While I was growing up, my family went camping every summer. At about the age of ten I was a Junior Naturalist. Junior Naturalists were kids who, like me, had irritated their mothers during their summer vacations. This earned them the right to ride their bikes to the Meg's Point Nature Center and make themselves scarce.
The Nature Center had some interesting things. Horseshoe crabs, blue crabs, snakes and fish- you name it, if it was something you could find roaming the land or swimming in Long Island Sound, "it" or a picture of "it" was there. During the long kid summers at Hammonasset Beach State Park in Connecticut, nature hikes were organized according to age and abilities. Our forays were led by sixteen year -olds that had scored some great summer jobs. We hiked through the marshes and along the shore, noting the wildlife, eating some edible plants including seaweed. We even made some sort of drink from the berries of the sumac plant, which I am sure would have resulted in some helmeted, asthmatic kid being helivaced off the beach had the concoction been brewed today. But no, these were the early eighties, a time when parents weren't always watching and kids were allowed to ride their bikes with no shoes and explore what was down the street.
My curiosity about the outdoors has never wavered. I have always thought that, given half a chance, if I could just pull myself away from the drudgery of working and going to school, of being a mom and a wife and a boring 30-something, overweight white female, I would do something fantastic. Something adventuresome and daring. Something involving, well, nature. I had been a Junior Naturalist, after all.
Maybe this is why I accepted an invitation to go whitewater rafting.
The weekend started off pretty well. We arrived to the campsite early Friday evening and set up camp, which was pretty easy to do since my husband Ted and I had decided to simply sleep in the minivan. (It was kind of buggy and damp on the ground, ya know...) What a good sport Ted was. I had signed us both up to accompany our neighbor on this rafting trip. He never questioned whether it was a good idea, never tried to talk me out of it. He simply wanted me to learn a lesson the hard way, and be there to watch.
My neighbor's wife had decided to stay home. I secretly felt that she was being a big ole' Scaredy Cat, and I was proud of myself for being the only female in the group now assembling around the campfire. We opened a few beers and began to chat. As the day slipped into night, I became acutely aware of the fact that I was way out of my depth intellectually. This is never a good feeling. The men sitting casually around us in holy jeans and well-worn hiking shoes were discussing scientific theories, geology and meteorology. With a good beer buzz going, one guy spoke prolifically on global warming. Most of the camp out discussions I had previously participated in involved dirty jokes and the pros and cons of using a potato launcher as a weapon. I was intimidated, but I gave myself credit for having the sense to stay perfectly quiet.
The next day, we all got up leisurely and started to gear up for our trip. At the edge of camp stood a faded outdoor kiosk of sorts, filled with mismatched and weathered rafting equipment. Multicolored life jackets, paddles and helmets hung perpetually ready for action. It appeared that our group leaders were once owners of a more commercial-type outfit, but had long ago given up on the idea. Now the group operated as a loosely formed rafting club. Invite only.
I chose my gear and waited patiently as the guys finished topping of our rafts with air and strapping them to our vehicles. It appeared that each raft would hold about 6-8 people, and we had 3 rafts. Prior to setting out, we had an extremely brief safety lesson. Our leader, Bill, explained the "do's" and "don'ts" of rafting, and threw in a couple of "what if" scenarios for good measure. What if, for example, you are thrown from your boat and come up for air under your boat? This doesn't happened very often, Bill pointed out, but you should still know what to do if it does. One might panic.
Yes. One just might.
We got on the road and stopped at what apparently was the traditional breakfast place on the way to the river. It was your typical southern fare; 10- pound brick-like biscuits with gravy or a slab of toe-curlingly salty ham. My biscuit descended in a heavy lump into my stomach, where it stayed undigested for 3 weeks. We supplied ourselves with sandwiches and drinks. We secured our lunches in "waterproof" boxes. Later, these boxes would be put together in a net bag and clipped to the inside of the raft for safekeeping.
Our little caravan of vehicles traveled through a few windy miles of West Virginia countryside on our way to the river. It was a bumpy ride, and it became apparent that Bill was saving the brakes for a real emergency. I worried about the safety of my lunch banging around in the backseat and possibly the danger of breakfast revisiting, but my husband seemed completely serene. Or maybe it was resigned. I couldn't tell.
We made it to the put-in and reassembled. Bill was in charge of one boat and had designated two men to be guides in the others. Our 'teams' were selected. I felt confident that I was being placed with a competent, beginner-friendly guide, and that my boat would be filled with rafting pros who would willingly help me on my journey and keep me out of harms way. We'll call my guide Tom. Tom had long grey hair and unshaven but a "not-quite-a beard" kind of look. He seemed amiable and laid back. My heart, which had started to do a little fluttery dance, slowed to a more normal rhythm as two other beginners were chosen to be in my boat. All together, in our slightly smaller boat, we had two experienced (including Tom) and three beginners, including myself, my husband Ted, and a man I will call Pete. Clearly, this was the boat that would be following behind, taking its time to learn as it went while the other boats took on some of the rivers' more hair-raising challenges.
