River Rafting in Washington

Spring River Guide Training

2018-02-13T13:48:00.001-08:00

Time to sign up if you want to be a guide, or if you just want to feel comfortable on the river on your own.

Only a few weeks away from our annual seven day guide training odyssey on the Deschutes River in north central Oregon and - as the senior instructor - I am beginning to feel the undertow of another river season.

Orion's guide training course kicks off every whitewater season and is comprised of seasoned and salty veterans, women and men, wide-eyed whitewater neophytes, those who revel in the adversity and those who are challenging their ordinary state of being, whatever that may be.

It is a time for ditching cellphones and the comfort of our creature habits. Sharing and laughing and looking one another in the eye. Being physically present because...you have to be to deal with the circumstances of being out amidst the elements. Setting up tarps in windstorms and cooking over fires.

It will be a memorable trip. Even for those of us participating in it for the 40th time.

Everything is fresh and possible and an entire season of running rivers with people steeped in the culture and those just being introduced lies before us. Our guide training trip is the perfect introduction to the world of river running.

You'll have seven days and seven nights learning the ropes both figuratively and literally.
Seven days and nights being immersed in the culture and all that entails from fireside tales to what-if scenarios.

Seven days and nights commiserating with your fellow students about the cold, the wind, the food, the insects, while soaking up the knowledge of instructors who have been there and back, and then gone back again.

Seven days and nights we wager you won't soon forget.

The waters might run high. They might not. The weather might be miserable, or it might be delightful, or it might be both. Just what one would expect from an early spring outing.

We guarantee you adventures will be had. Much learning will be accomplished. And friendships will be forged.

River Rafting is Good for You

2017-02-28T12:09:00.000-08:00

I have been rafting for a long time.

My first rafting experience was in the fall of my first year in college. As a matter of fact, after matriculation, it was the very next thing I did. The river rafting trip, regarded as my wilderness orientation to Prescott College, was a month long affair.

One month in the wilderness after having spent the majority of my life in well-ordered suburbs where my primary contact with the outdoors involved sports.

You can imagine it was an eye-opener in a number of ways.

My wilderness orientation, which took place over four decades ago, brought me serendipitously to this place.

Overnight raft trips are the single easiest method to 'leave it all behind.' The 'behind' we referred to leaving used to just mean the traffic and the stressors of modern day life, ringing phones, the hustle and bustle of humanity and bills coming due, responsibilities to uphold.

Now, we are saddled with the ubiquity of always being connected to what is going on everywhere in the world. The digital age is inexorably crushing our connection to nature.

River rafting is one of those outdoor activities that can help you find a balance. It is one of the most accessible outdoor activities that also includes a built-in social aspect. Almost anyone can get out into nature via an inflatable raft. And it is way more fun if you do it with others.

I have always found that a river trip centers me and reconnects me to both people and nature and now, it seems, researchers have some proof.

"In 2003, researchers Jonathan Haidt and Dacher Keltner published a landmark study on the social and emotional functions of awe. They found that awe appeared to increase people’s feelings of connectedness and willingness to help others. In their study, they wrote: “The consequences of awe should be of interest to emotion researchers and to society in general… Awe-inducing events may be one of the fastest and most powerful methods of personal change and growth.”

Over the past two summers we have successfully initiated a program of research to begin to test our own hypotheses that 1) outdoors experience improves physical, mental, and social well-being and 2) the emotion of awe is an important mechanism driving these effects."

On a three week long Grand Canyon trip quite some time ago, one of our participants, someone highly skilled in photography, decided to not only take before and after photos, but a photo weekly of each individual participant. The transformations reflected in the sitting portraits are not just notable. They are remarkable.

If you looked at them you might exclaim that we had discovered the fountain of youth. It was clear after 21 days divorced from the outside world our cares, wrinkles and frown lines had dropped away. You could see every face was recharged.

A day river trip is not capable of delivering your psyche to that stage of unfetteredness; however, it can still provide that dose of cortisol to help you regain balance in your life. Add the accompaniment of a coterie of friends, family or co-workers and you could very well find some connections that were left behind or forgotten.

The Phenomena of People

2016-03-13T18:34:00.002-07:00

I do not have a river story for you this week, but I had a visit from a good friend from Bellingham and our reunion reminded me of one of the other reasons I have persevered with this little cottage industry.

