I see this new series as a place to dredge up any old thing that my thoughts bump into, but I’m going to stick with white water adventure for one more chapter. This story involves Kentucky’s Rockcastle River and a canoe rather than a raft. That’s the river in Kentucky Heartwood‘s picture at right. It’s the only whitewater river I ever rode down in a canoe and I only did it a handful of times. However, the river appeared as a very different creature on each of those visits. At low water, it was scenic and safe. There was some walking required but it was mostly to get past spots lacking enough water to float a loaded (or sometimes even an empty) canoe rather than a portage to avoid danger. It was also scenic and fairly safe at high water. The flow was fast but it carried boats over all but the largest of boulders. In between, even though it remained scenic, it was not entirely safe. This story is about a mid-level visit.

Accepted practice puts the heavier and/or more experienced member of a pair of canoeists in the rear. The majority of steering is done from the back end and having it deeper in the water than the front helps with that. I sat in the back for most outings but not this one. This time that spot was filled by a coworker and friend named Klaus. He may have been a little heavier than me but the main reason was that he was definitely more skilled than me. We worked pretty well together and this was a successful run at the Rockcastle with one exception. Exceptions, of course, are how you get stories.

Most of the group we were with were in kayaks. In fact, we may have had the only open boat on the outing. It’s not uncommon for canoes tackling white water to cover the space between paddlers with a tarp or some such or to strap in extra flotation such as blocks of styrofoam. Both serve to help keep some water out of the boat but we had neither. We were cautious, however. We walked ahead to scout several rapids and sometimes watched kayaks run them to help pick a line through. We did that at the location of our “exception”.

It was a series of two fairly close rapids. Neither would have been particularly scary but the two together made them significantly more challenging. After studying the spot from the shore, we decided that there was no way through the first rapid without taking on some water. There was a little space between the two rapids with a small eddy off to the side. Our plan was to duck into that eddy and bail out the boat before hitting the second bit of rough water. It was a good plan.

We ran the first rapid essentially as intended but took on more water than we’d hoped. My job was to plant a high brace in the eddy while Klaus powered us in. We didn’t make it. The half-flooded canoe was swept into the second rapid where it quickly became fully flooded. We were both separated from the canoe and I found myself under enough dark water to make me unsure of which way was up. I was well aware of how easy it is to get pulled into underwater passages between rocks from which escape is impossible. I honestly assumed I was a goner and recall thinking how stupid it was to drive 200 miles to drown when I could have done it much more conveniently in my bathtub.

I felt a rope brush my leg and instinctively grabbed it. It was, as I think I assumed, attached to the canoe although I had no idea whether it was headed to the surface or being pulled into an underwater crevice. My confusion did not last long as things quickly became brighter as the canoe pulled me upward and more sunlight penetrated the murky water. I was underwater for only a few seconds which apparently was not enough time to have my whole life pass before me even though I had briefly been convinced it was over.

Klaus, the water-filled canoe, and I were now floating in a calm pool below the rapids. We pushed the canoe to shore and sat on some rocks while catching our breath. We eventually emptied the canoe and headed on down the river without further incident.

There is no recording of the incident (it was the late ’70s) and no witnesses. The version I’m most fond of is the one with the canoe being so full of water from the first rapid that it was impossible to get it into that eddy. But there’s another version that I play back now and then when I want to feel guilty. In that version, I think that a better planted brace by a stronger canoeist could have saved things. Fortunately, a desire to feel guilty occurs very rarely.

My story is not very significant as Rockcastle River stories go. People have died on the river and boats have been destroyed. There are even incidents from my own trips that might be considered wilder. This story is firmly embedded in my memory for one reason and one reason only. It is the sole time I’ve been convinced that life was over… so far.

Writing the Rockcastle story caused me to remember one of my favorite “small world ” stories. Some friends stopped at a gas station while traveling through Pennsylvania. The stop was for gas but one of them had a desperate need to empty his bladder. He dashed to the station and past a door bearing the word “WOMEN”. There was a similar-looking door just beyond and he jerked it open to find a blonde female standing at a sink. He muttered some sort of apology as he hastily retreated but heard his name called as he shut the door.

“Don?” the blonde asked. “Bridgette?” he responded.

The women’s restroom had two doors and the lady Don encountered was Klaus’ wife Bridgette. Neither had any idea that the other was within a few hundred miles of the place or had ever stopped there before.

I’ve yet to meet up with a female friend in a women’s restroom in Pennsylvania but it’s been on the list ever since I learned it was possible.