Take a whitewater adventure on the river
As we headed toward the tumultuous piece of the river known as
Satan’s Cesspool, I wondered
– and not for the first time that day – why in the world I had
agreed to go whitewater rafting.
I am generally a big chicken when it comes to anything involving
water, strenuous activity, and big rocks. But there I was, paddle
in hand, waiting for the guide to yell,
”
Forward! Hard paddle!
”
Take a whitewater adventure on the river
As we headed toward the tumultuous piece of the river known as Satan’s Cesspool, I wondered – and not for the first time that day – why in the world I had agreed to go whitewater rafting.
I am generally a big chicken when it comes to anything involving water, strenuous activity, and big rocks. But there I was, paddle in hand, waiting for the guide to yell, “Forward! Hard paddle!”
It all started about six weeks ago when a friend of mine convinced me that this would be a good idea. It’s easy to agree to an awful lot of stuff when it’s in the abstract.
“Sure, sounds like fun,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
We made the reservations and then I promptly forgot all about it, until a few days ago, when I began realizing that I had agreed to this and couldn’t back out without losing money. So this past weekend, I went.
I started getting a little nervous when I had to sign the river rafting company’s standard form, which basically says, if you get injured or die, it’s not our fault. Those kinds of forms always make me aware that I may be about to do something stupid.
And then there’s the little safety talk you get from the guides, which is supposed to be reassuring.
“If you fall out of the raft, don’t worry,” they said. “You’ll have your life jacket on. You’ll pop up. Don’t worry, we’ll get you back in the raft.”
So then I had to worry about falling out, or the raft flipping, or any one of the other possible scenarios. I decided I wasn’t going to fall out. I made that my goal for the day.
Our intrepid little group was led by a guide named Xanth, who talked like a surfer dude, even though he hailed from Alaska. We were rafting 21 miles that day on the south fork of the American River.
We did half the distance in the morning, stopped for lunch, and then went on for the remainder in the afternoon.
Xanth gave us the basics of what to do: paddle forward, paddle backward, try to keep in synch with the person in front of you. Well, for the first seven miles or so, we were pitiful. We got hung on two rocks because we weren’t working as a team.
It’s not fun getting hung on rocks. The other rafts are drifting by, your guide is tugging on the raft and telling everyone to bounce up and down to get it loose, and you’re wondering if they’re going to have to call the rescue squad out.
Luckily, we were able to get going again both times, and then things improved.
Little rapids, I decided, were fun. The big hairy ones, where the raft dipped way down and everyone got wet, were slightly nerve-wracking, but I did have a sense of accomplishment – and relief – when the raft got through and everything was okay.
On the first half, which was less strenuous, we spent a lot of time on calm stretches of river. There were so many rafts, private and from various rafting companies, that in places it was like a traffic jam.
Part of the entertainment here was just watching other people on the river: the party people, floating along with Coors in hand; the daredevil guys in mini-kayaks doing flips and tricks; the guy who liked to hang out behind rocks and squirt the rafts as they came by. Talk about being in a whole different world.
And of course, it was beautiful, drifting through landscapes of trees and massive rocks. Watching the ducks swim along the river’s edge. Feeling the hot blue sky overhead.
But then it was time to face the dreaded Satan’s Cesspool and a few other scary places, like Balancing Rock and Hospital Bar.
One of our group fell out at Balancing Rock; we had a few anxious moments before we found her. But as much as I had feared some of the other spots, we sailed right through, thanks to our guide. We paddled when and where we were supposed to. It all worked.
So now I can say I’ve been whitewater rafting, and lived to tell the tale. And I didn’t fall out of the raft. For some people, this might not have been a big deal. But for a confirmed chicken like me, it’s a reason to brag.