I wrote a story a few years back titled "Why I (Continue to) Raft" and the gist of that column was that I realized how much I enjoyed getting people out on the water and watching the transformation. It ended with the brief tale of my very young nephew from Dallas who floated the Skagit and - at first - was terrified of the moving, darn-cold-if-you're-from-Texas water. And, despite being on a trip surrounded by a large Y group of boisterous Northwesterners who could not get enough of swimming, it appeared he would endure the trip and be ecstatic to see the takeout and a warm, dry car.

When we were halfway down the river, his entire attitude did an about face. And by the time we hit the takeout he WAS ecstatic, but not about being finished and back to dry land. He was ecstatic about his experience.

I love experiencing that joie de vivre with clients and students and new guides. I don't believe I will ever get enough of those revelatory expressions.

But the other thing I love is getting to know people.

The width and breadth of experiences of the people who I have come to know through their brief stints as river guides is phenomenal. The Orion guide pool, stretching back through the decades and all the way to the present, is a phenomenal, eclectic collection of talent and skills and attitudes and life experiences that I do not believe I would ever have come in contact with if I had chosen any other means of making a living.

And y'all are everywhere.

I was in downtown Olympia at a off-brand coffeehouse catching up with Dyana Fiediga, a few months after sharing a boat with her in Peru on the Rio Maranon, when in walks Randy Stocker whom I had not seen in ages. And though the encounter seemed almost magical, as it is with all old friends, it was as if no span of time lay between us.

We chatted amiably for five to ten minutes when we could easily have whiled away the rest of the afternoon laughing and reminiscing.

I was driving the Orion bus to the Tieton when I pulled into the rest area just north of Selah and before I could make my way to the bathroom, Therese Harrild pulled in figuring there just might be a chance she knew someone driving those white rigs. Though I had not seen Therese since the '80s she was a friendly face with a friendly smile and our banter was natural and easy.

Nowadays she occupies her time driving buses for Metro and, though I have never taken her up on the offer she made to moonlight for Orion, it was generous of her to mention it.

Last May I was hanging out in the middle of the Puget Sound in a white raft with the logo prominently splashed across the front during the Shell No protests and - the next thing I know - Danny Geiger has paddled up alongside us in his canoe to say hello. I have not seen Danny since he officiated Jeremy and Lachovia's wedding in Leavenworth but we may as well have been back on the bus headed to Costa Rica, doing orangutan imitations on the roof rack and making ceviche from scratch.

Earlier in the day, I had been maneuvering the truck and trailer into position to offload the boats at a West Seattle boat launch, when a motorcycle cop from SPD sauntered up only to give me a good-natured nudge and a big hug. I had been braced for a clash with authority and instead I was treated to the warmest smile you'll ever see from a police officer and an encounter that genuinely made my morning.

It was Carol Castellani. Hard nosed on her 'day job' escorting President Obama and keeping order where there is little, but a cupcake when you've seen her scrambling in the middle of the night to keep herself dry from an unexpected Grand Canyon thunderstorm.

Another coffeehouse - this time on Capitol Hill in Seattle - another Orionite. There I was at Victrola's whiling my time away making up stuff to write about when I look up to see Chris Pratt at the counter. I don't recall the last time I saw Chris - perhaps on the Selway trip I just recently wrote about - but I thoroughly enjoyed running into him and being brought up to speed on some consequential life changes.

I love connecting. I love reconnecting.

One of the things I have always treasured is the somewhat random occurrences of these connections and reconnections. Greg Chapman stopping by on his way to California via Pullman. Jerry Baird checking in after coming down from Bamfield on Vancouver Island. Julie Ann Porter-Scott making the effort to 'pass through' Leavenworth when she was visiting Seattle. Charley and Cindy and Linda and Ed inviting me to dinner at their rental cabin. Dyana asking me to lunch on her way to Portland.

My life is richer due to all of these interactions and intermingling stories.

And in several days, once another guide training begins in earnest, it will be richer and deeper still.

Consider this my deepest thanks to you all.

Our Own Private Idaho. . . River - Part 2

2016-03-07T10:10:00.002-08:00

“The Selway, between Double Drop Rapids and Ladle Rapids, has averaged one drowning per year, over the past 8 years.” the veteran Selway River guide intoned. “Don’t take it lightly.”

