The thralls of life have put me quite behind in the tales of this spring. And while there are stories the will forever remain in my memory, a shortage of time has stripped my ability to convey them in written words.
In the interest of capturing the present while it remains in foreground of my thoughts rather than a distant recapturing of moments gone by.... I will be skipping ahead to the present. Thus my spring including trips to the Selway, Lochsa, Lower Clarks Fork, The Pot's, Woodbine, and the many forks of rock creek will remain to be documented in video only sans the infamous GoPro(coming soon).
In the mean time stay tuned for posts on more current adventures...
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Why The Blog?
After reading a few other's blogs and seeing the darker faces of their authorship... I felt the need to explain origins and intent of this blog.
I will first admit, the title of this blog in itself is seemingly egotistical and frankly somewhat lame, but at this point is difficult to change to something perhaps more metaphorical.
Despite the egotism of the title the reasons I began writing is far from attention seeking. The reason I began writing in the space was because of an overflowing. How do you communicate the daily awe that nourishes you? How do you describe to a stranger the joys of your life? We all have a story to be told. But in starting this blog, my intent was never that I needed to be heard, but rather to fill the need for stories told in a catharses of joy. And so it is that I write not necessarily for the benefit of other's, but for the benefit of myself and the documentation of treasured memories.
In the meantime, friends, family, acquaintances, fellow paddlers may perhaps find entertainment, identification, inspiration in reading my stories. I am happy that my words could possibly gift others in this way, but is secondary to my intentions for writing.
I will first admit, the title of this blog in itself is seemingly egotistical and frankly somewhat lame, but at this point is difficult to change to something perhaps more metaphorical.
Despite the egotism of the title the reasons I began writing is far from attention seeking. The reason I began writing in the space was because of an overflowing. How do you communicate the daily awe that nourishes you? How do you describe to a stranger the joys of your life? We all have a story to be told. But in starting this blog, my intent was never that I needed to be heard, but rather to fill the need for stories told in a catharses of joy. And so it is that I write not necessarily for the benefit of other's, but for the benefit of myself and the documentation of treasured memories.
In the meantime, friends, family, acquaintances, fellow paddlers may perhaps find entertainment, identification, inspiration in reading my stories. I am happy that my words could possibly gift others in this way, but is secondary to my intentions for writing.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
The Thaw: Hood River
The truck drove through the depths of the night and outside the range of the headlights the silohette of the cascade range loomed and the Columbia river shimmered in the moonlight. It had been 8 months since I had been graced by a river and now sought just that. Slowly the morning twilight was broken by the twinkling street lights of Hood River. We traveled in our chariot manifested in the form of 1 ton truck laden with four creek boats, four playboats, and four hungry paddlers. Amidst the quaint downtown we found a lush lawn beside a local windsurf shop to unabashedly lay out and sleep for the remainder of the morning. In the dew filled morning, we sleepily found breakfast and mounted our chariot headed for the city of White Salmon and met with Brian, who had newly migrated from Minnesota to White Salmon.
After gathering our senses and putting together our gear we made way for our first endeavor... the Wind River. Putting on I was unaware what to expect from the river nor myself. My left pinky finger was fitted with a plastic brace as it was only marginally healed from it's recent fracture. Two rapids in and already rolled, I pealed into an eddy and tore of the brace... it was impeding my paddling. The sun shone down on us, as rapid by rapid, we pounded out the winter's rust.
We left the river satisfied and arriving at our lodgings we celebrated our adventures. Guitar and song rang out in a warm garage amongst ample beer, good cheer, and new friends. When morning arrived we mustered a run on the middle stretch of the White Salmon for a tame warm up and were disappointed to find Husum Falls choked with a unfriendly log in the land zone. We chilled by the riverside and awaited another long time Midwestern friend, Andy McMurray, to arrive. Our intent was to tackle the farmlands section of the White Salmon. Admittedly I knew little about the run other than it was mostly class IV in nature. As Andy arrived and shuttle was rapidly set we sped for the put in. With Mt Adams looming in the distant background I was surprised to find that the White Salmon River slowly dropping into once lava tube. I quick seal launch into the river found me walled in amongst dark igneous rock. The daylight was waining and what was left was dim amongst the low ceiling of clouds. We picked out way through drops carefully aware of dangerous logs wedged in river.
The gorge walls continued to rise up and soon we were locked in. The river maintained it's class IV character but the was becoming less friendly to any mistakes. With Andy in the lead and myself close behind we pounded through a bit of a hole and eddied out awaiting the rest of the group. Unfortunately the next of our group paddled into the hole and stern ended and flipped. After attempting to roll, he was out of his boat. I laid chase to his gear as Andy ferried our companion to what little of a rocky perch could be obtained in the gorge. I desperately grabbed his paddle and threw it ashore. We off for the boat with Andy right behind me. As I rounded a corner my eyes grew wide. There ahead the river dived under a large log and had a deathly character. Andy belted out unintelligible words as I battled for a must make eddy. For a small instant I though I might miss the eddy, but threw every I had into my strokes and sighed as found solace in the small eddy. The boat washed downstream meanwhile our paddler stood helplessly on a small parcel of rock. He picked his way up the moss drenched rock face and we found relief when his face poked out from the gorge's rim. But alas his paddle remained stranded as the rest of us paddle downstream pressed for time.We each rolled under a log barely passable and when the gorge finally ended we promptly hiked ourselves out in paddlers walk of shame. It was oddly metaphorical as we walked across a charred and blacked field still smoking to the roadside. We chuckled at our own ridiculousness and the boondoggle that had just ensued.
