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First Descents
A section devoted to boaters telling stories of virgin river runs
My Best Tip
This is a true story. The names have been changed to protect me, the guilty.
I've been a Registered Maine Whitewater Guide for years. I do not have, nor have I ever had a Recreational Guides license, which would
permit me to legally take people on overnight camping trips. Years ago I was asked by my outfitter if I wanted a week’s work in the
springtime, taking five guys from Massachusetts canoeing down a 100 miles of a remote Class III+ river.
He knew how I was licensed, he also knew I didn't have any real whitewater canoeing experience, and I gladly accepted the job. He handed me a river guide
on the St. John and told me to study the sections between the last Baker Lake and the town of Dickey.
The first of May and I'm at the put-in at Baker Lake meeting my five sports for the first time, and I'm thinking’, “uh-oh!”
“So you guys paddle much?” I ask.
“Well, not for awhile, but we did when we were in the Appalachian Mountain Club together back in 1938.”
Doing the math and looking carefully at this crew of aged men clad in wool, I swallow hard, “gulp!”
We haven't gone a mile when a couple of the boys manage to overturn their boat in a small riffle, then the other canoe flips in a
rescue attempt.
Getting them all and their gear to the shore, I’ve already decided that before we go any further I’ll put them all through a clinic on
river paddling.
We make an illegal campsite and get a fire going. The spring runoff is icy cold so I’m glad to see my swimmers warming up and getting
their things dried out. I am impressed when one of the guys whose gear I’d retrieved pulls a delicately made ceramic cup out of his bag.
It’s beautiful, with an Asian flavor. When I comment on his bringing such a fragile thing on this kind of a trip, he tells me he got it
when he was in Korea and it’s always been good luck.
The St. John has a small watershed, so it is generally only runnable in springtime. Over its 100 miles, other lesser rivers drain into it,
slowly and steadily increasing its volume. But my boys have benefited greatly from their training, and they are doing great, and we are
having a great time. The campsites are nice, with platforms and picnic tables etc. It’s perfect, almost.
If you've guided a wilderness trip you've seen them, the ones who always want to be out ahead of everything. They make me nervous.
I don't like being nervous. I called my out-front guys Daniel Boone and Davey Crockett. Five days on the river with them and my
nervousness has evolved; first to frustration, then to aggravation. So, when, on what is to be our next to last day on the river, they paddle
past the last campsite before the “Big Rapid”, and they don't even know where the hell they are, I'm pissed. Something evil in my head
speaks, I ignore it. I blow my whistle and they pull over to wait for the rest of us, instead of going around the corner into the Big Rapid.
Truth is I am tired of being their cook, dishwasher, gear barge, etc. I also know that just a couple of miles downriver is Dickey, and
waiting there for me is a cheeseburger. I am also thinking of the I.F.W., my license, and how I can increase my odds of succeeding in this
scam by getting us off the river tonight.
“Get in your boats and let’s go.” I say.
“Aren’t we going to scout it like the other rapids?” Says Bill.
Bill is cute, he reminds me of a leprechaun, and I like him. He's been paddling up front in my boat since the start.
“No Bill.” I say stepping into the boat. “We’re not.”
“Why don’t we just camp here and scout it in the morning?” Says Daniel. “Korea” has been paddling with his father-in-law, a tall
lanky man in his seventies by the name of Frank. They both nod their heads at me, indicating they agree with Boone. I don’t want to tell
them why I’m afraid to camp in an unauthorized area, particularly so close to town, Wardens, etc.
“Hop in Bill let’s go.” Without a word Bill hops in, and we push out into the current. The others appear stunned; I see them
thinking it through, afraid to be left above the rapid, and afraid to run it without seeing my line. Suddenly, like bees were stinging them,
they jump to their boats and follow us, closely. Soon I can see this long rapid is rocky and wide at the top, narrowing at the bottom to
some standing waves. I try to stay center river as long as possible, but we keep getting pushed right. I had given each of the other canoes a
whistle so they could signal me in an emergency, and as we approach the halfway point in the rapid the boats behind start blowing their
collective lungs out. I keep checking on them over my shoulder, and they keep gesturing frantically towards the shore, but I just keep
waving them on.
Almost at the end of the rapid, and taking a quick look over my shoulder, I hear Bill say, “Oh shit!” I turn to see what the ‘oh shit’
is about; it’s a small hole with a three or four foot standing wave. It’s ten feet away and coming up fast. “Don’t say oh shit Bill,” I yell.
“Paddle!”
It’s too late. We had already taken on a good chunk of water, and this last bit is just too much for our already deep-in-the-water
boats, so one after another we submarine under the wave.
Staying in my boat I begin to wrestle it towards the shore when Bill floats by, paddle in hand.
“Ya still want me to paddle?” He asks with an impish grin.
My sports have all pulled themselves to the shore, so I empty the water and gear from my boat and start retrieving their gear and
boats. After thirty minutes I've gotten everything but a few fishing rods and a camp stove.
“Jesus Christ!” I hear Davey say. Looking up, I see him holding the plastic bag that he keeps his heart medicine in, and in the
bottom of the bag is what might as well be white mud. All my boys are blue and shivering. I hear the banjo from Deliverance in my head.
I start a fire.
It doesn't take long, a half-hour maybe, before they warm up and get their color back. Soon they are ready to go, and in the growing
darkness we slowly paddle the last easy mile into town. We found a restaurant, and indeed, there was a cheeseburger with my name on it
in Dickey.
That cool spring night as we sit around a much-needed fire waiting for the outfitter to pick us up, Korea again miraculously pulls the
delicate ceramic cup from his waterlogged bag. For several hours now we have been safe, warm, well fed and whiskey fueled, and re-living
the chaos, the fears of the day, the trip, with lots of laughter. As Korea approaches with the cup someone says. “Bow down to the cup.”
“Here.” Says Korea, handing me the cup. “I want you to have it. I haven't had this kinda excitement since I got it, and I want to thank
you for bringing me to it, and—” He starts laughing. "And for bringing me through it."
That was the best tip I ever received.
Email nick [at] noumbrella [dot] com with your questions, comments and concerns.
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