After awkwardly clambering up a steep slope above Double Drop Rapids in an effort to get a peek at what lurked around the bend, those words lay harbored in the back of my mind. With the Selway rising, rocks were disappearing and ugly hydrologic features were emerging.

Double Drop Rapids, Selway River 2004 - Dane Doerflinger

The reason those who scouted the day before were nonplussed about location was because they had noted an enormous boulder at the head of Double Drop Rapids.

An enormous boulder. With the rising tide, the telltale boulder was engulfed.

From the scout, I had no doubt of the preferred route. However, the slightest miscalculation risked an encounter with some of the explosive breaking waves toward the rapid’s tail. The more technically difficult Ladle Rapids were far enough downstream to be out-of-sight but close enough to not be out-of-mind.

In case you wondered, Robert was eddied out on the left side of the river down below the rapid and, unbeknownst to us, was desperately trying to scale the cliffs to reach us. Also, unbeknownst to us, his effort failed when he peeled off the cliff into the river and was forced to swim back to his boat.

After a brief scout, we hustled back to the rafts to tackle Double Drop before it got any bigger. I guided my attentive paddlers through the frothing mess without disaster. The remainder of the party followed without carnage but Dane reported an adventure run captured on - at least - two cameras.

One camera was mounted facing upstream and the other mounted on his helmet. The exciting part was the two contrasting perspectives when he engaged the nasty curling wave near Double Drop’s runout. As his cataraft balanced on its side, it was clear from his head camera his body was scrambling to keep his world upright as the boat tottered on the brink of capsizing.

Tilt-o-Meter at Double Drop - Dane Doerflinger

Meanwhile, Nancy caught the powerful tail wave head on and, as her boat rounded into sight from our vantage point above Ladle, we saw her clinging to the frame like a refugee clinging to flotsam at sea. For a moment we feared she would float through Ladle’s minefield of hydraulics and, if she had, which of us would take chase, but to our everlasting relief - and hers as well - she remounted the boat and rowed to shore.

The veteran guide’s admonition made sense now that we had experienced the runaway freight train of water between the two drops. Little wonder people met their demise on this stretch. If you lost it in Double Drop, the recovery time before Ladle, at high water, was halved.

Still unnerved by the whitewater above, we hiked the trail to take a closer look at the infamous Ladle.

The next thing we knew we saw an inverted cataraft being flushed downriver and through the plethora of river features pocking the entire length and breadth of Ladle. No rafter, as far as we could ascertain, was with the craft. Another group had caught us. Two kayakers, however, were aggressively pursuing the cataraft as it was sucked downstream and out of our vision.

The ghost boat, the fierce whitewater upstream, the ever rising river and the unknown of what was right before our eyes spooked the lot of us.

Except Robert.

River runners say “there are old boaters and bold boaters, but not a lot of old, bold boaters. . . “

Robert fell into the older, bolder boater category. A whitewater ninja if ever there was one. All of us have come to understand that the bigger his grin, the more difficult the whitewater we face.

After a scant reconnoiter, he bombed his cataraft down the middle of the rapid and, though he did not make it look enticing, he was scampering back upstream grinning from ear to ear. A couple of hours went by with considerable discussion of portaging.

Instead, Robert elected to row Jeremy and Mike’s rafts, Tom volunteered to take Nancy’s oar boat through and the rest of us continued to mull over route options.

The same guide who warned us of the fatalities had also proffered that, though it ‘looked’ like there was a ‘sneak’ route on Ladle’s left side, rafts couldn’t achieve the escape velocity to reach it. I watched Robert tenuously survive a couple of ugly sample runs and determined the paddle raft could improve on all three of them.

I wanted to sneak left but I feared jeopardizing my crew. Robert joined us in the paddle raft to help with the ‘lay of the land’. He also thought we could improve on his three hair-raising wild rides.

As we approached the top of the rapid, passing a monster reversal churning to our left, I gave a quiet forward command hoping to get just far enough out of the roaring midstream flow to slow our speed and set us up to thread the needle between the multiple sentry hydraulics that Robert had monkeyed around with all morning.

Unexpectedly, my paddlers responded like a prize steer pent up too long and released onto the rodeo grounds. We shot across the lip of the rapid several boat lengths farther left than any of us anticipated. The next thing I realized we hit the slot I yearned for all along, I straightened the bow into the oncoming waves and held on for dear life.

