seen in Tennessee in recent years. Many of these shots highlight the scores of underdeveloped runs that will be in the new Tennessee guidebook.

Getting pumped for Alexander's first run on Clear Creek.

It was chilly out. Photo by Gary Kilpatrick

Sass. Get it while it's hot.

Look Rock Tower

Here we see Craps With His Pants On in his authentic aboriginal hut.

Here is Nate Helms running one of many new runs that will be in the upcoming guidebook to TN.

Its pretty solid, and quality all the way through.

And here is Steve Krajewski posing on Cosby Creek.

It was low.

The start of an epic family off trail hike: Green Camp Gap

Juice break!

I love this shot. My wife can boof! French Broad below Del Rio, location of our first date.

Sporty wave-train for a beginner run.

The French Broad has some great big mountain river scenery.

Limestone bluffs near the end of the run.

The new piece.

Doing this to old people will give them a heart attack, but with kids, it's just a lot of fun.

Alexander loves him some Black Mountain.

View into Grassy Cove from Black Mountain

Whites Creek cutting through Walden Ridge and into the Valley.

Bart Bledsoe on the first C-1 of Martins Fork. Not that he cares or would make the claim. Core paddler.

Hugo Araneda below Harlan County Two Step

Clay Warren porpoising up below the big one.

A most classic scene in Tennessee paddling: The Wartburg ranger station on a Saturday at 10am.

The Obed-Emory - one of the true treasures of the Knoxville area.

Powell Valley, VA

Tim McAfee on the Guest River

Gerald DeLong - The local legend at the Russell Fork, boofing on the Guest.

Solo overnighter on Clear Creek - spiritual calibration.

After a night in this little amphitheater with a waterfall for company, I paddled downstream early in the morning and came across raccoons, muskrats, coyotes, kingfishers, great blue herons, wrens, and more. There is so much more to paddling than whitewater.

Side hike on a run that is classic only to a few.

Caleb on said run, which consists of 1.5 miles of great class 4 when nothing else in the area is running.

If this looks appetizing, check out the upcoming guidebook to Tennessee.

There are so many runs in Tennessee that haven't gotten the exposure they should.

Here is Sean "Bizzle" Beyer soaking in an oft overlooked canyon in the Obed area.

The following three shots are Bart Bledsoe again, on a river that doesn't get much attention, but sports some true big water in the right circumstances. Look for this one in the upcoming guidebook.

This was Grand Canyon training for Bart, who was ditch bound the following week.

Alexander went through his scuba diver phase this season,

and he takes it VERY seriously.

Canoe trip with three generations. Lifetime achievement.

The man who started it all with the boy who knows too much already.

I think skipping rocks may have skipped a generation. We'll see.

THE Tony Robinson.

Tony coming through the Melting Pot.

Tony about to drop into "The Scrambler". Who names these things?

Alex's favorite new run, and possibly a re-earthed classic.

Kemper and Zane joining in the fun.

The solitude on this run is thick.

And it's the perfect family trip.

Alexander shredding at the climbing hostel.

We stayed at the Obed Hostel, and had a great time being hosted by Erik. Recommended!

Alex sending a sporty route on the west face of Erik's attic.

Lilly Boulders

This place is a kid's dreamland.

Kelly Brown and co, doing what they do.

Alex following suit.

New friends.

Somewhere along the way, on the road to adulthood, we lose all sight of the notion of "re-use".

The adult table.

Alexander's dining quarters.

The Lone Wolf and Red Barron readying for the trek into the Upper Conasauga, a connoisseur's run.

He's got a heart of Gold. Nate McDade below Lula Falls.

Sometimes we just gear up in a Cracker Barrel Parking lot for fun.

JT Rembly and Smokin' Steve tapping in at the top.

Another run to be featured in the upcoming guidebook to end all guidebooks.

Here is an oft overlooked class II run that is one of the top of it's class in the Southeast.

The river has the cleanest water in the state.

Hey little boy, what you got there? Kind sir it's a mollusk I found.

Hey Juicy Juice, where's my money?

First blooms of the year.

Watercolors: The Land of Big Trees and Volcanoes

2011-08-06T00:39:00.010-04:00

Resources. What to do with them?

This July three of us flew into Seattle to partake in a Northwest wine tasting of sorts, a dim sum of the finest day runs we could sniff out in a short ten day hiatus from the swelter-fest of the new south. Ever since Al Gore started spewing his new music, the south has had miserable summers, and damned if I was going to fall victim once again to the tempting duet of the Rockies and the Sierras that plays in my mind this time of year. I wanted cold water, and darkly foreboding cracks in the earth this go around.

The notion that shivering in the approaching twilight in some sun depraved defile, all the while despairingly wrestling with the sight of walled in uncertainty, would somehow serve as the proverbial cold glass of lemonade to my sun bleached spirit was an idea best regretted when it was too late. It sounded good at the time. Sure it'll be terrifying when that moment comes, but if you worried about all the possibly scary or even regrettable situations we get ourselves into while paddling, we wouldn't catch as vivid of a glimpse into the mirror. Maybe we could, but there is nothing like being forced to do so by the unscoutable and unportageable. Oneness, resolve, calm, resignation. These stages of enlightenment are a lot easier when there are no eddies and the walls are overhung.

But what on earth am I talking about? This trip was mostly a vacation. Sure, there was some grovelling in BC, a few days where we shouldered more than we sat in our boats. There were certainly a few peak life moments of commitment and focus, a few nights spent in the wilds. Ultimately the trip consisted of short day runs flanked by good beer, good food, and good company. So while I was absent just a moment ago, embarked upon some silly escapade about being immersed in the deep and dark, and finding yourself and all that emo-talk, in the evenings following these experiences, we could be found wallowing in the swill, grasping our mutton and singing of the blarney stone till morning light. There is something to be gained from all experiences, whether you are rapping solo into an unseen class V slot canyon on the north flank of Rainier, or listening to a 70 year old drunk man sing karaoke to Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" in a slightly aggro biker bar on the south side of the mountain.

Our trip began as it should, sipping a pureed fruit beverage, which was served to me in a vacant parking lot by a tatoo covered stripper in a g-string and pink lace. The lace matched well a waning stint of pink eye, which we were assured wasn't contagious. I think we're in the clear by now, and at this point I must say that was the best smoothie I've ever had. On to our first night, sleeping in a gravel road near Ernies Grove complete with late night firework displays and off-road drifting demonstrations courtesey of King County's finest.

It was during this half asleep cultural immersion that we met our new friend, the hydropower tycoon. I'm not sure if it was the pristine condition of his Eddie Bauer Ford Quad Cab, or the New Age style cover of Eleanor Rigsby blaring out of his truck and into the expanse of Milky Way above, but something seemed a little off here. I was immediately given a business card, the first of many on the trip, and was told all the fascinating things to come to this part of the North Snoqualmie Valley. What I gathered from the conversation was that my new friend was one of us, via a few inflatable experiences on the lower sections of the Tuolomne and the Stanislaus many moons ago. Furthermore, after declining his gracious offering of his diggs for the night, he followed up in the morning with a proposition of pastries to start the day. Though we chose the grease pit where the lady from "Throw Momma From the Train" resides, rasp in all, for our morning gut bomb impregnation, we wouldn't turn him down a third time when he offered to run our shuttle. A tour of the powerhouse and such was also offered up, and though we didn't have our personal protective equipment, we were somehow sure that whatever regulating bodies, absent on the large scale, wouldn't be there to slap us with an OSHA violation. We were in drysuits afterall. So after dropping the boys and the toys, I waited down in North Bend for a ride in the Trojan Horse. I could hear Neil Diamond's voice before I could see the truck, and once we were all in there, commitment was certain. It was when the guy told us that we should really see Neil in concert that I turned and covertly pointed the camera toward my compatriots in the back seat.

"Play the game like we said" I reminded them with my terse facial expressions. Would walking the shuttle have been the way to go? Though we thought it rare at the moment, this would not be our last encounter with the greatest musician in all of modern history. After a tour of the "facilities" and another dose of intelligence-insulting "green power" indoctrination, we were quickly deposited at the put in bridge.

The reallity is that we all live in different worlds. There's the real indivisible and raw physical reallity we all have to work with, and then there is the personally adjusted and filtered worlds we all create for ourselves. While this guy related fine to our desire to get out there and work as a team to experience adventure, adrenaline, and life enrichment, what he couldn't grasp is that we would rather the North Snoqualmie be too high in the late winter and spring, sacrificing our ability to have those experiences, than to drill a tunnel through the mountain and kill the natural ebb and flow of the river, in essence it's heartbeat, just so we could have a few more days in the spring to coldly trampoleen on it's bloated carcass. Maybe if Neil Diamond was the one that said "If you love something, set it free", this would have crossed his mind.