Unfortunately on way our back to our lodgings, we mourned the loss of our companions boat and paddle... his trip was seemily over. The next morning we gather up some climbing gear and prepare to rappel into the gorge to recover the paddle. As I was harnessed and ready tying off my anchor with rope readied to rappel, when a white truck pulled up. I disgruntled farmer sternly exclaimed, no one is going into that gorge on my property! I didn't argue as anger raged inside me. We sulked back to our lodgings and salvaged the day with a joyful playboat run on the Hood River finished off by burgers, beer, and a splash of whiskey.
The next morning Brian and I went back up to the Farmlands section and with Nate Herbeck to lead the way as we paddled into the dark gorge again, intent upon our companions forsaken gear. When we reached it, awaiting at the gorge rim he tossed a rope down. We tied off the paddle and he happily retrieved it.
We made our way through the gorge without incident and as the gorge waned we rounded a corner to see an orange kayak stranded on a gravel shoal. Elated we towed our companions boat and were excited to recover what had been lost. The river had mercy on us.
The morning after retrieving the boat we cut our losses and said goodbye to Hood River and pointed our beast of a truck eastward. We stopped along the way home to bathe our kayaks in the waters of both the South Fork of the Clear Water and the Lochsa before returning homeward.
It was the beginning of a season of water and the initial baptism of the spring season proved harsh and yet refreshing. And driving home with the horizon the beartooth mountains beside me, I felt the anticipation. So much yet to be explored and a new home for my kayaking.
Many Thanks to Brian O'Neil, Andy McMurray, Nate & Heather Herbeck, and Jo Kemper for making us welcome in Hood!
After gathering our senses and putting together our gear we made way for our first endeavor... the Wind River. Putting on I was unaware what to expect from the river nor myself. My left pinky finger was fitted with a plastic brace as it was only marginally healed from it's recent fracture. Two rapids in and already rolled, I pealed into an eddy and tore of the brace... it was impeding my paddling. The sun shone down on us, as rapid by rapid, we pounded out the winter's rust.
We left the river satisfied and arriving at our lodgings we celebrated our adventures. Guitar and song rang out in a warm garage amongst ample beer, good cheer, and new friends. When morning arrived we mustered a run on the middle stretch of the White Salmon for a tame warm up and were disappointed to find Husum Falls choked with a unfriendly log in the land zone. We chilled by the riverside and awaited another long time Midwestern friend, Andy McMurray, to arrive. Our intent was to tackle the farmlands section of the White Salmon. Admittedly I knew little about the run other than it was mostly class IV in nature. As Andy arrived and shuttle was rapidly set we sped for the put in. With Mt Adams looming in the distant background I was surprised to find that the White Salmon River slowly dropping into once lava tube. I quick seal launch into the river found me walled in amongst dark igneous rock. The daylight was waining and what was left was dim amongst the low ceiling of clouds. We picked out way through drops carefully aware of dangerous logs wedged in river.
The gorge walls continued to rise up and soon we were locked in. The river maintained it's class IV character but the was becoming less friendly to any mistakes. With Andy in the lead and myself close behind we pounded through a bit of a hole and eddied out awaiting the rest of the group. Unfortunately the next of our group paddled into the hole and stern ended and flipped. After attempting to roll, he was out of his boat. I laid chase to his gear as Andy ferried our companion to what little of a rocky perch could be obtained in the gorge. I desperately grabbed his paddle and threw it ashore. We off for the boat with Andy right behind me. As I rounded a corner my eyes grew wide. There ahead the river dived under a large log and had a deathly character. Andy belted out unintelligible words as I battled for a must make eddy. For a small instant I though I might miss the eddy, but threw every I had into my strokes and sighed as found solace in the small eddy. The boat washed downstream meanwhile our paddler stood helplessly on a small parcel of rock. He picked his way up the moss drenched rock face and we found relief when his face poked out from the gorge's rim. But alas his paddle remained stranded as the rest of us paddle downstream pressed for time.We each rolled under a log barely passable and when the gorge finally ended we promptly hiked ourselves out in paddlers walk of shame. It was oddly metaphorical as we walked across a charred and blacked field still smoking to the roadside. We chuckled at our own ridiculousness and the boondoggle that had just ensued.
Unfortunately on way our back to our lodgings, we mourned the loss of our companions boat and paddle... his trip was seemily over. The next morning we gather up some climbing gear and prepare to rappel into the gorge to recover the paddle. As I was harnessed and ready tying off my anchor with rope readied to rappel, when a white truck pulled up. I disgruntled farmer sternly exclaimed, no one is going into that gorge on my property! I didn't argue as anger raged inside me. We sulked back to our lodgings and salvaged the day with a joyful playboat run on the Hood River finished off by burgers, beer, and a splash of whiskey.
The next morning Brian and I went back up to the Farmlands section and with Nate Herbeck to lead the way as we paddled into the dark gorge again, intent upon our companions forsaken gear. When we reached it, awaiting at the gorge rim he tossed a rope down. We tied off the paddle and he happily retrieved it.
We made our way through the gorge without incident and as the gorge waned we rounded a corner to see an orange kayak stranded on a gravel shoal. Elated we towed our companions boat and were excited to recover what had been lost. The river had mercy on us.
The morning after retrieving the boat we cut our losses and said goodbye to Hood River and pointed our beast of a truck eastward. We stopped along the way home to bathe our kayaks in the waters of both the South Fork of the Clear Water and the Lochsa before returning homeward.
