Westward Waters: Day 3 - Arkansas at 4600 cfs

 "Number Five" of the Numbers Section of the Arkansas

The sun rose to illuminate the Collegiate Peaks as seen on the golden horizon. I opened my eyes and gradually drifted into wakefulness. With breakfast eaten we drove into Buena Vista destined for the local kayak shop to ascertain the river levels. When we arrived, it appeared that nothing had dropped and that even the friendly Arkansas River had achieved angry river levels. Local paddlers seem to offer varied advice on the actual river levels because frankly nobody we met had experienced them this high. Our options appeared to be few based on the current river levels and so we set about the task of fixing John's dry suit gasket while awaiting any possible paddlers to join up with.

 Drysuit repair with a traffic cone

I approached one the few groups paddlers who looked to be tackling the river and with some questioning they reluctantly allowed us to join their group. We drove Northward following their truck as we were going to run the "Number's" section of the Arkansas down to the city of Buena Vista. In paddling, their is a well known assessment that all paddlers inflict on each other. Our new found paddling companions' reluctancy was warranted. As paddler's we all assess each other's abilities, because we rely solely on each other for safety. The truth be know a swim on the river at these level was not only personally life threatening, but risked the safety of the other boaters that are attempted to assist the a swimmer.

In hindsight, I had no clue as to the type of whitewater I would be paddling or the intensity to come... it was probably better that way. As we all geared up and brought our boats to the river, still was rather oblivious in looking at the river as to what the afternoon had in store for me. The group consisted of John and myself as well as four local veterans of Colorado whitewater each having paddled for over 20-30 years. They were some of fittest 50 somethings I had yet encountered. We put on the river at is peak level of 4600 cfs, two-fold higher than the guide books indication of 2000 cfs being high water.
Putting on the character of the river became plainly obvious. The water swirled and boiled hugely as lateral waves surged from the shoreline. Giant holes emerged throughout the river as we carefully weaved through them. The river gradually escalated it’s intensity as waves of 2-3 feet in height became common place. As we approached “Number One” I found myself gripped at the sheer size and power of the whitewater before me. I maintain composure as I followed my paddling companions smashing through waves and carefully battling to stay on line.

When we peeled into the eddy following Number One I had a silly grin amongst heavy breaths. Big water whitewater was proving its strenuousness and we paddled onward. Their was little rest to be had and with every eddy I carefully took my time to fully recover before pushing on. Rapids numbered 2 and 3 came and went. A little later I found myself on shore viewing “Number Four”. The river constricted forming a on left side of the river a massive 4-5 ft tall hole. Along side it enveloping the left side of the river was a massive wave train of nearly 8-10 ft in height. It was going to be a tight line to dissect and I plotted my landmarks and line through it.

I paddled away from shore and found my line of water and followed it into the chaos. Powering through oncoming laterals the impending wave train and hole appear before me. The seemed to grow in size and I paddled hard fighting to slip through them. I found my strength was not going to be enough to sneak between features and so I turned to face the wave train head on. It was the roller coaster ride of a life time finding myself thrown skyward by multiple sets of gnashing waves. Atop the waves the scene spilled before me showing the begin to spread and dissipate. I peeled into the nearest eddy and let a guttural “whoop” out.

I was seriously winded as we peeled out and down river I found my technique was becoming lax with fatigue. I fought with eddy lines and found myself flipped. I rolled up and continued on. We eddied out downstream just above a bridge crossing the river and saw one of our paddling companions flipped and rolled up. Without knowing I paddled out into what was the entrance of “Number Five”. Ahead of me lay a river wide hole with massive dimensions and was breaking like a wave. I fought hard to hug the river right of the river but found myself being hopelessly pulled towards the hole. I turned to joust with the wave head on knowing that I was off line and the consequences were to be grim.  I paddle hard accelerating for impact.