Greeks on the left, horse on the far right, Trojan in the quadrotone with collar.

With the morning already being a stimulating experience, we switched it up and traded natural resource policy for 520 cfs of powerful, steep, and unforgiving whitewater. At least for now, on a banner snow year with a late summer arrival, you too can run Ernies with solid flow in the last week of July. This run had a paddle in and a paddle out sandwiching two miles of stacked and stout boulder problems in between. The rapids melded the technical and the pushy perfectly, with consequences lurking here and there to keep you breathing. This is certainly one of the best class V runs in the state, with only maybe Little White, Robe, and the Clear Fork Cowlitz as rivals.

The water was a clear greenish blue, mostly from mid elevation snow melt, and had a classic chill to it.

Caleb in the entrance to Raft Catch

Dave in the same, about to throw some cartwheels.

Raft Catch proper, a classic slot

David Herman took this shot of some mouth breather from Tennessee.

Tight and wet, Ernie's got some bite.

Family Portrait

After picking our way down Seattle's best run, I quickly called Chris Tretwold to see if we still had time for a tour of the classic Robe Canyon. Two hours later we were riding to the put in fired up for our first and likely best double header of the trip. I don't really know what to say about Robe. For the southeastern audience, imagine the Russell Fork from Tower to Climax, less technical, bigger water, less undercuts, more holes, and 6 or 7 times as long, all set in one of the coolest canyons I've ever been in. There are no pictures. We didn't even bring our GoPro's on this trip, which makes me wonder why we even came out here in the first place. In all seriousness, the best brown claw is the one that no one sees, and without any pics to drool over in the years to come, I'll have no choice but to come back again and again to this stellar class V run. I dare to say that Robe may be the best locals run I've ever seen. It's 3-4 miles of solid and beautiful action, and the shuttle can be jogged in an hour, or driven in ten minutes.

The water was a somewhat clearer than usual snow melt grey, sporting a slightly eerie opacity.

With Bellingham not far away, we headed to Chris's house, where we were graciously accepted as house guests, though not before a thorough dental inspection. Turns out we could pass for Yankees, though Caleb's lower incisors were on the line. The next morning Chris took us to the Middle Fork of the Nooksack, the Bellingham home run, where we met his friend Jamie for a trip through the lower canyon. The first mile of this run is one of the best miles anywhere. You start by looking 200 feet off a bridge into a lushly wild box canyon jam packed with action. The rapids are a little bit of a blur, but with Robe to the south and this 35 minutes out of town, I can safely say that Bellingham is the underdog never mentioned in the overplayed "best paddling town" polls you see regularly on boating forums.

The water was almost an ashlu glacial green, but with signatures of Mt. Baker mineralogy.

Takeout for MF Nooksack

I like bridge shots.

And riding on top of cars.

Chris quickly raises his paddle in anticipation of Jamie's backhand. A backhand well known in these parts.

The view over the bridge here sums up a big part of why a lot of us do this. Photo by David Herman.

No time like the present

Why we boat with friends.

Blue angels and White ones.

David below Leap of Faith exiting an other-worldly mini canyon.

The Boofing Bellinghamster

Our goal for the day was, for primarily comedic purposes, the Furry/Nooksack combo. It had a nice ring to it. But as the metric system would have it, we made it into North Van and settled for a quick hike up and run down the Seymour Canyon. Picture a class IV+ boulder run through a 300 foot shadow filled sheer walled canyon that happens to be in a suburban neighborhood. Despite the friendly location, we got lost on our first run in BC, hiking up the wrong side of the river. This was not a good sign for heading into the Squamish back-country. After the run we drove 5 minutes down the road for the best authentic greek food I've had in years.

The water was as clear as mistakes past, and the shadows made it shine oil black in the narrow canyon.

Hey, get off my lawn slackers!

Getting ready for our short little appetizer before digging into some tzaziki glazed spanikopita

After our dinner, I reallized that though the elusive Furry/Nooksack combo was out of reach, a Seymour Nooksack combo was no second place. A mere 50 foot walk from our parking spot at Furry Creek Golf Course confirmed that we made the right decision. Furry was too high, and was a diarrhea inducing sight to behold. We headed to the Mamquam and up into the wilds above the Stawamus Chief, hoping Skookum wouldn't be too high. It was, but the camping was pretty nice, and after a helpful conversation with Steve Arns, we decided Rutherford Creek was the place to be in the morning.

Ahh, BC! Driving north on I5 till you leave the country is easier than getting a DeLorean, not to mention the amount of weapons grade plutonium necessary to generate the 1.21 gigwatts of energy.....uh, nevermind.

Wake up, its time to run the steaze! David was in the process of forming a brown claw, but I timed it wrong.

Mamquam above the falls

The Falls at a "roosty" level, as the locals would put it.

The next two days we spent unlocking the wonderful run on Rutherford Creek. A former staple in the Whistler creeking "zone", Rutherford was the first classic to get axed via the aggressive and exhaustive small hydro movement in BC. Despite this, when flows are too high for everything else. Rutherford has water, and reminded me of mixing Callaghan and Birkenhead into one bang up good time of a run. The first day we just ran the lower, not sure how long it would take. After scouting Twenty-One Mile Creek and reallizing everything was still rising and that we had high water, we thought we'd better do the whole Rutherford the next day and then head south again. The next day the water was a good medium high, and we ran the whole thing. Top to bottom, you drop over 1000 feet and should be pretty content when you hit the highway at the bottom. There was so much boulder action and mildly gorged in bedrock features, as well as a perfect 20 footer, and a not so perfect waterfall/portage combo. Out of respect and prudence, we executed the lengthy portage around this second gorge, and paddled plenty more action down to the lower, where the pushiness was intense. Think Big Creek at 3.5 feet but 4 times as wide and you get the picture. The lower section has another portage of a disgusting falls shortly above the takeout, after which we headed south to Squamish.

The water had a slight cookies and cream white to it, but was dominated by turquoise hues more typical of the Ashlu/Elaho region.

Peering into the lower section

Ladies and Gentlemen, the golden stroke.

The portage on the lower. As soon as you see bedrock in the river, get out on the RIGHT. Photo by David Herman.

Classic BC

Some bedrock

It's important to have a matching boat.

Some idiot ruining David Herman's landscape photo.

Like Tommy said, if it's on the map, it's too big.

Upper Rutherford above the action

Nothing but a full day ahead of us.

Who needs a double pump in BC?

Perfect Twenty

Boofing into the next canyon.

On the way out of town, we stopped for some burgers and decided to just check the Mamquam zone. What we found was that though flows were rising in Whistler, things had dropped a bit here, and though Skookum was still on the high side, Raffuse appeared to be in. After a quick talk with Tretwold and Squamish local Bryan Smith we made plans to engage in a "highest water possible third descent by a foreign party". The distinction may seem arbitrary, but a textile contract had already been awarded in Cedar Rapids Michigan, and the run of four flatbill hats had already been programmed into the loom. Kinda makes you wonder what happens to all the apparel made for the losing team of the Super Bowl. Nevertheless, we hiked into Raffuse the next morning, excited about a micro-creeking adventure that promised at least a few great drops and some surprises as well. What we found was a great little creek that started with fun class 4 top rapids that eventually breached the walls into a typical dark BC canyon via a sweet double drop.

Caleb in the first of the double. This is what you want to see in BC.

Second drop

David on the second drop from the bottom.

Red October!

David Herman helped me out of a pinch here. Since I'm known for being such a pussy, I needed proof that I actually paddled Raffuse Creek.

It almost looks like I know what I'm doing in this shot by DH.

Fun in between canyons

After the double drop we portaged a big landslide and then started working into a second gorge above a sweet 20 footer. After some ballsy eddy catching, we finally settled for a rim scout on the left, and found a big log right above the lip. After a 30 minute technical portage of another jam to get to this log, we climbed over it and carefully got in our boats in this little room, and then took a mandatory pin to spin out right above the lip. The drop was sweet, and though David is pictured taking advantage of the deep pools we so rarely can rely on in the south, boofs were had as well.

The next few shots David was under water, so I deleted them.

Raffuse ended up being 6 or 7 hours of hiking in, portaging wood, and portaging wood, but there was a lot of good whitewater in a spectacular little gorge in there, and I would do it every year if I lived up there.

The water had an unusually achromatic transparency to it. Prismatic views of the creek bottom set the mood.