We launched our boats onto the then placid water. I felt uncomfortable sitting sideways on the edge of the boat. I was self-conscious about the huge roll of flab that was probably poking out under my PFD. I couldn't see it, so I decided to pretend it wasn't there. My self-absorption was interrupted when Tom announced that we were going to do a few drills before going any further. One thing we needed to know how to do, he said, was something called "high-siding". Basically, we all had to know how to balance the boat to keep it from flipping if one of the sides came up out of the water and say, we were stuck on a rock or something of that nature. Tom decided that the person he was most worried about failing to do this was me. He had all the other boat members bail out and hold down the side of the boat while I balanced on the other edge and tried to keep it from flipping. I did very well. I wasn't afraid of getting wet or taking a swim. (I had camped at Hammonasset). I felt a temporary sense of accomplishment as the guys finally flipped me and I flew through the air and fell into the water.
Apparently, this was all we needed to know.
Within minutes we were approaching our first rapids, and I felt my entire body tense up. I looked over at Ted. He gave me a weak smile. I glanced across from me at Pete. He looked as though he was about to be unloaded on Omaha Beach on D-Day. It occurred to me that he was more terrified than I had seen a grown man, and indeed he might even have been more scared than I. The previous hour, Pete had talked almost incessantly. He was from an urban area, and he strove to radiate a certain street-smart but funny toughness. In reality, he was an overweight white guy who was about to go for several involuntary swims. It was Pete who scared me the most as we began a slow paddle towards out first set of rapids, for in his eyes I saw pure fear. I suddenly took serious notice of all the gear in our boat. All the hard plastic edges. All of the potentially flying helmets and bodies. Pete's paddle. Oh God. Pete's paddle. It might as well have my name on it.
Tom yelled, "Remember, when you fall out, HOLD ON TO YOUR PADDLE! You don't get back in the boat without your paddle!"
Why in the world, I thought, is this guy assuming we're going to fall...
I swallowed a huge mouthful of river water. My body, unaccustomed to exercise little alone being smashed into swiftly moving water and banged up against sharp rocks, felt as if 300 little elves were stabbing it with sharp daggers. My back groaned. I opened my eyes but saw nothing but a bubbling smear of colors, much like a Jackson Pollack painting. Well, I wasn't blind. That was good. I was alive, but I realised immediately that I did not have my paddle. I still had my hand curled as if I were holding it, but it wasn't there. I saw the boat, already through the rapids, floating with only one man in it. Tom. This did not surprise me, as he was our guide and probably knew how to avoid being thrown from the boat. It did not occur to me yet that perhaps he was talented enough to throw only us from the boat.
The current was taking me in the right general direction and I spotted my dear husband. He wore an expression similar to that of a cat who had been given a bath, but he appeared no worse for the wear. He had my paddle. Did I mention I love that man? We made our way back to the boat, where, I discovered, I had absolutely no upper body strength. We were expected to pull ourselves back in the boat. This was ridiculous. I got about halfway in when another boat member gave me what amounted to an atomic wedgie and pulled me the rest of the way in. (Did I mention Ted was trying to push me in from the water?) I tried not to think about the scene I made as I floundered my way back into the inflatable trampoline.
The next set of rapids approached before I had a chance to think about what had gone wrong. Tom offered no insight on the matter. We concentrated on digging in our paddles together and following Tom's directions, confident that we going to improve. Pete was in front of me this time. I focused on his paddling and tried to stay in sync with his movements. I braced myself for another swim, but was pleasantly surprised as we managed to make it through without losing anyone out of the boat. A feeling of relief swept over me as I relaxed enough to take in the surroundings. The Gourge was absolutely beautiful, and like the sign said as we entered West Virginia, it was wild and wonderful.
I had just decided that this might actually turn out to be one of the most remarkable and pleasant outings of my life when we were plunged sideways into another set of rapids. This time, we flipped almost immediately. I came up under the boat. Yes, that thing that hardly ever happens, happened to me. I saw sunlight glowing through the top (bottom) of the boat and I knew what had happened. I walked my hands along the boat until I came out from under it, as Bill had advised. I inhaled some sweet air and looked around for Ted. Ted had somehow got his sneaker caught in the rope tie along the edge of the boat and was dangling in the water like bait. Ever helpful, I swam over and tried to lift his body up out of the water to take some pressure off his foot. This act hopefully instilled some confidence in Ted that I truly loved him. I was completely useless as far as real assistance was concerned, but I livened the mood by adding an 'I Love Lucy'-ish feel to the whole scene. We did eventually free Ted and slithered back into the boat, one and all. It was then that someone noticed that my knee was bleeding from a fairly nice gash. I tried not to look concerned. I was one of the guys. A couple of scars or a bacterial infection did not worry me. We were out of the rapids and back in the boat, and that was all that mattered. It was then that Tom suggested we go back into the rapid to do what is known as "surfing".
