Nineteen years ago, on the first anniversary of the terrorist attacks that killed so many innocent people in New York City, at the Pentagon, and in a Pennsylvania field, I posted some of my related memories on this site. A standalone web page was used as this blog did not yet exist. The page was accessible for many years through a link on this site’s home page. That link was eventually removed during a site layout change. However, the page itself remained in place for some time even though there was no way to access it other than entering its URL. Early this year, when the site was moved to its current host, the page was among those not making the move so that even a direct URL became useless. Today, on the twentieth anniversary of those attacks, I have restored the page and am providing access to it here and through the image above even though the page continues to be much more personally therapeutic than generally informative.  

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.   

Like many, I’ve thought of writing a memoir. Maybe I already have. Considering that  “a memoir is a form of creative nonfiction in which an author recounts experiences from his or her life”, each of the travelogues I’ve published might qualify. But it’s when I remember other, not necessarily travel-related, experiences from my life that the word memoir enters my head. That happened today. I’m reading Down the Great Unknown about John Wesley Powell’s pioneering trip down the Green and Colorado Rivers and just finished a section discussing the sensations of traveling through whitewater. It naturally made me recall some of my own whitewater experiences. There aren’t all that many, but there are a couple I’ve thought of writing down in the past. The dearth of new subject matter resulting from the current coronavirus quasi-quarantine combined with today’s memories prompted me to begin a series of “memoir posts” and kick it off with this rafting story.

I was never an expert but at one point in my life I did a fair amount of canoeing and a little rafting. I believe there were a total of four rafting trips on either the New or Gualey Rivers in West Virginia. This story is from the first or second of those outings. Part of me really thinks it was the second trip but I can’t be certain. The time was around 1980. A neighbor joined three coworkers and me and headed off for a little camping and floating.

The rafts used held eight “passengers” and a guide. Two were enough to hold everyone who had reserved a spot but not enough the keep the three groups intact. The other two groups were families who really wanted to stay together and our group was just some guys on a lark. Three of us went with one family and my neighbor and I went with the other. Mom, dad, and three young teenagers made up the family in our raft.

The style of raft we were using has deck strapped to the rear for the guide and a pair of long oars. Everyone else sits on the big tubes that make up the frame of the raft. In addition to those that form the perimeter of the raft, a couple run from side to side sort of functioning as benches. That’s not us in the opening picture but it does show the type of raft we used. I earlier put the word passengers in quotes since anyone not on those benches holds a paddle and is expected to use it in certain situations. It was apparent almost immediately that the teens weren’t going to be a lot of help in this regard although the oldest was quite willing. Mom didn’t really want anything to do with a paddle so the “crew” became Larry (the neighbor), Dad, Son #1, and me. Larry and I, both in our thirties, manned the two front corners. Dad and Son #1 took the two rearmost positions and Mom positioned herself on a bench. I think the two other kids flitted between bench and side tube.

We were on the milder section of the New with no rapid above Class III. We came to our first Class II after easily floating through a couple of Class Is as expected. Rubber rafts are quite flexible and often bend and unbend so that riders get something of a bucking horse sensation. That’s what happened at that Class II and it was pretty exhilarating. At least it was for most of us. When Larry and I turned around to express our approval to the guide, he wasn’t there. Neither was Dad. Mom’s already challenged composure wasn’t far behind.

We learned later what happened. When the raft bent and straightened, Dad lost his grip and was thrown backward over the guide. The guide made a quick decision that it was better for him to accompany the man exiting the raft rather than stay with the relatively safe folks in it. He grabbed at Dad as he tumbled by and hit the water with him. Larry and I looked over the astonished teens and the now screaming Mom and then at each other. Neither of us had any experience with a raft but I had the most canoe time so I headed to the back and took up the oars. It was neither quick nor pretty but I did eventually get the raft turned around and reached the guide and Dad. Both were laughing and it was obvious that Dad had quite enjoyed the tumble and swim.

His wife did not share his joy. She basically crumpled to the floor of the raft. River rapids are filled with rocks that rubber rafts slide over. When that happens, the floor is not a place one should be. For the rest of the trip, each time we approached something shallow, the kids would somehow talk Mom into sitting on a bench but she returned to the floor as soon as they allowed.

There were some bigger rapids and it’s the memory of these that reading about Powell’s trip first triggered. The book spoke of the instant when you are poised at the edge of a significant rapid with the water seeming to tower above you. It’s a sensation I remember vividly and which author Edward Dolnick describes well.

Between the loss and recovery of Dad and our guide and the final rapid, things were uneventful. Dad and the kids had talked about his unplanned swim and as we approached the day’s last rapid, the guide offered them a chance to experience it themselves. The rapid was a mild one, he said, with few rocks. Any who wanted to float through in lifejackets were welcome to do so. I’d kind of enjoyed the new experience of maneuvering the raft with those big oars and took this as an opening. If the rapid was that mild, I wondered, would he let me take the raft through? He agreed and jumped overboard himself.

Dad and the kids also bailed out leaving just me, Mom, and Larry onboard. The power of those big oars compared to a wimpy canoe paddle is impressive. Positioning the raft at the top of the rapid was rather easy and after that, there wasn’t much to do. The raft and several floating bodies slid into some ripples. Suddenly there was screaming at the side of the raft. It was one of the teens and I thought I must have hit her with an oar. That was the scariest moment of the whole trip for me but it turned out to be almost nothing. She had gone underwater and somehow came up under the raft. Finding the surface blocked by a big black sheet is undoubtedly frightening and that’s what prompted the screams as she slid to the side and up to the surface.

Back in quiet water, everyone climbed back on board and the guide steered us to our pull out point. As we waited for the bus back to the livery, I approached Dad to apologize for scaring his daughter and for his wife’s obviously bad time. He wasn’t having it at all. He was ecstatic. The trip was something he’d long been looking forward to and which he booked as soon as their youngest reached the required age. He and all of the kids had had the time of their lives and he enthusiastically thanked Larry and me for providing some paddle power when required. The wife would get over it, he assured us and his grin indicated he was quite willing to deal with a little tension until she did.