After a long day on Raffuse, we went back into town for some burgers, and re-supplied with our eye on the prize, Skookum Creek. In the morning we opted for the lower section, feeling that with the solid flows and lack of local back up, a shorter section should be in order. We hiked about 1 mile up the river left spur road and then dropped into the canyon, ending up on a pretty intense little rope lowering session for the last 100 feet. This combined with the hike had us putting on the water well past noon, with no knowledge of what lie downstream, other than the best waterfall in Squamish followed by the worst, which was unportageable. After a few rapids, we got hung up on a hard to scout corner. After half an hour David came back with the news that we were above the 35 footer, that the entrance rapid was burly, and that we would be running blind. With that, there was no need for any more hemming or hawing, we jumped in the boats and blasted through the entrance drop into the eddy room right above the waterfall. I've never been so excited in all my life above a drop. It was the biggest drop I've run, and it was pretty high water spraying off the lip. I peeled out and planted a stroke, pulled a little, set the angle, and stomped down into a huge surging boil filled room before sneaking out the side into the pool downstream. There really isn't anything else to say other than that moment was one of the top ones in my travels thus far. I'm grateful for the experience, but after a half mile of class 2, we eddied left above the 60 footer, and found a huge log right in the outflow. Without too much deliberation, we just hiked out river left, about 400 feet to a road that led back to the car. It took around an hour to get out from the falls to the car, which wasn't too bad, but any steeper and it wouldn't have been possible.

I don't particularly remember the water color on Skookum, other than the huge white cottonball I landed on below the classic falls.

Caleb at our lowering station on the way in.

This shot by David Herman is dedicated to Tony and Jeff, who came over a day before our trip and showed us how to use ropes. Rappelling is fun!

Looking downstream from our put in.

The blind corner above the falls

You can see Caleb's face about as well as we could see downstream. Searching for answers.

Look carefully in the upper right hand corner for David about 50 feet off the deck. The scout was sketchy.

After our 5 hour hike for 12 minutes of paddling, we said our farewells to BC and scurried back south, staying in Bellingham and having some wonderful southwest cuisine before driving to the Tye the next day. The Tye was a solid run, though a little short. We ended up having a low level for the upper and a medium for below Monkey Cage. The upper had some wood, and rocks in landings for that matter, and we were happy to see Deception Creek doubling the flow downstream. Monkey Cage down was classic, with Caleb getting aggro at Crack in the Earth, and epic boofs for all at the Box Drop. The best part of the run was the boogie Box Drop and down, with tons of sweet water boofs and some big holes and rowdy water.

The water was emerald green, tough to capture with a camera, but easy on the creeking pallate.

Caleb on Monkey Cage, from the Monkey Cage.

This boof is epic.

Caleb in anticipation

Boofing the big hole at Paranoia, the way whitewater should be.

Enter Leavenworth. Nothing breaks the soul scrubbing cadence of lots of rivers and no people like a profit motivated faux bavarian village. On the way in to town we scouted Tumwater Canyon. The first rapid looked doable, but by the time we were a few miles above town, we had positively ruled out running it at the level we saw. There is some scary shit in there! After some pizza, we loaded up on high gravity beer and got the hell out of there. Icicle Creek was our next stop, and looking back we probably should have done the whole run. Wanting to not spend the whole day though, we just ran the Ricochet to Plunge Section minus those rapids.

The water color was hard to pin down, as we put in at 7am and downstream faces east.

After Icicle, we headed to Cle Elum to check out the Cooper. The Cooper is the Wilson Creek of Washington, both in that it is a top notch class IV experience, and that you will see more people swimming in the river than paddling it, at least down in the paddle out. It was hitching the shuttle where I recieved a second business card, as well as an invite for our whole group to join some dude and his kinda trashy girlfriend for some "beers" at their cabin. With that we quickly loaded up and headed to the Ohanapecosh, not wanting any backwoods Washington swinger action. That said, the river was fantastic though short, with consistent and continuous class IV bedrock for over a mile in a stunning little canyon.

The water was a cool and refreshing bottle green, with hints of turquoise here and there.

The put in at Cooper.

Leaving Cle Elum, we quickly dropped into the desert of Eastern Washington, which looks a lot like Rawlins, WY, except you know that just 50 miles west an oasis exists, keeping morale high. Once over the pass into the Clear Fork drainage, the views kicked in to gear, with Rainier coming into view in all of its grandeur. Mount Rainier is one of the most impressive mountains I have ever seen. It simply dwarfs everything else in the state, and even while driving in Seattle, I found myself continually being startled, when Rainier would suddenly come into view once passing a large building, like a giant playing peek-a-boo. Rainier kinda defines Washington to me.

There are mountains, and then there is Rainier.

Further down the road are the Palisades, making the river left wall of the lower gorge of the Clear Fork. The Clear Fork had good flow, and is reputed as the best run in the area, but a recent report of 23 portages kept us at bay.

Secret Camp on the Ohanapecosh is classic Northwest camping.

That night we ended up at the only place to really eat in Packwood, and got a serious show of drunken karaoke. Some moments were awkward, some were hilarious, and some, well.....This is where our second encounter with Neil Diamond occurred, and we're just glad to have made it through.

Finally I was going to run the Ohany. I had heard so much and knew it would be classic, and it was. We had a high flow, which took much of the technicallity out and made for a pushy and hole filled ride through the most colorful canyon we passed through on the trip. Grey walls had a spectrum of different colored mosses grading upward in response to the various flows that move through. The wood was no different. There was one log jam that required a tricky portage, after which was nothing but fun stuff down to Elbow Room, a recommended portage. The gorge below Elbow Room was where the water level really made itself known, with nasty holes all over the place. We ran the waterfall drop far right and portaged the last piece of work, which kinda looked like something out of Black Canyon of the Gunnison at high water. The wall extending out of the river here was amazing.

The water was a mysterious grey blue, with unbelievable variations when the sun made it into the narrow canyon. Glacial signatures definitely created a unique hue.

Ledge below Summit Creek. Elbow Room is just downstream.

Contemplating Elbow Room

David on the Waterfall Drop

I love this shot!

The colors of the Ohanapecosh are always peaking.

Following our morning run down the Ohanapecosh, I jogged up and grabbed the car, and we headed over White Pass to the north side of the mountain, where the last piece of the puzzle resided. The weather was gloomy, it was late in the day, and with a pretty thick population of meth-heads hanging out where we were going to leave the car, the rest of the group was ready to chill. But I didn't check an extra bag filled with climbing equipment for nothing, so I rapped into the Carbon solo and worked my way down through the fantastic lower canyon before the river quickly opened up into landslide induced mankpiles of the illest kind. The Classic Canyon itself is one of the coolest places I have paddled. Turning the bend into that must run steep funnel into a box canyon 4 feet wide at high water was exactly what I needed, and I felt like the trip was complete as I hiked out up to the rim where the car was waiting. While not being the best run out there, the Carbon provides an experience that teeters on the edge of reasonability, without being technically all that difficult. It is a mindbender, and that is it's appeal.

The water was cookies and cream with a bit of toffee, and was heavily laden with minerals from the Carbon Glacier on the north flank of Ranier, creating a confusing opacity and ghostly looking features.

Looking downstream from Fairfax Bridge at the Carbon, shortly above Rick's Slide. At the level I ran it, Rick's Slide is supposedly a death wish, hence the big rappel.

Just upstream of the bridge. Once down the rope and in my boat, being down in this crack was truly exciting!

So that wrapped up our trip. The Pac NW / BC area is unbeatable for paddling. Anywhere you have subduction zone tectonics, the whitewater ends up being pretty epic, and being on the Pacific Rim and all, Washington delivers. The color of the water on each run is different, and the reasons why each color is different tell a long and powerful story about the world around us, inspiring me to keep running new rivers out here. There is always more to discover and new experiences to be had. The color of the water is always different.

Steel Reserve. 48 ounces, 8.8%, $1.40. You do the math.

Moving Pictures from Moving Places: Wyoming Video

2011-06-12T09:50:00.001-04:00

This video contains footage from our first descent of the Upper North Fork of the Little Wind, an unforgettable three day journey through the Clarks Fork Box, and the loser's bracket of the Poudre race. While most of this has been out there for a while, the shots from the Clarks Fork hadn't really surfaced yet, and there isn't much out there video-wise of The Box.

The editing is lazy, it's a little long, there is no hip hop, no-one in this video is cool, nor are there any headcam shots. The most you will get out of this video is a sense of how impressive Wyoming can be. Only rivers are identified in this film. There will be no drinking from footwear, no gang signs, no mispelling, and no teen-angst induced wrestling in the dirt. There may be a dude in a fur coat and hotpants, though that was incidental to obtaining some good carnage shots. Albeit a drab and lackluster attempt at videography, I gave it the old college try.