It was the beginning of a season of water and the initial baptism of the spring season proved harsh and yet refreshing. And driving home with the horizon the beartooth mountains beside me, I felt the anticipation. So much yet to be explored and a new home for my kayaking.
Many Thanks to Brian O'Neil, Andy McMurray, Nate & Heather Herbeck, and Jo Kemper for making us welcome in Hood!
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Winter's Gift
The winds turned cold and the leaves fell from branches as the masks of the season changed to fall. As the first snows came to the nearby peaks of the Beartooth mountains, our nearby ski community was blessed with ample snow. Early storms blanketed Red Lodge in beautiful veil of white. Meanwhile, in Billings snow was more or less a fleeting beauty. As winter's cold grasp came to the land, it came to pass that my ski's lived perpetually in my truck. On every opportunity I could muster I found myself on the slopes and often meddling in the side country of Red Lodge.
The winter depths of snow came to be a welcomed friend and the mountains loomed with adventures. I became addicted to tight powder filled trees; dodging their trunks at high speeds. I came to understand the addiction that is powder. Amongst my most memorable days of skiing came from my day of back country skiing and skinning in Cooke City. There we climbed and nearly 5000 vertical feet of untouched powder. The winter was a transition, as nordic skiing was largely unobtainable in any reasonable quality. If I were to exert myself on skis then it may has well have been in the interest of powder turns. And so skinning up the mountain and working for my turns slowly took the place of nordic racing this year. But the winter only seemed moderately cold to a harden Minnesotan and back in Billings I found myself commuting by way of bicycle nearly year round.
With each season comes a renewed thankfulness for its gifts and yet a longing for the next. The warmth slowly crept back to the land. As the winter's grasp loosened, I came to be grateful for the meditative silence of winter and the lightness of powder under foot .
Watch my winter of Red Lodge side-country!!!!
The winter depths of snow came to be a welcomed friend and the mountains loomed with adventures. I became addicted to tight powder filled trees; dodging their trunks at high speeds. I came to understand the addiction that is powder. Amongst my most memorable days of skiing came from my day of back country skiing and skinning in Cooke City. There we climbed and nearly 5000 vertical feet of untouched powder. The winter was a transition, as nordic skiing was largely unobtainable in any reasonable quality. If I were to exert myself on skis then it may has well have been in the interest of powder turns. And so skinning up the mountain and working for my turns slowly took the place of nordic racing this year. But the winter only seemed moderately cold to a harden Minnesotan and back in Billings I found myself commuting by way of bicycle nearly year round.
With each season comes a renewed thankfulness for its gifts and yet a longing for the next. The warmth slowly crept back to the land. As the winter's grasp loosened, I came to be grateful for the meditative silence of winter and the lightness of powder under foot .
Sunday, September 4, 2011
BANKS!- Part Two
There lies a spirit and a character to every river. The North Fork of the Payette moves in soul of all who have paddled it and it's rumbling presence echos in the memory of all who have been touched by it's waters. Surrounding this river is a community of paddlers united by admiration, respect, and exhilaration found amongst it's violent gnashings.
Myself and Drew drove Northward up Hwy 55 which follows the entire length of the North Fork. We stopped to scout "Crunch" and "Juicer". I tried to imprint the lines in my memory, but knew that once at river level it would be difficult to put together what I was viewing now. I quieted my mind deciding to let go and take each drop as they came. I put aside all preoccupations on lines and focused on maintaining good paddling technique, while following Drew's instruction.
We geared up while the sun was just beginning to create the midday heat. I slowly gearing up and plodded down to the riverside. Drew sat ready with a smile. I took a quick glance at "Hounds Tooth" and jumped into my boat and snugged myself in. The run would begin immediately as we pealed out and I was about to experience my first baptism by the North Fork of the Payette. Within 50 ft we snuck between boulders and I laid the first boof of the day. I landed satisfactorily in a small calm pool. We ferried out into the meat and began the journey.
It began as busy Class IV with waves crashing abound and minor holes with their grip fleeting. Even then, I kept my guard and my paddling focused. Gradually, it appeared that the river increased it's intensity. On a large breaking wave I misplaced a stroke and was reminded that little error was tolerated. I was overturned, but instantaneously found myself rolled and upright. The water's then calmed for minute before we reached Otter Slide.
I had been camping along side this stretch of river and was well familiar with it and felt comfortable as Drew and I rounded the left bend with a few instructions on the line relayed to me. Hugging tight to the river right shore we punched through the a couple awkwardly angled holes before regaining speed. Drew caught a tight right eddy, but I found myself in no way able to enter it and continued onward. A head of me, I felt calm and picked my way through a run-out of fun class IV whitewater.
We paddled onward and the river migrated closer the the roadway signaling the oncoming onslaught. Ahead lay "Juicer" and I knew the North Fork was about to give me the first real test. We eddied on the river left and went over the line again. I took some deep breaths and Drew asked, "You ready?" I mustered an inexpressive, "Yep", and we ferried out. Ahead on the horizon line I could see water erupting into the sky and dancing in the air....... and then it began.