Surfing is when you turn the boat back into the rapids, locate a little hole (aka hydraulic) in which there are some little waterfalls and willfully stick the front of your boat into it. Your boat becomes stuck there and you are tossed about like pork chops in a Shake N' Bake bag. If you manage to stay in the boat, you are congratulated by any onlookers who happened to be watching. If you don't, you are flushed into and then back out of this little physics experiment like last night's dinner down the toilet. We tried this many, many times. We even succeeded a few times. I didn't hear any cheering. All I heard was the blood rushing through my ears and the otherworldly garbles of voices as I fought to make my way back out of the water, time and again.
We flipped the boat so many times, I lost count. I cut my elbow on something. I came up under the boat twice more. When finally, towards the end of the trip, I was literally pinned on a huge rock by my own boat, I decided I had had enough. Actually, it was more of a physical reaction than a decision. This time, as I once again swam towards the boat and Ted, a big sob came out of my throat.
"I can't (sob) do this (sob) anymore."
I said this to Ted. My body was trembling a little. I felt defeated. Ted said, "You don't have to!"
So logical. So true. So then I called on what little energy reserve I had left and rolled my battered body back into the boat. We only had one more set of rapids before we reached the end of our trip. When we came out on the other side, Tom offered, "Do you want to go a little further or get out here?"
I thought he must be stoned.
"Get out here!" I practically begged. I was bleeding now from several places, including a little fat lip.
He looked at me. "You wanna get out here?" he asked.
I nodded.
"Fine! Get out!"
And then he put his hand on my chest and pushed me out of the boat.
With shaking knees, I climbed out of the river and onto the banks. I knew I would not go down the river again the next day with the others, as was planned. I looked over at Pete. He too looked like someone who had enough of the Gauley. I felt a little bad for him. He would make himself go. He was a man. It was much easier for me, as a woman to beg out. I thought about my neighbor's wife, my friend, who had decided to stay home. Somehow, she had instinctively known that this was not for her. How I envied her wisdom and dryness. We drove back in Bill's minivan at a breakneck speed with the side doors wide open. His van was decorated with pictures of adventures, patches from national parks and bird feathers.
That evening we unpacked our gear and relaxed before going out to dinner. I opened up a beer and within minutes of taking my first sip, I was running to the bathroom across camp. Apparently, sustained anxiety and my stomach don't mix very well. I vomited a mix of beer, river water and fear until I was sure I was completely empty. The only thing left was perhaps the biscuit from this morning. I felt better.
As I returned to camp, I glanced at the moldy shack holding the hodge-podge of 'gear' that had looked so promising earlier that day. I now saw it for what it really was; a collection of old and sun-bleached PFDs and barely serviceable paddles, probably scavenged off of chubby and inexperienced housewives floating face-down in the river. I swallowed acidly, but brightened at the idea of dinner as I noticed people preparing to drive into town. I surveyed the men that had taken us down the river that day. These were not men for which watching competitive sports on TV and popping open Pabst Blue Ribbon was all that was needed to feel alive. Well into their 60's and, in one case 70's, these guys needed to be hurled down a river, thrown onto some rocks and hit in the head with their own paddles to feel like getting up in the morning. These were not people that lived life in a careful, plodding way the way most of us do. They had not given up their passions in life with the advent of age or families. They showed up every summer, ready to begin a season of rafting the New River Gorge and The Upper and Lower Gauley, and they did it in a way that made me feel a little less than genuine when I thought of my own life and its distinct lack of outdoor adventures.
The truth is, I never even bothered to learn anything about the Gauley or area in West Virginia before the trip. After an exhaustive few minutes of Wikipedia research, I have since learned that the river is loosely separated into 2-3 parts; the Upper Gauley, which is an almost 10 mile run of more difficult, mostly Class V rapids and the Middle/Lower Gauley which is delightful mix of Class III, IV and V rapids. The river and its rapid difficulty vary dramatically with the water levels. The Gauley is damned by the Summersville Dam, an Army Corp of Engineers project until the first Friday after Labor Day, when "Gauley Season" begins. A series of damn releases during the fall open up the Upper Gauley to the brave souls who want to tackle rapids with names like "Lost Paddle" and "Iron Ring". The Gauley River itself has many names and is also known as the "Chin-que-ta-na" and also "To-ke-bel-lo-ke". I imagine these are Native American names that loosely translate to "where stupid white people crash in boat".
That day taught me a bit about myself that I might not have otherwise ever learned. It wasn't deep or even life-changing. It was this: I am a Big Baby. There is a reason I have a toiletries bag with "MOM" written boldly on the front. I am pale and flabby because I DON'T go outside, I DON'T swim in raging rivers and the only decorations in my minivan were crushed potato chips and unopened ketchup packets.
With a little arm twisting, I convinced Ted to stay behind with me the next day. We shuttled the rafters down to the river and picked them up later on. Ted and I drove around the area, up to the Upper Gauley and Summersville Lake, safely strapped in our minivan and took in Mother Nature from behind the power windows.