I didn't know it at the time, but this may have been the last video I ever edited. Maybe the best way to remember the moments when you're in the thick of it is to let them grow old in your mind; to let the powerful forces in our mind re-shape these physically logical and time metered happenings into our own personal tall tales and disproportionately balanced ledgendry. With all the video out there covering every river known to man, is the mystery and unknown essence of these places dwindling away? Are we leaving money on the table, trading the efficacy of rich memories for the unimaginative cataloging of every metered moment? Maybe the best video that could exist is your own recollection of the flow of time and space that you percieved in these special places. You can't edit that into being. You can't warp space and time with a video camera. That's the problem. That's not to say that there aren't some truly artful video creations out there, specific to kayaking as well. But this video isn't art.

Sometimes a video can help you re-live an experience. But sometimes I am surprised to see that the camera didn't see it the way I did. And who's to say I'm wrong? John Wesley Powell seemed to have gained much from his journey down the great unknown, and he didn't have a video camera. Writing it down welcomes the looseness of imbelishment, and the opportunity for the spirit of the moment to overpower the drone of the moving picture metronome.

I think I might just bring my still camera on my next trip. Or maybe nothing at all. Maybe just use my eyes. Afterall, the dynamic range of the eye blows the latest DSLR's out of the water. And with my mushy grey ten terabyte SD dome, I should be able to put something interesting together. I already quit facebook last week, why not go ahead and like Rainbow Jeremy, ditch my Telly, and keep retrograding into my true derivative self.

The Magic of Winter in the Southeast

2011-05-03T23:12:00.001-04:00

Unpredictability is something you really have to come to terms with as a paddler in the southeast. Though there are a handful of good whitewater runs that have scheduled dam releases, 99% of the whitewater in the southeast is relatively unreliable. Without any way to divine with some advance notice as to when something might run, you just have to take it as it comes. When its dry, you'd better have some other things you enjoy doing.

Sometimes much of the winter season can be a bust, with cold temps and little in the way of big rain events. But inevitably, the winter holds the most promise for paddlers searching for new adventures and frequent doses of southeastern creeking. The leaves have already long fallen, revealing the underlying strata that stays hidden much of the year. The trees want little in the way of water, allowing whatever falls from the sky to run freely down the hundreds of navigable creeks that clutter the TN/NC area. The karst water tables on the plateau fill in and a new world is born yet again, as is the case most every winter. The highest reaches of the Appalachians develop a layer of snow that while inadequate to produce any significant season, pads the saturation of the ground in our favor. The national and state parks are deserted, the Ohioans, Indianans and Floridians back on their side of the country. And left unimpeded to discover a place and time that almost seems designed for us, we rise before the first light, load our boats in the cold, hands hurting already, and embark on a mission to seize the day. Never sure what exactly will be encountered, or how circumstances will unfold, we soak in the uncertainty and refreshing zeal that accompanies a trip to lands close in geographical distance, but eons far from the typical human experience.

This has been a phenomenal winter in the southeast. I've gotten on so many different streams with so many different people that trying to list it all would be a bit of work. A good winter in the southeast is very hard to beat. On my latest Little River run with Spring in full bore, seeing the tourists and spring breakers re-descending onto the promised land with an unstoppable ever growing thickness that will not wane untill the leaves are gone again next November, I took a moment to be thankful for how amazing winter is, and all the experiences it gave me this year. Every season is perfect in its own way. Spring is in full swing, and I don't want to miss a moment of it, but it sure is nice to take pause and appreciate what has been.

Steve K heading into the cool little gorge below Elkmont

I think they call this Scarface? Great rapid.

Sinks with the semi-regular punji stick that appears often

Natural Tunnel State Park (You could paddle the tunnel if you were so inclined)

Alexander's fourth birthday.

A real fireman!

North White Oak Creek in the Big South Fork has always nagged at me. Countless times I have paddled by as it joins in on the left shortly above Leatherwood Ford and wondered how the run was. It seemed like a large stream with a big watershed, but an epic shuttle has always kept the numbers way down as far as trips down the creek. In searching for access options on the recently first descended Laurel Fork of North White Oak Creek, I stumbled upon a pretty handy put in that cuts the shuttle from over an hour to 15 minutes each way. So during our first big snow storm of the year, the Southeast Soul Boater Union joined the creek for an afternoon of surreal beauty; a fitting welcome to short but magical days of winter that were sure to follow.

I'm pretty sure that you normally have to pay a lot of money to have that many spokes on your wheels.

Looking into the bottom of the Laurel Fork gorge

The Laurel Fork is the most untouched part of the BSF. There is nothing in there but quiet and indifferent wilderness.

Peace and quiet on pure terms

Out from the cold, in to the warmth. Tony Robinson says that the best thing about boating in the winter is putting your dry clothes on afterwards. It doesn't stop there though.

Lesser run drop on White Top Laurel Creek

Cold day

One of the many Virginia Creeper crossing on the way down to Damascus

This winter we really took initiative on exploring the vast table lands of the northern plateau, specifically the Big South Fork's lesser known tributaries. Here we are paddling a seldom seen stretch of creek that wouldn't win any awards, but ended up giving us a rich experience in a new canyon.

There is a reason no one talks about it. This sieve is a cold blooded murderer.

Alex Zendel greasing through a nice slot

So many canyons out there. Each one is different

Throw enough boulders and gradient together, and eventually, you've got to hit a nice boof.

Christmas Morning, the face says it all.

After the Christmas season passed, my cousin and I finally got a chance to do an overnighter together. Ben has little whitewater experience, but his strength, cool-headedness, and military background pretty much qualify him for anything I can think of. We headed to the Big South Fork, with the plan of using a two many ducky to paddle from the confluence to Leatherwood, with an overnight stay in the fabled rockhouses of the Honey Creek Loop. This trip was incredible, and really gave Ben and I both a broad sense of the plateau in the winter.

Though the hike to the put in is only half a mile, carrying all the gear and beer was a real test of our sufferability.

Once on the water, the poor arrangement of our gear and boater positions became immediately clear. After a sneak at Double Drop, which surely would have destroyed our trip before it began, we quickly closed in on Washing Machine, deciding to just "go for it!". This resulted in us in the river, and our beer and a few bags floating in different directions. All that training in Alaska paid big dividends, as Ben, little phased by the cold, swam around and retrieved our gear. Then it was off to the El, where we displayed the finest boating the rapid has ever seen. The adrenaline was pumping as the mercury dropped down to the mid 30's.

Honey Creek confluence

Here we start our winter wonderland trek a mile up to the rockhouses.

Some of these icicles were 20 feet high!

Indian Rockhouse, with the lights out

The smaller rockhouse near the toplands

Our refrigerator

Perfect for keeping the beer ice cold!

Boulder House Falls

The next day we did the Honey Creek loop before heading down to Leatherwood. There are a few waterfalls in there that go with enough water. This hike is rough and the best ramble in the Big South Fork.

Clean 20

So many places on the plateau like this.

Honey Creek Falls, plop and drop

Honey Creek Overlook

For those that know the river, Hand of God is one of those boulders in the middle.

Mischief afoot

Gov't issue drysuit

Yes, its a Kokatat

Our trip on the Big South Fork was unforgettable. Can't wait untill next time.

If you look closely on your way to the Tellico, you may see one of the stranger collections of bush art around.

Crack in the Rock, Lower Tellico

The Lower Tellico is gorgeous, especially when its deserted.

First day of school!

Hesitance

Despite how classic the Obed is, I don't get out there as much as I would like to, but the stars aligned one warm winter day, and I got to paddle with my wife and many friends down one the best rivers in the south.

Nemo Bridge

Russell DeCastogrene in the real mans boat

Tony Robinson dwarfed by the sizable and intimidating Rockgarden

Laura in the crux

Russell gave it all he had, which ended up being just enough! Russell is seen here being the hero of the day, firing into Rockgarden in a big canoe. It was intense, and I got a great look at his face as he came in. Priceless.

Thats all for now. I've got a second Winter photo dump in the works. Hope everyone had a great winter.

Family Paddling, Exploring Close to Home

2010-12-05T19:05:00.001-05:00

High adventure on the Emory River

When you have a child, the outlook on trying to paddle as much as you used to can look pretty bleak. But the reallity is that your river experiences will just become even more interesting. As well as being able to revisit the beginnings all over again yourself, you get to expose your child to the wonderful world of rivers and watch every new experience in their eyes. That is a real gift. I have been taking advantage of the fact that I have an opportunity to introduce Alex to the aspects of the outdoors that I think are particularly worthwhile.