The world began to warp as the acceleration took hold and the river constricted. The waters reflected off the walls unpredictably and yet ahead the line Drew had explained began to unfold before me. Following a raging ramp of water, bordered by two looming laterals, I worked from river left to right. As the ramp closed in on me quickly and punched river right temporarily blinded as I was blasted by the force of the lateral. The world continued to accelerate and strokes became instinctual and the battle became primal in nature. Another lateral came on my left and forced me further right and I fought it off. Ahead on the right I caught a glimpse of large wall of holes ahead of me on the river right. I began working furiously to the left. But the river offered no mercy. Desperately fighting left, I found the the meat of the crashing holes still loomed in my path. I resigned to the river and stopped fighting. I turned my boat into a less vulnerable position... and faced my licking head on. A large blast of water beat against my chest brutally and a white blindness enveloped me as I braced. When I could see again I found that I had been typewriter-ed back on line and was nearer to the river left. Ahead a final large hole lay ahead and I turned and lined up. Another blast of blindness and then I emerged into busy class IV. I was relieved and felt the tremor of adrenaline about me. I found Drew smiling in a nearby eddy and I let out a "whoop" of both catharsis and excitement.
We paddled on, and only one last challenge remained. A short ways downriver we again sat in a small eddy above "Crunch". We peeled out with after a simple conversation of the line. We ferried to the river left and immediately found myself instinctively boofing a large irregular hole near the river right bank, meanwhile Drew sat in a eddy grinning as I blew by it. I was on my own to find the lines. I followed the water ahead and fought back to the river left charging through a few large and blinding holes. Atop the peaking waves, I surveyed my line an continued along the left bank. Multiple sets of holes blasted my vision and slowed my momentum as I fought on. The river eased and I began to feel the elation pulse through me. The worst was behind me. The waters of the North and South fork converged as we took to the shore and dismounted are boats. A tremor lay in my hands and knees as the adrenaline persisted in my blood and fueled a wide smile.
For the remainder of the afternoon I took it easy cooling myself from the summer heat with dual playboat runs on the main with companions. I slept that night soundly dreaming of days ahead. Banks quieted over the next days. Yet I found another paddler to run the Canyon of the South Fork of the Payette. The next morning I met up with Drew and again ran the Lower Five for the second time. My nerves calmed and I began to relax on the lower five and began to feel the rhythm of the river.
The day after, I rested myself waking late in the morning and attending to my usual cholesterol laden breakfast. My new friend Brian Ward sat down at my table and I looked up to see Eric Boomer sit down beside him. Inhaling my breakfast, I chatted with Boomer for a bit outside the cafe as I had nothing but time and he awaited a ride Northward to McCall. It was refreshing to chat with a professional paddler whom I had only seen in magazines, and yet found him to be humble, down to earth, and devoid of egotism.
By the time the Friday prior to labor day rolled in, Banks was getting busy. Paddlers from all over the nation flocked to the Payettes for their vacation. In the Cafe I ran into Emily and we hit the Staircase section and Main Payette before retiring to spectating the local crew running the entire North Fork.
I ran the Lower Five one last time before the crowds of paddlers clogged the Banks parking lots. With the few days remaining I decided my time amongst the Payettes had come to a close. I reluctantly said goodbye to new friends and on my last eve we sat by the light of headlamps, and I sung a few playful songs accompanied by my ukelele amongst the night's star filled sky.
The next morning I drove slowly home and within a few hours from Banks found myself lonesome for the rivers and friends I had turned from. But the days of my vacation wained and the woe of work hung heavy upon me. I made a last stop in Sun Valley to visit a friend and made the long drive home to Montana.
My journey to the Payette drainage still hangs still vivid in my memory. The spirit of the Payettes still tugs at strings of my soul. Meanwhile, to the community of people who feast in the bounty of the Payettes: I am ever thankful for welcoming kindness.
Myself and Drew drove Northward up Hwy 55 which follows the entire length of the North Fork. We stopped to scout "Crunch" and "Juicer". I tried to imprint the lines in my memory, but knew that once at river level it would be difficult to put together what I was viewing now. I quieted my mind deciding to let go and take each drop as they came. I put aside all preoccupations on lines and focused on maintaining good paddling technique, while following Drew's instruction.
We geared up while the sun was just beginning to create the midday heat. I slowly gearing up and plodded down to the riverside. Drew sat ready with a smile. I took a quick glance at "Hounds Tooth" and jumped into my boat and snugged myself in. The run would begin immediately as we pealed out and I was about to experience my first baptism by the North Fork of the Payette. Within 50 ft we snuck between boulders and I laid the first boof of the day. I landed satisfactorily in a small calm pool. We ferried out into the meat and began the journey.
It began as busy Class IV with waves crashing abound and minor holes with their grip fleeting. Even then, I kept my guard and my paddling focused. Gradually, it appeared that the river increased it's intensity. On a large breaking wave I misplaced a stroke and was reminded that little error was tolerated. I was overturned, but instantaneously found myself rolled and upright. The water's then calmed for minute before we reached Otter Slide.
I had been camping along side this stretch of river and was well familiar with it and felt comfortable as Drew and I rounded the left bend with a few instructions on the line relayed to me. Hugging tight to the river right shore we punched through the a couple awkwardly angled holes before regaining speed. Drew caught a tight right eddy, but I found myself in no way able to enter it and continued onward. A head of me, I felt calm and picked my way through a run-out of fun class IV whitewater.
We paddled onward and the river migrated closer the the roadway signaling the oncoming onslaught. Ahead lay "Juicer" and I knew the North Fork was about to give me the first real test. We eddied on the river left and went over the line again. I took some deep breaths and Drew asked, "You ready?" I mustered an inexpressive, "Yep", and we ferried out. Ahead on the horizon line I could see water erupting into the sky and dancing in the air....... and then it began.