 The aforementioned hole leading out "Number Five"

I heard my fellow paddlers whistles blowing as I fought to keep my head above water. I looked behind me and had the sense to grab my paddle and armed myself for what lie ahead. I saw an ominous smooth horizon line and knew I was helpless being propelled into a giant hole. My instincts kicked in and my feet braced for the rock previewing and creating the hole. When my feet hit I jumped with all my strength super-man-ing outward in a desperate attempted to catch the backwash of the hole.

 

 The hole amongst "Number Five" that I super-manned

I was successful and found myself pushed deep. I swam upward for what seemed an eternity before finding air. At this point I knew I was getting dangerously tired and questioned how much more I could take. I knew that I could no longer helpless await what lay downstream, no longer was the fight only to keep my head above water, I began to swim for the nearest shoreline. The river was merciful and as I neared the shore it loosened its grip and I emerged from the waters.

After checking with my fellow boaters I found myself run haggardly along the frontage road with my thumb outstretched. It was a depressing moment hitch hiking back to Buena Vista and knowing that my boat would likely never be seen again. After an hour with a thumb raised a vehicle approached with a smiling family inside and asked about my situation. They informed me they saw a green boat pull ashore about two miles down stream. I was overjoyed and they gave me a ride in the back of their SUV. I sat int he back telling them my story and the parents used it as a warning to their small children the power of the river. Silly enough the fact that I was a medical student seem comforting to them... as if somehow I wasn’t completely insane.
I arrived at the river and sat on a park bench being scorched in the summer sun awaiting for my fellow paddlers. I sat and talked with fellow paddlers who were kind enough to offer me a beer. I fell asleep and awoke to a sunburn and my companions emerging from the river. We drove upstream and I with elation I retrieved my resurrected creek boat.

Bonding amongst water levels of historic proportion we had found ourselves new paddling friends. We pot-lucked a mighty dinner to commemorate the occasion. I took the night to rebuild my confidence for the days ahead. We laughed amongst the firelight and fell asleep to the river’s distant roar

Paddling the Mississippi at Flood: Dream Hole

As we drove through through the farm studded fields on the road leading to St. Cloud, the waters of spring thaw were clearly abundant. Every stream and river we cross was swollen and testing it banks. I sat internally contemplating the day ahead.

It was to be my first day of the Spring season back in my kayak. The icy grip of winter forced my four month seasonal hiatus from whitewater and had eroded my confidence in my paddling abilities. We arrived at the banks of the ever flowing Mississippi river to the sight of its reach extending far beyond its normal banks. An avalanche of water flowed over once exposed rocky slides, creating holes and waves of stirring magnitude.

Myself, Scotty, and Lara put on for a first run. The plan was to make a clean run up the middle avoiding the gargantuan features, scouting the hazards, and looking for the play spots. I ferried out in the lead. The Mississippi being enormous river and I knew the ferry out would be long. I paddled frantically looking over my shoulder at the ominous waves down stream as the water carried me downstream steadily. Finally, I could relax as I turned my boat down stream to face what lie ahead, knowing that I was well out of the path of the giant holes on river right . I nervously surveyed ahead the oncoming wave train, unsure what lay behind it's 5-6 foot crests. I managed to skirt the edges of the biggest waves and saw only calm water ahead. Paddling back to shore, I took another duplicate run to shed my rust and nerves. Meanwhile other paddlers had found the location of Dream Hole.... the holy grail of the Mississippi.

Here are still's of the taken courtesy of Tom...
you'll see me about half way through in the blue drysuit and green boat

Dream Hole is fabled feature that comes into existence only at insanely flooded levels on the Mississippi (last seen 10 years ago). I had never even heard of it until seasoned paddlers mentioned the possibility of its return on the local forum. At normal levels, what exists where dream hole resides is merely a bed of dry granite untouched by waters. Yet now with the Mississippi 9.8 feet above it's normal water level, Dream Hole had risen again. The Dream Hole is a wave/hole situated uncomfortably between a giant hydraulic in front of it (with a bit of wave on it's river left side for the daring) and 60-70 yard wide ledge hole of sizable magnitude behind it. Upon viewing, Dream hole itself looked miniature in comparison to the features surrounding it. Yet in reality it was akin to waves I had ridden in Sturgeon Falls. The process for reaching Dream hole was some what tedious. It included busting through some over reaching tree branches into eddy and ferrying out. Once you had successful (or unsuccessfully) ridden the wave/hole and thus flushed off, you found yourself paddling rigorously back through tree branches into the eddy. If you had the misfortune of not rolling up in time, in the event of Dream Hole getting the best of you, one faced the consequences of sparring with the ever wide hole behind it.