We've been taking many trips this summer and fall any time there was an opportunity. We probably did 5 trips on the Hiwassee, a trip on the Clear Fork and White Oak Creek, and we joined Kemper, Michael Ann and their son Zane on a family float down the Emory, which was a lot of fun. The boys loved it.

At the bottom of Nemo Rapid, Alex's favorite rapid ever. (Every rapid is his favorite ever)

Snack break

Alexander loves dressing up. Here he is in his dragon costume with a big ollie:

Boys love candy.

I've always wanted to explore the French Broad below Hot Springs, so with the water low and a beautiful Saturday forecasted, we loaded up and embarked on what turned out to be a long, but really pretty float down to Hwy 25. There were some amazing limestone bluffs in here, as well as some challenging rapids for a 15 foot canoe. Down near the end we dumped on a 2 foot ledge, with Alex and my mother in law flying into the river. Some of you may flinch in horror at the idea of dumping your mother in law into a nasty cold river, but I rather enjoyed it, and so did she. Alexander however, was not amused, and scolded Laura sternly, telling her that the line she recommended was bad. While I took ultimate responsibility for the jettison, it was amusing to see Laura recieve the blame.

French Broad downstream of Paint Rock

Like sand through the hourglass

Later in the week, Alexander and I decided to visit one of the coolest places on the plateau, Twin Arches, in the Big South Fork. This rock formation is the most impressive around. Two Arches span a considerable distance, providing shade, curious acoustics, and many "secret passages".

My hiking guide for the day

This is surely one of the coolest places on the plateau

This is one of a few secret passages

On top of the arches

We liked it so much we came back with the rest of the family the following weekend for a relaxing few days in a cabin on the west end of the park near Twin Arches. While in the area, we checked out Pickett State Park, which has lots of cabins and some cool trails.

Cousins

More arches, more cousins

Big South Fork bonfire

Probably the best way to celebrate fall boating is up at the Russell Fork. We went the first weekend and took Alexander down the Upper in a ducky. He couldn't stop talking about Twenty Stitches the whole weekend. I wonder if he was as gripped as I was. No more camping at Ratliff Hole or Carson Island. We're civilized these days, and don't mind shelling out a few bucks for a clean and quiet campsite on top of Pine Mountain with great views.

Making the switch to the "family" camping area at the Russell Fork, the park.

Sass.

Looking out into the Kentucky side of the gorge, not far from our site.

Upper Russell Fork

While sitting down to dinner that night, we had a visitor to our campsite.

Is it a dog? A deer? Click on this pic and zoom in for the answer.

And its coming this way!

This bear was clearly accustomed to encounters with humans, and was showing no signs of backing down. It was marching right into our campsite. The kids went in the vehicles, the camera came out, and Caleb rose to the challenge of scaring the bear away. Caleb isn't scared of big hairy rapids, and it should be no surprise that he wasn't shaken by the big hairy bear either. The bear was sent running via some loud shouting and boulder throwing.

Caleb's bear fighting face

The next morning after breakfast and on the way to run the river, we stopped at the Towers overlook on the edge of the park. This is one of the best overlooks in the southeast, as you can view the Russell Fork doing what few streams manage to do; break through the formidable walls of Pine Mountain. From the perch you can witness the river almost complete an entrenched oxbow.

Tower

Fist. Scary from here.

Rivers aren't the only thing of interest for Alexander. And while he will probably thank me later more likely than now, hiking is something he likes to do quite a bit of. It is challenging to teach a child perspective and how the journey is the destination, and you have to know how to give and take. Sometimes you might need to push them a little, whereas other instances might require a little giving in. Some days he can go 5 or 6 miles, but more often a few miles renders him like Gumby and playing in the creek near the trailhead is your best bet for sanity. Come to think of it, we might be learning just as much as he is.

Squatting on the AT

Beat from a 2.8 mile, 1000 foot climb up Mt. Ambler

Here Alex shows off his battle scar from a high speed crash on the trail.

Some days he is up for some long distance treks on the AT, and other days are more ideal to explore a smaller area. The unofficial trail that leaves Greenbrier Road and follows Rhododendron Creek up to the Grapeyard Ridge Trail is a great place to ramble around and focus on the little things. There are a dozen cascades as well as lots of small scale scenery to ponder. Despite it being 1 mile long, it probably took us the better part of a day to complete. Perfect.

Taking a closer look on the Rhododendron Creek Manway

Danger Danger Danger

For the last three years, my interest in doing the Russell Fork race has always been pleasantly squashed by the fact that Linville has run solidly and we re-direct to the high country's version. But this year, there was no love as far as gulf moisture goes, so we took a second family trip up to the Fork. The race was fun, despite me practicing my roll several times, and we had another great weekend with beautiful leaves in the air and water. This trip we tried the Lower for the first time and it was short, but really scenic. The big rapid was trickier than I thought too. Alexander and I ended up sneaking down the right.

Charles throwing down at the hole

Laura shredding the mighty Meatgrinder on the Lower

Fall at the Russell Fork is hard to beat.

After the Russell Fork, and one more low key race on an obscure creek that isn't really worth mentioning, the fall boating season was over for the most part. November was pretty warm, and we got some good days in the Smokies, and then it got cold.

But right before the frigid temps of winter one critical event occurred. Opening season on the plateau started with a bang, as some areas got up to 8-10 inches of rain. Every obscure creek on the plateau ran, with flows sustaining for the better part of a week. I've always wanted visit the I75 whitewater park on Bruce Creek, and I thought today would be as good a chance of any to catch this 1 square mile drainage with adequate flow. The goods are a 100 foot stretch of creek that drops 60 feet over four drops. It goes like this; 12 footer, 15 footer, 25 footer, 10 footer. Alas, even Bruce Creek can get too high. There is around 20 feet between each drop, and the top 10 feet were going back into big holes, and the bottom 10 feet were rolling into the next sticky sloper. Good to know it gets too high. Hopefully that means it runs more than we originially thought. We'll have to save the Tennessee Teacups for another day. Here are some shots from this mouth watering set of falls:

The lip of the 25 footer

Top drop

Looking from below the top drop to the next 15, then 25

The second drop

Obscured glimpse of the bottom 3 drops

With Bruce Creek being too high, Russell and I headed to one of the few places that never gets too high, Crab Orchard Creek. With what turned out to be a peak of the Emory at around 60,000 cfs, we ran the bottom three miles at very high water. Though I had run it with the Emory higher, this was huge. There were many 8-10 foot waves, and a few bus eating holes, the likes of which I hadn't experienced since I had been in Chile. There was so much water that Mill Creek was raging, which meant that Keep Out Falls should have ample flow. Even this drop was on the high side, with a sizable hole and a large recirculating pocket on the whole right side below the drop. That said, the drop was incredible, and reminded me a lot of the big falls on Callaghan Creek in British Columbia. Totally clean, and a solid 25+ feet.

It was a little high

Keep Out Falls is surely one of the better drops around!

The smokies got up big too, which allowed me to hit a section of the West Prong of the Little I had always wanted to do. Finding it with sufficient flow was almost as hard as finding someone to do it, but Nate joined me for an early morning quick mission. We hiked up the Bote Mountain Trail and down into the watershed where we found a quaint little stream buzzing along into a mile of whitewater few have ever seen. It didn't end up being anything epic, but was busy the whole way. Nate characterized it this way: "As blind as class three gets". We made quick work of it, walked a few trees, and then went under Laurel Creek Road, continuing down to the Wye.

Dropping in on the West Prong Trail

Nate a few strokes into a quick little adventure

The roadside section

One of the bigger rapids on the run

The sliding ledge at the bottom of the run

There are always new places to check out, and being a map geek, I still have a few ideas of things to do around here. One afternoon I had a few hours to check one of these out, and what I found was a long stretch of class 4-4+ boulder creeking with a clean 40 footer at the top. Its only a matter of time before this thing gets run. While turning to continue downstream to check the rest of the creek out, I wondered if anyone else had checked this thing out before, when before I had taken my first step, my eyes dropped down to the creek bed where a midstream strainer had clearly been sectioned with a chainsaw for obvious purposes. I don't know what's better; to scout a cool creek and fantasize about coming back with more water, or to scout a cool creek and find out someone has cleaned it out for you. I don't want to spoil the cutters plans, so I won't say where this thing is, but I hope they have fun when they pop the cherry on this one.

A clean 40 foot waterfall yet to be run. It came up with this same rain. Who will be the first??

Whether you are searching for family float trips or cutting edge creeks, there is always something new to experience out there. Here's to new horizons for us all.