The world began to warp as the acceleration took hold and the river constricted. The waters reflected off the walls unpredictably and yet ahead the line Drew had explained began to unfold before me. Following a raging ramp of water, bordered by two looming laterals, I worked from river left to right. As the ramp closed in on me quickly and punched river right temporarily blinded as I was blasted by the force of the lateral. The world continued to accelerate and strokes became instinctual and the battle became primal in nature. Another lateral came on my left and forced me further right and I fought it off. Ahead on the right I caught a glimpse of large wall of holes ahead of me on the river right. I began working furiously to the left. But the river offered no mercy. Desperately fighting left, I found the the meat of the crashing holes still loomed in my path. I resigned to the river and stopped fighting. I turned my boat into a less vulnerable position... and faced my licking head on. A large blast of water beat against my chest brutally and a white blindness enveloped me as I braced. When I could see again I found that I had been typewriter-ed back on line and was nearer to the river left. Ahead a final large hole lay ahead and I turned and lined up. Another blast of blindness and then I emerged into busy class IV. I was relieved and felt the tremor of adrenaline about me. I found Drew smiling in a nearby eddy and I let out a "whoop" of both catharsis and excitement.
We paddled on, and only one last challenge remained. A short ways downriver we again sat in a small eddy above "Crunch". We peeled out with after a simple conversation of the line. We ferried to the river left and immediately found myself instinctively boofing a large irregular hole near the river right bank, meanwhile Drew sat in a eddy grinning as I blew by it. I was on my own to find the lines. I followed the water ahead and fought back to the river left charging through a few large and blinding holes. Atop the peaking waves, I surveyed my line an continued along the left bank. Multiple sets of holes blasted my vision and slowed my momentum as I fought on. The river eased and I began to feel the elation pulse through me. The worst was behind me. The waters of the North and South fork converged as we took to the shore and dismounted are boats. A tremor lay in my hands and knees as the adrenaline persisted in my blood and fueled a wide smile.
For the remainder of the afternoon I took it easy cooling myself from the summer heat with dual playboat runs on the main with companions. I slept that night soundly dreaming of days ahead. Banks quieted over the next days. Yet I found another paddler to run the Canyon of the South Fork of the Payette. The next morning I met up with Drew and again ran the Lower Five for the second time. My nerves calmed and I began to relax on the lower five and began to feel the rhythm of the river.
The day after, I rested myself waking late in the morning and attending to my usual cholesterol laden breakfast. My new friend Brian Ward sat down at my table and I looked up to see Eric Boomer sit down beside him. Inhaling my breakfast, I chatted with Boomer for a bit outside the cafe as I had nothing but time and he awaited a ride Northward to McCall. It was refreshing to chat with a professional paddler whom I had only seen in magazines, and yet found him to be humble, down to earth, and devoid of egotism.
By the time the Friday prior to labor day rolled in, Banks was getting busy. Paddlers from all over the nation flocked to the Payettes for their vacation. In the Cafe I ran into Emily and we hit the Staircase section and Main Payette before retiring to spectating the local crew running the entire North Fork.
I ran the Lower Five one last time before the crowds of paddlers clogged the Banks parking lots. With the few days remaining I decided my time amongst the Payettes had come to a close. I reluctantly said goodbye to new friends and on my last eve we sat by the light of headlamps, and I sung a few playful songs accompanied by my ukelele amongst the night's star filled sky.
The next morning I drove slowly home and within a few hours from Banks found myself lonesome for the rivers and friends I had turned from. But the days of my vacation wained and the woe of work hung heavy upon me. I made a last stop in Sun Valley to visit a friend and made the long drive home to Montana.
My journey to the Payette drainage still hangs still vivid in my memory. The spirit of the Payettes still tugs at strings of my soul. Meanwhile, to the community of people who feast in the bounty of the Payettes: I am ever thankful for welcoming kindness.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
BANKS! - Chapter One
The headlights dimly shown on the winding road, while outside, the mountains’ silhouettes rose as blackened shadows in the night. The moon’s fractured reflection lit the river, who had etched its path through the mountains, and the road obediently followed beside it. There stood no sign to mark my arrival in Banks Idaho, only the confluence of rivers now shining in the darkness. Weary from my long drive, I parked the truck, crawled into the topper, and descended into slumber.
Having recently moved into my new home of Billings Montana, I found myself in the thralls of my medical residency. Which meant I was thrust into 70 hr work weeks amidst overwhelming challenges of learning the art of medicine. My life became singularly absorbed, meanwhile the other facets of my soul thirsted for time on the water. When my vacation was forced to be taken in the final days of August, my eyes unquestioningly turned towards the Payette drainage of Idaho. And so in my slumber, I washed away my responsibility and for 10 days to come I would be unreachable by the outside world.
Having recently moved into my new home of Billings Montana, I found myself in the thralls of my medical residency. Which meant I was thrust into 70 hr work weeks amidst overwhelming challenges of learning the art of medicine. My life became singularly absorbed, meanwhile the other facets of my soul thirsted for time on the water. When my vacation was forced to be taken in the final days of August, my eyes unquestioningly turned towards the Payette drainage of Idaho. And so in my slumber, I washed away my responsibility and for 10 days to come I would be unreachable by the outside world.
The morning light tugged at my eye lids and they slowly opened to the greet the beginning of my 10 day freedom. Beside me ran the Main Payette River gently rolling by. Following it upstream, I came upon the Banks cafe. In search of fellow paddlers, I stepped into its welcoming doors, sat down at the counter, and ordered a hearty breakfast. Across from me a small group of friendly folk made preparations to paddle. Within one sentence of asking where they were to paddle, I found an invitation for a day’s worth of paddling and new found friends.
