4 Twenty Shakedown

Gauley Festival weekend... as I packed my camping I could not believe an entire year passed since I last traveled the windy roads of West Virginia, headed toward the annual release. I threw my gear into an old blue duffel bag, and into the back of my Jeep and headed to meet Billy, his friend Kurt, and Ian. The good times began as we loaded our boats on top of the Subaru and marveled at Billy's old green Dancer, newly adorned with a sticker that read, 'Like What you See... Dial 1-800 You Wish'.


We headed to Friendsville, Maryland and had a great run on the Upper Yough. The level was a bit on the low side, but still plenty of fun. At the take-out, shenanigans ensued as we watched a man pee in his pants for twenty dollars.


Onward we traveled to Gauley Fest, leaving Friendsville behind. Somehow, we managed to keep ourselves entertaind in the car for the next two and half hours.


Friends from all corners of the country awaited on the hallowed festival grounds. We laughed in merriment into the wee hours of the morning.


The trip down the Gauley on Saturday is a bit fuzzy... perhaps it was the spicy sausage the I purchased from a bug eyed local at one o'clock in the morning... there were a few other kayakers complaining about some unwanted side effects.


Satruday night ensued and I wandered around in my newly purchased oversized fleece robe complete with hood. I was convinced that folks truly loved my sweet dance moves.


Sunday's boating session was much better, but the real craziness started on the ride home. I drove home with John. We hit dead stopped traffic about an hour outside of Summersville on 77 north. We did sets of pushups in the middle of the highway for about fifteen minutes waiting for things to start moving. When things did not move, we jogged around the bend to find out what happened. There was smoke on the horizon and a helicopter overhead. Things were not looking good. Apparently, a tractor trailer jackknifed into a small compact hatchback and several people died on the scene. Traffic was not going to move for the next three or four hours. We decided to cross the median, head south, and take a back road around the accident and back on to the highway.

One hour later... a load thud. John turned and said, 'What was that?' My response... 'Kayaks!'


John's boat flew off the top of the car going seventy miles per hour. It hit interstate 70 and bounced into the fast lane. There was a steady stream of traffic not far behind us. We pulled into the firelane, threw it into reverse, and went to retrieve the boat. We didn't beat the traffic, and the cars began to swerve around it at high speed. Just when we thought we were in the clear, a mini-van plowed over the boat, and it was immediately stuck beneath the car. The car drove with the boat underneath the chassis for one hundred yards before it pulled into the median. The driver was not happy.

The obscenities flew as he kicked the boat. The smell of burning plastic filled the air. We said we were sorry, but he motioned us away. Tractor trailors buzzed by within a few feet. Fortuitously, a cop happened by, and helped block traffic a bit. We tugged on the boat as the mini-van driver drove back and forth. Finally, the boat popped loose. It was in bad shape. The friction from the road ground two large holes near the cockpit rim. The Pyranha 4 Twenty will not see the water again.

The driver of the mini-van shouted as he drove away... 'Sorry boys, shit happens!' We laughed, and despite the loss, we drove off in relatively good spirits.

The good Gauley Festival giveth... and the good Gauely Festival, he taketh away.

The Loss of Summer...

The sun began to set as I headed downstream toward the lip of Pummel. This evening was beautiful. The sky was a sharp blue and the radiant fall light placed the innocent green leaves of the oaks, hickories and maples in the spotlight of the fading summer sun. The air was a bit chilly, but the water still wonderfully warm as I let my hands drag silently beside my boat. I watched my orange paddle blades cut the smooth black surface of the water, stroke after stroke, and all the day's troubles melted into nothing. The waters carried me forward and I drifted alone, quietly happy, and quite still on the inside. I could feel the summers months losing their grip as I watched the leaves blow in the onset of a cool fall wind.

Over the past several weeks I have had the pleasure to kayak the Falls quite frequently, almost everyday last week. These days I boat for nothing but the joy of the sun, to feel weightless as I fall with gravity in solemn moments of contemplation, the roar of the water tumbling over rock and potholes, the mist rising in a ritualstic dance with the evening light. This evening I thought about the summer. I thought about the 11,000 miles I traveled in a car fueled by vegetable oil, the Tetons, the Canyon, Yosemite, Hood River, Crater Lake, and the endless miles of flat and rolling plains. I thought about the rivers, the cold waters of Colorado snowmelt tumbling down in several months of liquid freedom. I pictured the man I saw gasping for air as he surfaced from an undercut boulder, while his boat was violently recirculated in a tight pourover. I pictured another, his boat plastered against the side of a boulder and then suddenly disappearing as the water pulled him into the darkness below. I remembered being pressed against a rock in the middle of an deep canyon upside down. I remembered pulling my skirt and bashing my legs, rising to the surface and clawing wildly for shore. I thought about the risks and rewards. I thought about it all and I thought about nothing. I thought about the deceptive thoughts that often creep into my head before a day on big water. The irrational thoughts that occassionally plague my psyche like a barrage of tiny pin pricks. I washed them all away with stroke after stroke of calm and decisive determination.

Over the past year, several episodes of gripping fear caused me to abandon a day on the river. Perhaps, the root of my fear was not the water itself, but in the fact that I was changing. Perhaps, there was a time when a part of me desired to be swept away in the waters of a cold, icy canyon. It is easy to ignore the truth. It is much more difficult to seek the truth. The river is always there. It is always patient. It is always waiting. It is loyal and relentless, ever changing, but always true. It is passion painted in artful shades of blue, black and green, a mellow and violent mystery twisting through time.

If you ride these waters, you may not always see the truth. You may not always hear the truth. You may not always speak the truth, but I assure you my friend, that in some soft way, you will always feel the truth, and in turn you will come to know the truth.