Human Significance: Gestalt or Granfalloon?

2010-10-30T08:59:00.001-04:00

Between the lines are empty spaces. Must we be, as any lack-luster and idle species would, compelled to fill these voids of meaninglessness with bastions of our own hope that it all means more than it does?

Can we in one breath be content to flow thoughtless and submissive amongst the lines that define movement, without judgement or analysis, simply as a participant in the moment and nothing more until the past tense is all that remains; and yet in the next, attempt for our own worth and need for purpose to construct some make-shift structure that somehow links these same lines into some albatross of a sculpture, showing the greater sum that must be, and that we as the ultimate affectors proudly fill these spaces that have supposedly longed for inhabitance and explanation?

The river could care less whether we take anything away from our interactions with it or not. It is there before we arrive and remains after we leave, singing the same song. I doubt that after we leave, the rivers commune and relate, or share, about their experiences with the boat-tailed humans of recent, and pluck and bulletin the commonalities and nuances, gradually piecing together the grand picture that must have been in plain site all along.

Are humans so excessive with their ego-centric pilgrimage for meaning and validation that even the value of something as perfect as water responding to gravity simply floats right past us? Maybe the aesthetic of interacting with the movement of rivers is that our role or significance is nullified for once. Maybe it is a great opportunity to get as far as we can from trying to understand how we fit into something. A brief period where we can simply reduce right down to the one rule that governs it all. Without gravitation, the planets wouldn't have coalesced, nothing would be stable or diverse, there would be no life. Flowing with the waters is to lose your individuality and be absorbed by something much bigger than you as it responds to the most powerful force yet to be observed. What really needs to be said about this?

If I really practiced what I preached, I would stop midway through this sentence and get busy doing something else. There isn't anything that needs to be said to describe what boating means. It doesn't mean a damn thing. But I am after all a human being, graced or cursed, depending on your perspective, with such evolutionary success, that I can devote a portion of most days in my life to filling in the empty spaces with an attempt to share meaninglessness; spaces that for any other species would be booked long in advance with unconscious and raw actions in the blunt name of survival and procreation.

Having just failed miserably at trying to seamlessly link philosophy and physics with "what I did last weekend", posting any pictures at all, much less a clever quip or caption to accompany each, seems silly at best. The truth is that every experience with a river or any other natural counterpart is a gift, and we should be grateful for each one. Maybe a more reverent title for this blog would be "The Next Big Thank You". Regardless, I think it is best to try to showcase what the river gives us, and not what we have taken from it or what we have done.

And now for some fall boating shots:

Jim Janney, lost in the woods.

Speaking of what we give to the river,

Sometimes when you are lost in the woods looking for one creek, you stumble upon another altogether. Though I must mention that scale is a critical part of the mix.

Tony making some lemonade

The hysteria of not knowing where you are

By the time we got to Upper Wilson Creek, the water had already left for Lower Wilson Creek.

Little Stoney Falls at high water, no one to play with.

Sometimes things look uglier in person than when you see them on a hiking blog. Eagle falls is a prime example. But hey, it looks good in this picture, right?

Eagle Creek has one good drop for sure.

All of these creeks feed into the Cumberland River.

Dog Slaughter Falls

Jim Janney, engineer, boofer extrordinaire

This is the best 17 footer in the southeast.

Bark Camp Creek

Jim entering his final rapid of 2010.

Unfortunately as stated above, the river doesn't care.

If you see this view the morning after 2 inches of rain at Newfound Gap, it might be because you are going to the true arena of boof. An area so purely saturated in the notion of boof, that to try to freeze a moment of the experience in time is to exit it, thus spoiling the trance.

The new buzz thanks to Jim Strickland, Greenbrier

Casey Cutter soaking it all in

One of the bigger rapids, this run is class 3 heaven.

The front range scene on a Thursday night

One week later, more rain, and some true dawn boofing up Lynn Camp

Ahhhhhhh

If you ever get a chance, hiking up Thunderhead Prong is the

definition of aesthetic Smokies creeking.

John Trembley going blind off the big boof at the beginning

JT trying to keep the water out of his eyes in Whiteout.

Luckily after countless runs on Tremont and Thunderhead, I got to witness some fishing with Gandhi downstream. The clear bronze water with leaves layered throughout like a snow globe was surreal to experience. I can only imagine what it must be like to squirt this spot. Sign me up!

Taylor Martin resurfacing after a quiet conversation

Trying to fall back to a deep sleep, to rejoin the dreams that you left behind

Them boys aint even wurin life jackits

Casper and The Hick

2010-08-16T21:04:00.000-04:00

Once we exited the lower canyon of the Clarks Fork, the tail end of our trip was missing any substantial options. With the Winds dropping out earlier than we anticipated, and having already completed a run on the Clarks Fork, I was out of ideas. Luckily, Jim came to the rescue with some internet sleuthing, and found that a usually dewatered section of the North Platte between two reservoirs near Casper had several thousand cfs raging through it earlier in the month, and that it still might have flow. After networking with a few locals, it sounded like the canyon was a miniature version of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, with a few class 4 rapids. There was also a lower section with some locked in class 5 that supposedly was run by some Polish guys over 10 years ago. We were sold!

We headed straight for Casper and to Fremont Canyon, a local climbing mecca. The terrain wasn't seeming to suggest that any whitewater was nearby, but as soon as we rounded a bend and dropped into a little valley, it was obvious that there was something down in there. I have moderate acrophobia, and I have never had such a hard time scouting a river. It took A LOT of cruising around and hiking back and forth and along the rim of this crack in the earth before we felt we had it figured out. So we bedded down at a nice little climber camp spot next to the rim and went to sleep, dreaming of floating through slots canyons.

Scouting the lower section that only has only seen one descent by some Poles

Sunset on our scouting road

Looking downstream from the upper canyon

This place is really impressive.

The next morning, we put a camera, water filter, a couple of power bars, and $20 in a drybag and dropped in. We had plans of running the lower canyon, where the walls soar almost 1000 feet overhead, paddling the 4-5 mile lake paddle and then bribing our way back to the put in.

I think many paddlers are familiar with the roadside effect. You show up and check out some river you haven't paddled, and everything looks mostly manageable, and you pick your lines through the rapids from the bank. Then, you get in your boat, and the little two foot curl you wanted to cue off in order to line up the first smaller rapid is nowhere to be seen. Instead, there are scores of 2 foot curls surging and breaking everywhere, and a massive churning 6 foot breaker is pulsating in the middle of the river. All of the sudden, the situation becomes realer than real deal Hollifield, and since the decision has been made, you just have to deal with it; realizing the big stuff has yet to be encountered. Well, the canyon rim effect dwarfs the roadside effect. When scouting the night before, we saw everything quite clearly, but we really blew it on scaling the size of the drops and volume of the river.

I think I was in creek scouting mindset, but we were afterall, scouting the North Platte River. So when we showed up at the put in and what we thought might be 300-500 cfs turned out to be 1200 cfs or more, and the little scrapy class 2 rapids at the beginning of the first stretch were powerful gauleyesque wavetrains, we were slightly if not almost humorously concerned. We were still confident we could work our way through the run, but the lower section was already seeming like a bad idea. We charged through the surging entrance set, and were instantly committed to the rest of the entrance section. This was a true slot canyon, with 400 foot walls rising straight out of the water. Everything sounded really big, with every little noise echoing and growing in strength as it bounced from one wall to the other. The law of conservation of sound was very real in this place, as very little of it vented off at the top.

Wake up call at the entrance to Fremont Canyon

Below the first rapid, one way out at this point

The river calmed up for a brief while, and I was really enjoying the surreal place we were floating through. I got out and told Jim to paddle around the bend and I would get some shots of him. After soaking it in a bit, I got back in my kayak and paddled after Jim, rounding the bend to a deafening roar and a steaming horizonline with huge boulders blocking the path. Jim was standing on one of the boulders in the distance, so I yipped and gave the interogational form of the head pat. No response. He was just staring into the abyss of what appeared from the rim to be a straight forward two foot ledge with some undercuts on the right, and then another two foot exit ledge. As I paddled down the long straight away, my mind began to race. What had we gotten ourselves into? Was it runnable? Was it portageable? Is there going to be a newspaper article?

Luckily, Jim said it was good to go, albeit 400% bigger than we thought it was from our perch way above the previous day during our scout. I ultimately sensed this paddling in, but slot canyons tend to play tricks on you. The finallity of passing the point of no return in any canyon is chilling, and I guess this was for sure the most locked in I had been up to this point. Rounding the bend and seeing something different than what we expected threw all the other observations we had made out of the courtroom. Maybe the whole river went underground around the next bend, to a deep subterranean land where we would be enslaved by robot-crustacean hybrids and would be forced to do their bidding and of course, subscribe to their exhaustive Michael McDonald worship regimen. Anything was possible at this point.