I found myself in the good company of Brian and Emily as we slipped into the waters of the South Fork of the Payette river and began paddling what is known as the canyon section. Reaching from from the rivers edge abruptly rose the mountains and their slopes were thickly laden with conifers. As we made or way through the class III and IV whitewater, I sat mesmerized with the clarity of the water and paddled backwards transfixed by the racing river bottom. The cold river waters where met by the steaming of several hot springs along the way. My comfort on the water grew steadily throughout the day. By late afternoon we put on the Main Payette river for yet more moderate whitewater, and from my play boat I enjoyed the rapids offered smiling in the cool waters amongst blue skies and great company.
As the sun was falling into the western horizon, Emily, Brian, and I skidded down the raft ramp and playfully launched for a late run on the "staircase section" of the South Fork of the payette. In the shadows of the mountains and the waning daylight we made our way through more beautiful whitewater and soon only the white of the water and whites of our smiles seemed visible amongst the newly risen moon's light. We quietly glided into the confluence of the of the Payettes. Trailing the tail lights of my companions vehicle, I followed them to camp a wooded camp. With hunger quenched and my clothes smelling of campfire, I lay my head to sleep. In my dwindling consciousness, I could hear the roarings of the North Fork of the Payette. Yet even now, I had not witnessed it's gnashings and had only heard the lore of it's infamy. In my dreams the river whispered to me.
I awoke to a quiet morning, the camp empty, as my friends had departed in the first rays of the morn. I stretched the sleep from my body and slowly drove down to Banks Cafe.
After eating what become my usual cholesterol endowed breakfast, I came to find Banks rather devoid of paddlers as the weekend had passed. By noon I had scraped up a group to paddle down the Main for my singular run of the day. By the time I had left the river, Drew Beezly from Durango invited me to run the Lower Five of the North Fork of the Payette in the coming morning. I was reluctant at first, as I was planning a more gradual progression for myself. But I finally concluding I could wait no longer and accepted the invitation. I spent the remaining hours of sunlight along along the banks of the The North Fork, scouting and planting the lines in my head. My analysis was only halted by looming darkness. My headlights lit my dusty place of rest for night as the "Otter Slide" of the North Fork lay below me. After dinner warmed my stomach, I wandered down the twinkling firelight on small island amongst the waters of the North Fork, I exchanged introductions and laughter amongst good company. There we sat awaiting the arrival of a mutual friend. Andy McMurray was the first paddler I had ever met amidst surfing the waves of Minnesota's Lake Superior, and in the Northwoods we both grew from our paddling infancy. A honk of the horn in the night signaled his arrival, and the night was spent in good cheer amongst old and new friends.
I didn't sleep well that night, along the shores North Fork. The river's song kept me awake both in excitement and in apprehension. I awoke to my usually routine of two pancakes, bacon, an a side of has browns, but on this morning, couldn't finish my breakfast as my stomach had other things on it's mind. At the Bank Cafe found a well wishes on my first run of the North Fork as Emily whisked in and out the cafe in route to the other Forks of the Payette. Later I sat down with Andy and Liz Powers for a bit of catching up, before I stepped into the blinding light as the sun baked the dusty parking lot. I found Drew eagerly awaiting. I readied for battle with for my first introduction to the North Fork... (to be continued)
South Fork of the Payette
I awoke to a quiet morning, the camp empty, as my friends had departed in the first rays of the morn. I stretched the sleep from my body and slowly drove down to Banks Cafe.
Banks Cafe
I didn't sleep well that night, along the shores North Fork. The river's song kept me awake both in excitement and in apprehension. I awoke to my usually routine of two pancakes, bacon, an a side of has browns, but on this morning, couldn't finish my breakfast as my stomach had other things on it's mind. At the Bank Cafe found a well wishes on my first run of the North Fork as Emily whisked in and out the cafe in route to the other Forks of the Payette. Later I sat down with Andy and Liz Powers for a bit of catching up, before I stepped into the blinding light as the sun baked the dusty parking lot. I found Drew eagerly awaiting. I readied for battle with for my first introduction to the North Fork... (to be continued)
Friday, April 29, 2011
The Final Chapter of a Season: The Homeland
The water's were slowly tapering from the creeks in the furthest reaches of the North Shore. Meanwhile, a singular urbanite had driven northward and Joerg had left his corporate job aside for the day. He met with myself and Kiffy. Joerg is one of those legendary characters of the Midwest Creeking community: well versed in peer pressure tactics, known to take the tough lines for giggles, and eternally at the front of the crew on the river.... an all around fine gentleman! On this day Joerg's personality was particularly shining as he quickly made the sale for me and Kiffy to run the DT for the second consecutive day. Despite both of our lacking motivations, Joerg made the sale. I found myself speeding for the put in of the DT. Kiffy and Joerg represent some of the most experienced boaters in the Midwest having paddled together from their teenage years.... and then there was me: a mere 4 seasons under my belt.
We put on the river and immediately it became clear this run was going to be spicy. Joerg made it plain that this run was going to be speedy. There would be no scouting, little eddying, but not without looking out for one another safety-wise. We barreled ahead, and as triple drop came upon us, I found myself in the rear of the crew. There was no looking back as we each dropped over the horizon lines. I remember the nasty cotton mouth of nerves as we dropped in. But in the morning sun light we each found our smiles on the river that day. I admittedly had a less than clean run, but stayed composed throughout and kept pace. I managed to get stuck in the hydraulic below portage down the middle and rolled up wasting no time. I knew it fed out on the river left. I placed 4 hard forward strokes while side surfing, and easily escaped it's grasp.
