Batman and Robin

Occured March, 2007

Dropping into 'Robin', Tributary of the Moorman's River

It rained a little bit and I was headed to Charlottesville anyway, so I figured I would check out the small tributary that feeds into the upper reaches of the Moormans river above the Sugar Hollow Reservoir. I first noticed this small volume, but furiously steep little creek in 2004 after a large tropical storm released a deluge of rain over the entire region. I hiked the entire creek bed two years prior in the middle of the winter with snow on the ground and took note of the abundance of steep cascading drops. I also took several friends to see the first few drops and get their opinion on the runnability of some of the more questionable slides and boulder gardens. The response was 50/50, some enthusiastic about the possibility, the others shaking their head at the heinous thought of running such a gnar-gnar run. On this particular day, I was determined to hike in, so long as there was shimmer of evidence there was enough water in the steep upper sections of this tributary to make my way down the signature drops. There is no beta on this run, although I know that the lower portions are run from time to time by a few members of the local boating scene in and around Charlottesville.

My boating level of confidence was running low at this point in life. It seems contrary to popular belief that I would want to tackle gnar in such a shaken state. However, I needed something to get me fired up. I was also accompanied by one of my best friends from home. Weeks earlier I had a nightmare of a day on the Lower Big Sandy. I had run the river once before at a minimum level. It was raging about a foot higher on that date and I was with a group of six. Something just did not feel right and I was shaky from the get go. My boat felt awkward, and I was lagging behind the rest of the group. The further I chose to lag behind, the worse my mental conversations became and I soon did a thorough job convincing myself that what I was doing on the river was going to bring about certain death, therefore I should portage every major rapid. The thick rhodedendron made for a formidable trek around the major drops, and alas, I tucked my tail between my legs, bid the group farewell, shouldered up my big red beauty and made my way out of the small gorge, five miles back to my Jeep.

Scott Anderson, Dropping into the Cauldron below 'Big Splat', Big Sandy West Virginia

Waterfall on my Journey Out of the Big Sandy

This was the third installment in a series of episodes that have ocassionally crept unsuspectingly into the confines of my being like a paralyzing viral infection, rendering me utterly immobile and useless. I am not sure of the cause, although I suspect, it is rooted in the more logical interior of my cognivite functioning, perhaps a flag of self presevation, 'no, no, not this time Brett...walk around the class II... that a boy, rhodendendron are your friends...'. In any case, I was frustrated to say the least, but more importantly a bit vexed. Did this moment have any large conotations, was it a moment of truth, a moment of decision, or simply a bad day? In retrospect, I think it was a little of everything. I missed my friends from home, my old and original boating crew. Paddling difficult whitewater is a very personal experience... it likely means something different to everyone. Although there are many shared perspectives and motivations, deep down, the decision to run a rapid, to choose the left slot or right boof, is a decision not to disimilar and just as mysterious as understanding the depths of personal character. I knew one thing, I still wanted to paddle, but I wanted to paddle my way. I missed the old days where I would practice for hours, in perfect bliss, on the reservoir near the crew dock in Charlottesville. I wanted to take my time down a run, really feel the river beneath my bow before I continued to move forward in my life as a waterman.

I like bony runs. Steep, bony, lots of rocks and big launch pads. I am not a big fan, of big water, gnarly holes, and no chance for rescue. If I could experience a few steep drops of the good stuff, maybe it would translate to my level of comfort on other stretches of water.

Enter Batman. A ten foot drop, where the first five feet is a pourover on to a flat rock shelf. You must keep the nose of you boat up and as you fall, the rock shelf automatically boofs you into a large cave. Visually, it looks heinous. In reality, there are few dangers besides flipping over and smashing your face on jagged rocks.

Dropping 'Batman'

Dropping 'Robin'

'Batman' was a success. Shad laughed as whooped my way off a dry rock perch into the approach and was launched into the back of the cave. We continued downstream to the next big drop, a fifteen foot near vertical slide into what I hoped was a relatively deep pool. Otherwise, the piton was going to hurt. I named this drop 'Robin'. I ran 'Robin' four times and contemplated how much fun this enitre stretch would be at a high flow. It was bare minimum. We were running out of time, so we had to make our way downstream. I ran two other drops, a shelf like six foot boof, called 'Big Mouth' and a tight twisty cascade into a small pool, 'The Pinch'.

Sliding down 'Big Mouth'

It was a nice day to be out. Great to hang out with one of my best friends, and experience some new water. My work on this tributary is far from over. I have visions of catching it at high flow this fall after a big storm rolls through. Above 'Batman' the slides are bigger and stepper. Until then, I'll just have to keep wondering. I felt good as I packed my boat on the car, a renewed faith in my ability as a boater, but more importantly, the beginnings of a changing perspective on what boating means to me and its place in my life.