This place was incredible!

The rapid.

Jim peering into the little class 2 rapid we scouted from the rim

Back in reality, while the rapid was bigger than we expected, it was good to go, which meant it was simply better than we expected. I ran first, dropping into a funky diagonal entrance that was up close and personal with the unpleasant right side of the river, before ruddering back to center and firing off a quick boof stroke, punching through a boiling cauldron onto a fast carpet ride to the pool below. This thing was great! If there were 10 more like it, it would be the front range answer to Pandora's Box in Durango. As it was, this was the last rapid before the committing lower section, so we tucked tail and walked out and back to the car. I mean, if the class 2 in the upper canyon was really class 4+/5-, then the stout looking class 5+ that we so accurately characterized from 1000 feet above in the lower canyon would probably be a little out of our comfort zone. I will say that at half the flow, this lower canyon might be quite interesting and much more doable. So while it was a short stretch on the water (less than a mile), it was a fun little mission, and quite memorable.

Heading into the maw

Jim finishing the "class 2 rapid".

Feeling fortunate to have squeezed some splashy recreation out of the desolate and windy ranchlands of Eastern Wyoming, we took the scenic route back to Fort Collins and made a beeline for the Cache La Poudre Narrows, where a race was being held the next day. As we drove up the canyon for a late afternoon practice run, we joked about how hilarious, and embarassing for the locals it would be, if we showed up and took the top two spots back to Tennesssee.

We scouted the lower narrows on the drive up, then the upper narrows. We put on and just bombed down the run, and then got a ride from some friendly locals for a second lap. This run is so much fun. It is a staple home run for Fort Collins locals, and has a great laid back paddling scene built up around it.

That evening we stayed with Evan and his lovely family, and had a great breakfast the following morning on the way to the race. Upon arrival to the venue of the day, it quickly became clear that the race climate at the Poudre is quite different than the Green Race. There are no people nervously pacing by their boats, however there was one dude dressed only in a pair of hot pants and a fur coat, with blue blockers. Everyone was super relaxed and the obvious goal of the race was to just have fun. Despite the carefree spirit, there was some competitive shit talking, as well as some friendly rivalry. I would imagine that the concern was whether the coveted Gnarrows Belt would remain in Fort Collins, or end up in Boulder or Denver, or god forbid, up in Wyoming. Little did this friendly cast of characters know, but that very night, their sweet precious would be stowed safely away in the belly of Southwest flight 1418, bound for Dixie!

The first part of the race was a full uppers through lowers run, which was long and exhausting, but really fun. The top two in each heat would square off in subsequent brackets, untill it was pared down to the final four. There was also a loser's bracket, where all the bottom placers in each heat had an opportunity to jump back in the semi-finals through a mass start debris flow of multi-colored chunks of plastic down the lower narrows.

In my first heat, I broke out early and kept the peddle to the metal, but had a solid lead and was able to enjoy hauling ass without someone coming up behind. Jim had Kyle McKutchen right on his stern the entire run, breaking ahead late in the heat. The losers bracket was awesome to watch, and added a few more racers to the semi-finals. My semi-final heat was tough, as I had both authors of the new bible gunning for me. Kyle passed me halfway through, and I thought it was over, but cut him off for one of the last slots and came in first. Jim also won his semi-final heat.

Right below the crux of Whiteline in the upper narrows

Head to head in the semi-finals

Winded already!

Here you can see me, mid duffek, looking over at the guidebook author as he blazes past me.

Damn it!

We instantaneously held truce, and then jumped into a 2 man kayak for the rest of the race.

Evan Stafford closing the gap

Now it was down to the final four. Our joke from the previous evening was quickly becoming a possibility. It was me, Jim, Evan, and JJ. I could feel Evan's eyes burning a hole through the back of my head. If only he had known the previous evening that he was housing the wolves. It was all down to the last 2 minutes. Christian, last year's winner, started this official televised USACK sanctioned event by having Kyle's son throw a rock in the water, and we were off. Jim and I had a strong start out of the gate, and it was the Tennessee show down all the way. People on the banks were screaming for us to take each other out, but we were in the zone. So we rode to victory, slamming into the finish rock elated and exhausted.

Giving it all we had

The buckle, in all her glory

It used to say "HUCK" but the "U" was lost. Only a hucker pure of heart, and from a certain quadrant of the country would be able to rejoin these lone members of the alphabet with their destiny. "I" was that hucker. The speed of the 865 fueled the prophecy to become reality.

Note the pudgy and non-too threatening belly that was privy to the tear down of front range dominance. Upset stomach.

Doesn't this just make you sick, dwellers of the american altiplano?

New belt for me means new belt for the boy.

That marked the close of our trip, and we began our journey home. Now its been two weeks since we got back, and I'm already deciding where to go next year. After two years of sagebrush and sun, I am truly in need of the Pacific Northwest and all the blue, grey and green that so harmoniously frame deep dark gorges laden with clean waterfalls. On to the next big idea.

Thanks to the FTC crew for the hospitallity, and to Jeff Burley for the great race shots!

Existing Inside the Box

2010-08-13T20:44:00.000-04:00

Everyone is motivated to paddle for different reasons. We make decisions on what rivers we paddle and who we commune with based on these influences. There is this rational part of our brain that carries out the actions and makes the choices required to satisfy these needs and motivations. What fuels the process is more abstract though. On the uphill path of getting paddling gear, buying plane tickets, renting vehicles, running shuttle, carrying heavy things through the woods, and dealing with fear and consequence, there have to exist various affirmations, or mantras, to keep you in between the lines. Without these inspirational images and ideas, we would almost inevitably end up drinking beer at a bowling alley in the middle of nowhere near our destination, all too easily discounting our original plan of paddling some river as foolhardy, or just a waste of time. Paddling is a mostly selfish endeavor, and I don't know that it has the capacity to solve the world's problems, so maybe that sentiment is spot on from a progressive standpoint.

But despite the notion of the uselessness of paddling, in everyone's head who has been bitten by the bug, images of arctic blue water, perfect shoulders, idyllic rolling lips, the pink, grey, and white mix of perfect granite, the smell of sagebrush, the faint aroma of water filled with fall leaves, the cold and peaceful sensation of flying along the river bottom, the sound of the perfect landing, and so forth; We all have our own unique and personally relevant affirmations that resonate with us and spark the fire of desire.

The places I most enjoy to paddle are steep walled and committing canyons and gorges. This isn't necessary for me to find river days worthwhile by any means, but any time the walls start closing in and the banks disappear, I am immediately overcome by a wave of reverent, yet giddy euphoria. So when I first got into paddling, I stumbled onto an article on the Clarks Fork of the Yellowstone. The write up clearly described The Box as a fully committing, walled in class 5 run, and the accompanying pictures confirmed this. One picture in particular though, of someone running Calendar Falls, created a visual affirmation in my head that would be gently nagging me for the next 10 years. Its not an impressive or hard rapid, just a rolling lip down an 8-10 foot drop onto a well padded slab of rock. But the shot, to me, really characterized my motivations for seeking out deep and dark canyons. So with me it stayed, until this year lined up to be a natural opportunity to get into the Clarks Fork.

This wasn't the only reason to visit the Clarks Fork Box. There were tons of class 4-5 rapids in a long and sustained river course with walls to the sky, excellent water quality and fishing, and a handful of unscoutable and unportageable class 5 rapids. The best way to do it also seemed to involve overnighting in the canyon, which always magnifies how beneficial the experience ends up being. The intrigue was to the floor with this run. That image of calendar falls is what kept me from succumbing to the temptations of all the epic runs in California I still haven't done, as you have to watch almost all of them come in and then drop out, in wait for the late season trek to Wyoming. Its never an easy decision to go to Wyoming when everyone knows California and BC have the best multi-day action anywhere. But there is also more to it than hitting the same place every year.

So now you know why we weren't hiking into the Middle Fork of the Kings River, hands down the best class 5 overnighter in the United States. We rolled into Cody and met Andy Quick, the local paddle sports connection to arrange a shuttle, as it is quite long, and we only had one car. After a tourist trap breakfast we quickly headed up to Sunlight Basin, where the desert foothills quickly give way to a richer more montane environment, which supports the densest grizzly population in the lower 48. After some sightseeing, we hit the day run, a pleasant and alluring introduction to the Clarks Fork. The big one on here was Adrenaline, a lengthy and squirrelly gauntlet of holes and undercuts. All too quickly we were back at the Painter Outpost, eating buffalo burgers and buying bear spray for our imminent sojourn into the wilds of The Box. The outpost had everything from wine and beer to river supplies, gas and a restaurant. This put in was quite different than our launch point on the North Fork of the Little Wind.