In a little over an hour and a half from putting on we found ourselves floating amongst the blue skies as they reflected in the calm waters of Lake Superior, the Devil Track behind us.
In the coming days, the community rested as the yearly migration to the Presque Isle River in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan was at hand. There we would take part in the annual downriver race in honor and remembrance of Jim Rada... a legend of paddling who had lost his life on the river in the last decade. Although I had run the Presque before, I looked forward to participating in the race for the first time.
The skies shone blue and the air was warmed in the sun's golden presence. We amassed the day prior to the race to run the full Presque Isle. The crew included Kiffy, Andy, Joerg, Decker, Holton and myself. And so amongst the Spring sunshine we would make the long trek to the put in. After an hour of shouldering our boats and walking less traveled roads, the sweat dripped from my brow as the river came into view. Thankfully, I slid into the chilled waters and let the river cool me. In succession we made our way downstream, and after three or so drops, it became clear that it was going to be an off day for me. I found myself less than upright tangling with the river's bottom all too often. With this detriment to my confidence, I portaged Triple Drop and Nokomis with a majority of the crew, making the heinous portage, and rejoined the other paddlers.
We continued onward as the sun fell in the afternoon, and came upon the final mile of the Presque Isle. There the river would drop in rapid succession over 4 drops of class VI+ and V character. The river was running higher than I had previously experienced and so I awaited the horizon lines ahead with focused attention.
The sun was falling low on the horizon, and I was feeling fired up and confident. I jumped my boat and decided I'd be the first of the crew to descend. Hugging the river left bank the scene accelerated and the familiar tunneling of vision occurred as my focus narrowed on my line.
Manabezo Falls of the Presque Isle River in the UP of Michigan
It's moments as these that the mind slows time and the dualism of reactive/instinctual paddling comes to battle with that of intentioned/conscious paddling. Reactive paddling deals with the immediate reality of the whitewater before us and our reaction to it. Meanwhile conscious paddling focuses on the river ahead, and is planning intentional strokes before they are even placed. Each have their place, and so we struggle as kayakers to balance the two amidst utter chaos.
The horizon opened up before me and my stroke hit the lip of the falls. My bow rose to meet the horizon as I took to flight in a wicked boof. My conscious mind took over, I remembered all that I had been told about techniques to avoid spinal compression. I threw my torso forward against the deck of my boat and kept my back hunched. I landed with a audible and violent "BOOF". In the impact my paddle slammed hard against my boat and my thumb in between. I celebrated the control I had maintained; I had hit my line, place a nice boof, and protected my spine. But I was acutely aware of a warmth and throbbing in my right thumb. I had learned a new lesson...how to clear your paddle on impact. On inspection, the thumb had begun to swell already. I kept the pain to myself, in denial of the injury, as the rest of the crew took joyful flight.
We each paddled away from Manabezo with the knowledge that ahead loomed "Zoom Flume". Zoom Flume can be described as series of entangled wave holes of formidable size created by the constriction of the river rocketing through a narrow walled-in channel. It provides for the "sporty" grand finale of the run before emptying into Lake Superior. By the time I had punched a moderate sized entry hole to Zoom Flume, I knew my thumb was in poor condition, as I felt tendons snapping and pain warmly course through it. It was too late to turn back. The roar was obvious and ahead the gnashing of the Flume lay apparent. All thought of my discomfort was lost to the required focus. Deep strokes were laid as I ploughed into the melee of a chaotic wave hole sized over my head. My bow went skyward and I fought to stay upright. But a secondary reactionary upturned my boat. I went for a quick roll attempt and missed it. I waited for my paddle to reach the surface but I had no such luck. I threw for my next roll and focused my hip snap. I narrowly came to the air upright and sighted before me another large curler nearly on top of me. I pounded through and was relieved as the onslaught had ended.
Drifting into the expanse of the lake, the crew celebrated the run and the adrenaline happily danced in our veins. But my enthusiasm was killed by the pain coursing through my thumb. Cussing repetitively, I tore it my glove off and placed the thumb in the numbing waters of Lake Superior. In pulling it back for inspection, there was visible bruising and it was floridly swollen... I knew I had broke something. Bruising that early was tell-tale. Coming to shore, the crew noted my state and carried my boat back to the camp for me, while I sulked back.
I was uplifted by the laughter and the fellowship in spite of an underlying disappointment.
As my depression soon faded, I looked back on the season with thanks, as I had been deeply gifted. It was a season of profound change in my paddling, of countless unforgettable memories, and friendships both formed and deepened. As I drove from the North Shore and Duluth, I nodded thankfully to Lake Superior in gratitude and farewell. I drove into the Westward horizon with the freshness of the new life ahead of me, meanwhile behind me lay the setting of countless golden memories, shaped by my lifelong tenure in the North Country. The Northland would remain pridefully........ my homeland!
Myself atop "Triple Drop" of the Devil Track River
Photo credit of Andy McMurray
Joerg, Kiffy, and Myself Portage the Admiral amongst the majesty of the Devil Track Canyon
Photo credit of Andy McMurray
In the coming days, the community rested as the yearly migration to the Presque Isle River in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan was at hand. There we would take part in the annual downriver race in honor and remembrance of Jim Rada... a legend of paddling who had lost his life on the river in the last decade. Although I had run the Presque before, I looked forward to participating in the race for the first time.