I slowly took baby steps into Dream Hole, easing my way onto it's left shoulder and getting off a the first sign of lack of control. However by my third ride it, being on dream hole renewed some familiarity with whitewater in me and had awakened my paddling confidence. I began to throw some spins. By the end of the day I was feeling pretty comfortable getting thrashed about at bit and managed to get flipped and surfed upside down... and eventually flushed. I rolled up from the icy waters with an ice cream headache despite the neoprene covering my head. Dream Hole/Wave was a gorgeous experience... a wave that is of the highest quality.

After a last run through the rapids in my creek boat I headed back northward and homeward. The ride home I fought to keep my eyes open in the beautiful exhaustion of a eventful day. I left the river with confidence for the paddling season ahead.

Here is a video shot that day... seen is Scotty, Doug, and Gus (I'm duffing in the eddy). Gives a good perspective on the action.

Contemplating Mortality: Flood Stage of Lester River

A picture of "mini-octopus" on the Lester River courtesy of the Duluth News Tribune

It was no ordinary day. The night before it had rained torrentially and by morning it was clear that the local rivers were flooding. As I sat in class, my excitement grew as I poured over Flash Flood warnings and found myself having a trouble sitting still. At noon I hurried out of class, quickly ate lunch, and headed out to the rivers.

Myself and Nate first pondered over Tischer Creek which is a full on class V run that is only runnable at flood levels. It was too much intensity for my tastes. We then took a look at Chester Creek and had the same feeling. So we went to the ever reliable Lester River. We drove up and decided to take a "quick" run before the rest of our fellow paddlers arrived. Upon putting on it was clear that the river was running BIG...things were looking and acting differently than my last seven runs on the Lester. After the first rapid, Nate took a swim. In attempting to eddy out and be of service, I broached my boat and was unable to roll up and found myself swimming as well. Luckily, I was able to swim my boat into a tiny eddy where we could empty the water from it. I got back in knowing I was going to need to run what I could of the river by myself and search for Nate's boat. It's interesting how nerve racking it is to run a river by yourself despite the fact that even with a partner there's not always a lot they can do to help you in a bind. We ended up finding his boat intact quite aways downstream and continued the rest of the run. Within a couple of river bends, I managed to get myself stuck in a hole just above above a fairly significant class IV drop ("mini-octopus). I side surfed it for 5 min, getting window shaded and rolling up, still in the hole. Finally, I desperately stuffed my back end into the hole and up-ended my boat free of it. I quickly rolled up and frantically got on line for the drop ahead and was relieved as it went smoothly. The river was HUGE and the amount of whites of my eyes showing was probably equally large as we finished out the run. We met up with another fellow paddler , Jorge, and went to do another lap.

All was going smoothly, the first couple of significant drops went well. Up ahead was a drop entitle "Naked Man" . I had always portaged it because I heard that that it breaks boats often. Having never run it previously I was easily encouraged to give it a go. It started with steep a double peaked wave train/reactionary lead-in before dropping over the crux, a 7-8 ft shallower drop/slide containing some lovely piton rocks and a hole at it's base. It went well as I ploughed through the wave trains. Cresting the crux of the drop knew I was right on my line. I thought to myself, "you've got this in the bag". It was nearly fatal mistake!