Speaking of visual affirmations.

Pilot and Index Peaks

A common portage on the day run, Coin Slot.

Jim punching through the crux of Adrenaline

After dinner we hopped in our boats and put on the Honeymoon run, which runs from the store 2.5 miles down to the beginning of the Green Monster portage. This is also the typical starting point for The Box. We found pushy class 4+ canyons with a more verdant feel than most other Wyoming rivers we had seen thus far. The walls were a beautiful grey and the water a deep blue. The occasional moss on the walls and rocks, and evergreen brush strokes on the rim really brought the whole picture together. This set the tone for the rest of the river below. We took out below Crandall Creek and then walked 4 miles back to the store. We loaded up and then headed to the rim camp near one of the few access points to the inner canyon, about halfway down the run. There we met some world class climbers and enjoyed their hospitality and the sharing of stories about rock and water. Then there's the obligatory argument of who is crazier, the person hanging from the cliff 1200 feet up, or the idiot down at the bottom, getting kicked around like a hacky-sack by the whitewater fury of the river.

Honeymoon Canyon is just fantastic.

I think this one is called Zoom, Boom, to the Moon.

Morning came, and we loaded up and headed to the store to put on for our three day trip through The Box. We blazed through the Honeymoon, stopping a few times to get some shots, and then ran the last stretch of Crandall Creek, dropping into the stretch above the first epic portage. There is a huge amount of excellent whitewater on the Clarks Fork Box, but I think the best way to describe the run is by highlighting the portages. The fact that many people regard it as a portagefest and are therefore uninterested in the run only adds to the likelihood of not seeing another soul in there. There are five big portages on the run, and a few small ones. The first big one is The Green Monster. You can boat pretty far past Crandall Creek, but if you passed the eddy of no return, there is no escape. I am sure your body would never be found, and your kayak would slowly be assimilated by the geologic record. One you take out, you have a short but gruelling climb to a scree slope, which you take for a good 15 minutes, before dropping down to the wooded bench below. An intermittent trail travels another half mile and then drops down to below what is certainly one of the more horrific stretches of river anywhere in the world. From here it is 5 miles of scenic flats through a huge valley. I almost fell asleep twice, just being lulled into tranquility. Though there is no whitewater, it is a very magical place to be.

Once the whitewater starts kicking in again, the worst portage comes up quick. Ankle Breaker was truly a dose of reality. You climb quite a bit and traverse a long distance before dropping down, and this is ALL done on loose boulders and scree. It is an intoxicatingly beautiful chunk of gradient though.

The Clarks Fork is not your friend. You are not worthy. The Green Monster

Don't look the Green Monster in the eye.

Ankle Breaker Portage is a true dose of reality.

I wouldn't ever bank on fishing for sustenance, but the Clarks Fork warms you up to the idea.

Early in our commitment, a distant view of the finish line

At this point, you are officially in The Box, and are through the hardest portages. What lays ahead is 8 miles of epic whitewater and box canyons. This is the real deal. After some world class white-knuckle boogie and a few more developed drops, we bedded down, excited for what the morning would bring. The next day was the action day, with several solid drops quickly bringing us to Balls to the Wall. Balls is truly a sight to behold, with 800-1000 cfs necking down against the left wall and bouncing 40 feet down a steep and drop filled slam dance to a small eddy below which resides Lower Balls to the Wall, an equally challenging but slightly less vertigo inducing run-out into a slot canyon. Running this drop, which is the biggest on the run, simply amps you up to the proper level to where the rest of the run, while being full on for sure, is par for the course, and reasonable. Snolieguster is next, and if it was roadside and you had an empty boat, it would be all well, but we took the high and dry route and boofed the sweet run out ledge into another walled in corridor.

Dirty but colossal symmetry

Being where we were. Right where we belonged

A dizzying vortex of granite and di-hydrogen monoxide, Balls to the Wall

You definitely can't get lost in a box canyon, but just maybe you can lose yourself in one.

Jim keeping his Balls to the Wall. It's really that simple. Simple in a play dead and the bear will stop gnawing on your neck kind of way.

Bonus Ledge on Snolieguster, from the ladies' tees

Ballbuster Portage resides below, alongside the one hikeout gully, should something go awry. This one wasn't bad at all, comparatively. Maybe 15 minutes up a short slope and then down the backside. Below here were many big rapids, with Dillworth being the highlight of this stretch. Several big pourovers led to a pinbally big water flush through some goal posts at the bottom. This things was big, long, and awesome. Next, the river bends left into the Calendar Falls Gorge, where I had wanted to go for so long. It was great, but there were so many more places like it or better on the run, and in this way the river truly exceeded my expectations.

Ballbuster portage runout

Russ' Underworld, a juicy casserole of chaos

This massive buttress looming below Dillworth is one of many.

If this rapid wasn't so quality, it would be really scary.

As it is, its just big fun.

This shot makes me wish I was still there.

Calendar Falls Gorge. Perfect.

This single shot gets to the core of what motivates many expedition paddlers.

The next big obstacle at Deliberation Corner was quickly approaching. This part of the canyon was a bit more open, but knowing what was coming, we were all business. The entrance to Deliberation had some wood, which was bittersweet, as it was a relief to not have to consider running it, but it also looked really good to go and it was hard to not be able to fire it up. The unportageable third drop was everything it was built up to be, with a splashy entrance to big delayed boof, into a boiling pool with oblique recirculations and dynamic currents. Lower Deliberation Corner was the real brute of the set, with powerful water dropping down quite a bit of gradient, with a messy boulderfield finishing up into an overhanging slot canyon of immense depth.

Maybe the most classic "un-un" in the country, Deliberation Corner

The seldom mentioned or seen, Lower Deliberation. 100% Angus burl

This is the heart of the run, and it was exhilerating to be floating through here. After opening up slightly, we paddled right through a huge runnable sieve, and then portaged the top of Leap of Faith, which is an easy river level 10 minute portage. The bottom section is totally unportageable and really not scoutable, but we did our homework and aced the test. Below here was a walled in black sand beach with lots of room and tons of firewood. We quickly built a fire as the rain started coming down, and settled in for a night below Leap of Faith in what was quite likely the best riverside campsite I have stayed.

Leap of Faith, or in our situation, Leap of informed confidence

Leap of Faith run-out

Trying to stay warm in the rain

Got everything we need....Baileys

View down to the trifluence with Dead Indian and Sunlight Creeks

The canyon depth triples below Sunlight Creek

Black Sand

The interplay between light and dark in such a place is truly dynamic

You'd think he'd pick up boating, considering where he lives.

Spending the night somewhere really engraves its place in your memory

The next morning, we started right out with the Sunlight Strainer #2 portage, which is where the tragedy of several years ago occurred. After you run Leap of Faith, you have to get out immediately on the left and start walking. This one only took about 20 minutes, but it had very loose and unstable rock and was definitely the sketchiest portage on the run. Back on the water we paddled some rowdy breakdown to the trifluence with Dead Indian Creek and Sunlight Creek. This is yet another awe-inspiring spot on the Clarks Fork, with huge waterfalls cascading into an ever deepening canyon.

Below here the depth of the canyon, though not vertical all the way to the top, reaches upwards of 3500 feet, making it the third deepest canyon in the lower 48. The walls come straight out of the water for the first mile below the trifluence, with stout class 4 rapids around every bend, with the dry and deserty colors creeping up from the flats and painting everything pink and buff- orange. The gradient subsides quickly though, and the walls recede back and away making room for large boulder bars and gently sloping scrub filled river banks. From here its another hour of paddling to the takeout, near the end of which some stout boulder gardens build, occasionally housing some large limestone undercuts here and there.

At the takeout; last glimpse of the canyon before returning to the semi-real world.

Once at the takeout, I really didn't want to leave, but we had done what we came to do, and I was ready for some food. So we headed back into Cody for some "Spaghetti Western" Italian food. The last 3 days all of the sudden had already been lived, and once again, I was relegated to knowing the Clarks Fork only as an image in my head. Thats all any of it ever is though, except for the exact moment you are in there, burning the images into the blank canvas of your own mind. That is why we repeat these experiences over and over. Stay tuned for the final chapter of our trip to Wyoming, where we get some bonus layover paddling near the suicide capital of Casper, WY, followed by a few days of living the Fort Collins life.