The skies shone blue and the air was warmed in the sun's golden presence. We amassed the day prior to the race to run the full Presque Isle. The crew included Kiffy, Andy, Joerg, Decker, Holton and myself. And so amongst the Spring sunshine we would make the long trek to the put in. After an hour of shouldering our boats and walking less traveled roads, the sweat dripped from my brow as the river came into view. Thankfully, I slid into the chilled waters and let the river cool me. In succession we made our way downstream, and after three or so drops, it became clear that it was going to be an off day for me. I found myself less than upright tangling with the river's bottom all too often. With this detriment to my confidence, I portaged Triple Drop and Nokomis with a majority of the crew, making the heinous portage, and rejoined the other paddlers.
We continued onward as the sun fell in the afternoon, and came upon the final mile of the Presque Isle. There the river would drop in rapid succession over 4 drops of class VI+ and V character. The river was running higher than I had previously experienced and so I awaited the horizon lines ahead with focused attention.
Nadawadaha Falls
We busted down Nawadaha Falls one by one with enthusiasm growing as the drops increased in their difficulty. Downstream we eddied out above Manido Falls. There the watered cascaded over a multitude of rock stairs, forming repetitive pour-overs of 2-3 feet in height. The last time a ran Manido I recalled getting caught in the pour-overs, tried to side surf out, and eventually ran the remainder of the drop out of my boat and on my ass. Today was my day to redeem myself, as I carefully picked my line and held the landmarks in my mind. The horizon roared as I slid over the first pour over and attempted to time my strokes, hoping to boof the next pourover. I kept the bow up as I blew through the next pour-over and comfortably bounced down the remainder of the drop.
The Final Streches of Manido Falls
Everyone eddied out, as ahead loomed one of the most pristine falls of the Midwest. Manabezo falls outstretched nearly 100 yards wide, and dropped 25 ft to the waters below. It's line was not easy, as the lip of the falls was irregular and fractured, as we sought a narrow tongue of water. Furthermore, the landing had a history of breakings legs due to it shallowness. I had descended Manabezo twice before and last fall experienced my first spine compression as a result of boofing the falls. I hoped to learn from that experience...The sun was falling low on the horizon, and I was feeling fired up and confident. I jumped my boat and decided I'd be the first of the crew to descend. Hugging the river left bank the scene accelerated and the familiar tunneling of vision occurred as my focus narrowed on my line.
Manabezo Falls of the Presque Isle River in the UP of MichiganThe horizon opened up before me and my stroke hit the lip of the falls. My bow rose to meet the horizon as I took to flight in a wicked boof. My conscious mind took over, I remembered all that I had been told about techniques to avoid spinal compression. I threw my torso forward against the deck of my boat and kept my back hunched. I landed with a audible and violent "BOOF". In the impact my paddle slammed hard against my boat and my thumb in between. I celebrated the control I had maintained; I had hit my line, place a nice boof, and protected my spine. But I was acutely aware of a warmth and throbbing in my right thumb. I had learned a new lesson...how to clear your paddle on impact. On inspection, the thumb had begun to swell already. I kept the pain to myself, in denial of the injury, as the rest of the crew took joyful flight.
Joerg Steinbach boofs Manabezo
We each paddled away from Manabezo with the knowledge that ahead loomed "Zoom Flume". Zoom Flume can be described as series of entangled wave holes of formidable size created by the constriction of the river rocketing through a narrow walled-in channel. It provides for the "sporty" grand finale of the run before emptying into Lake Superior. By the time I had punched a moderate sized entry hole to Zoom Flume, I knew my thumb was in poor condition, as I felt tendons snapping and pain warmly course through it. It was too late to turn back. The roar was obvious and ahead the gnashing of the Flume lay apparent. All thought of my discomfort was lost to the required focus. Deep strokes were laid as I ploughed into the melee of a chaotic wave hole sized over my head. My bow went skyward and I fought to stay upright. But a secondary reactionary upturned my boat. I went for a quick roll attempt and missed it. I waited for my paddle to reach the surface but I had no such luck. I threw for my next roll and focused my hip snap. I narrowly came to the air upright and sighted before me another large curler nearly on top of me. I pounded through and was relieved as the onslaught had ended.
"Zoom Flume" of the Presque Isle River
My pulverized thumb
The Jim Rada race took place that year without me amongst its ranks. I took to filming the event and attempting to keep a good attitude. And amongst the community, I lost myself amongst the rising flames of the campfire and soaked in the glowing twilight.
Soaking in the Sunset on the Shores of Lake Superior
I was uplifted by the laughter and the fellowship in spite of an underlying disappointment.
Laughter amongst the rain
In parting the Upper Peninsula, I drove in the morning light numb and thoughtless... I was aware that my season had come to a close. I grieved for the loss of it for several weeks as a x-ray confirmed what I had already known... inside my thumb I had avulsed a ligament that took a piece of bone with it. I avoided hearing anything about the rivers as the rains rolled across the North Country. I packed my belongings as I would soon move to my new home of Billings, MT for the next three years.
Midwest paddling! Thank you to the Red Dangler Community!
Photo credit of Andy McMurray
As my depression soon faded, I looked back on the season with thanks, as I had been deeply gifted. It was a season of profound change in my paddling, of countless unforgettable memories, and friendships both formed and deepened. As I drove from the North Shore and Duluth, I nodded thankfully to Lake Superior in gratitude and farewell. I drove into the Westward horizon with the freshness of the new life ahead of me, meanwhile behind me lay the setting of countless golden memories, shaped by my lifelong tenure in the North Country. The Northland would remain pridefully........ my homeland!
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