Hitting the hole at the bottom I missed a single and needed paddle stroke to propel me past it and was quickly pulled into meat of the hole. I stayed calm while side surfing and worked hard to attempt to power out of it, but was eventually flipped. Not having a plethora of energy and feeling that my boat was clearly still stuck in the hole, I popped my skirt and swam. I went for my first and instinctive breath of air but couldn't reach the surface. It immediately became clear that I was being recirculated and held under by the hole. In the chaos of the surging water, all I could perceive with my eyes was light and darkness and all I could hear was the immanent roar of the water in my ears. As the water went dark, I barely touched the bottom and desperately tried to push off and away. Fighting back to the light, I reached my arms and face up for the surface but I still could not get a breath as with lungs burned horribly. I aspired some water in the attempt. I was hoping there would be a rope from my fellow paddlers to pull me out, but I knew that they were down stream and unable to get to me in time to help....I knew I was on my own. I plunged back into the chaotic darkness and touched bottom and again was still unable to get a good footing. I went into the light water and got pulled down into the dark again and again. I was tired and knew I didn't have much longer. "This it IT", I thought. "I'm going to die". Thoughts raced through my head, some instinctive and some conscious. That which I loved, people, places, events, flashed through my mind faster than comprehension. I made one last push for the surface and managed to get my face with 4-6 inches of the surface and breathed only water. I couldn't fight any longer. I had no energy left. I felt myself starting to go limp and my body giving up.

It was at that instant that I came back into the light and reached surface. I took my first glorious breath in over a minute. Defensively surveying the river to make sure I was clear of the hole, I coughed violently and I struggled to get the water from my spasmodic lungs. While being swept down stream and clear of the hole, I found shallow enough water and struggled to stand. My fellow paddlers shouted instructions that I could barely comprehend in my primal state of being. I staggered towards shore holding my body haggardly; my arms limp at my sides, hands hanging flaccid, and my balance failing me. I fell to my knees and crawled to the bank of the river. Ripping the helmet from my head, I dropped to my chest and laid in the dirt breathing so hard that my ribs ached.

After a short while, there were shouts of "grab your boat". I turned to see it floating by and quickly grabbed a hold of it and was dragged into the river. After fighting with it and being drug over rocks, I gave up as a Jorge paddled to coral it downstream. After some further instruction, I crawled up the slippery clay banks to trail above and hiked in a daze down stream. After following a whistle blow, I found my comrades hauling my boat ashore. They greeted me with some valiant attempts at encouragement. I don't fault them for trying... what would does anyone say to comfort someone who just escaped from the verge of drowning? After some discussion of the incident, feeling somewhat animate and stable, I decided to drag my boat to the road and walk back to the take out. Emerging from the woods, I dumped my boat and paddle on the edge of the road and walked back. It was a surreal. The events that had just occurred were too difficult to wrap my head around. I walked strangely blank and emotionless feeling as if what had occurred had been a day dream gone wrong.

Lester River at flood levels just above Superior St.

I didn't hit me until 11:30 pm that night as I lay at home alone resting. It was the gravity of what I may have lost in a few more seconds. I had already wore out discussing the incident with Jorge and Nate. I had probably less than 10 more seconds under water before I would have blacked out. Loosing consciousness in whitewater is grim. Clearly I under estimated the power of the river at a level in which I had never paddled and it was at an extremely high level. Had we been aware of the danger, setting up safety would have happened...in our experience the drop had been run countless times without incident and at a lower level the hole barely exists. If I would have known, I would have never run the drop. In any case, through all the analysis, the truth was...it wasn't worth it. I would have rather broken my arm than to face what I had faced. Knowing what I would have lost was hard to stomach. Yet on an optimistic note I began to reevaluate what was important and what I have yet to accomplish in my lifetime.

Everyone will confront their mortality and over the course of a life time. It is not uncommon to have a brush with it, whether it be in confines of a car, the result of smoking cigarettes daily, or in a kayak. I woke up the next morning and went back to the Lester River and ran it twice.... but I will never run that drop again. I love to paddle and will continue to do so, but not at any cost. When I wake in the morning I know where I'm going and where I want to be.