From shore, Dane said later it looked as if our raft was a hydrofoil. Gliding beyond the turmoil and completely dodging the fray. We eddied out as the final three boaters, elated to know they had options - one of them being as close to a dry run as you could ever hope - hastened to their crafts.

There was more. There was plenty more. Like the ‘boils of death’ at Little Niagara, and the ‘Wave that wouldn’t peak’ at Wolf Creek. And the lousy weather that never got better right on to the next dreary, wet trip on the Lochsa.

But cheating Ladle - accidentally - is the Selway story I’ll never forget.

Our Own Private Idaho. . . River - Part 1

2016-02-28T11:45:00.000-08:00

“The Selway, between Double Drop Rapids and Ladle Rapids, has averaged one drowning per year, over the past 8 years.” the veteran Selway River guide intoned. “Don’t take it lightly.”

As if we needed additional angst prior to boating one of the most difficult rivers to get a permit for in the country and one of the most remote rivers to navigate. Our long drive to the put-in carried us deep into the forested Idaho wilderness.

It was springtime. The weather was gorgeous. The skies were the kind of blue poets wax over and writers fawn on and on about struggling to come up with an original description. The river itself was flowing at an optimal level for a party that had never seen any of its whitewater.

It’s not that we weren’t loaded with experience, we were. Just not loaded with experience on the Selway.

Our group consisted of a paddle raft, a cataraft, two kayakers and a bevy of oar boats. What we discovered at the put-in on the morning of our launch was that we were critically shy on everyone’s favorite beverage. The beverage some people believe Seattle was founded on. The beverage that contains the ingredient that has launched a thousand ships, fueled a billion college students and so permeated the Puget Sound that its main component cannot be used to detect pollution.

Coffee. More precisely, caffeinated coffee.

The day before we drove for half a day and over a few substantial mountain passes to get to where we were. We were about as deep into wilderness as you can be in the contiguous continental United States.

In other words, a rafter of Seattleites (‘rafter’ being the formal name for a group of domestic turkeys) were about to run a river trip without their morning cups of joe. Essentially, cold turkey. Which, of course, was unacceptable. Yet resupply was impossible.

I have been on river trips where we were forced to reuse coffee grounds. I have been on a river trip where we had to cook every meal and brew coffee over an open fire. I have been on a river trip where the coffee provided was so distasteful we begged for Nescafe at the resupply.

But I had never had to raft cold turkey sans coffee. Rafting without coffee was tantamount to fly fishing without a hundred pockets.

As the realization spread through camp, good natured ribbing turned to alarm. Nancy had been tasked with the coffee requisition and she was feeling the heat of responsibility.

Fortune - thankfully - intervened. The wilderness ranger, who came to check us out, had a sufficient stash of Middle America’s finest blend - Folger’s - to see us through. And he was willing to part with it.

Disaster narrowly averted. Everyone’s good nature returned. Nancy would not be ostracized or left behind. Elated, we returned to our rigging.

A Selway permit was like a unicorn. I believed I would never score a Selway permit, or be invited on someone else’s permit, just as I would never see a unicorn.

But here we were on the legendary river in the heart of the Idaho backcountry with perfect weather, a manageable river level and an All-Star cast of boaters. As we delighted in the challenging whitewater above the innermost canyon where the notorious rapids lay in wait, we also marveled at our exquisite timing. Like the mercurial Illinois River, the Selway is renowned for ‘blowing up on you’ in no time.

We floated up to the final camp above the inner gorge and opted to spend an extra day. A layover day on any river trip is prized. But doubly so with a good group. It means more time in one another’s company.

From our layover camp, it was a short walk down canyon to scout Double Drop, the opening whitewater salvo of the inner gorge rapids. A portion of the group scouted while the rest of us lazed about camp reading or playing dice games.

Around midday a quiet rain commenced. The scouting group hiked back to report on what they observed at Double Drop but no one seemed impressed. Despite the inclement weather and the big day of rafting before us, we recreated until late in the evening. Some significantly more than others.

Mike Krausser and Hans Slette giggled late into the night by a dying campfire over whether or not ‘sedges had edges’ and whether or not it was snowing.

We awoke at dawn to a river seriously changed in character. The clarity was gone, replaced by murkiness. The rafts bobbed restlessly in the slack water near shore like horses unnerved by unseen predators. Once we launched, I felt through my paddle how the nature of the river had switched gears from playfully bold to monstrously powerful, and perhaps, unpredictable.

The river’s current had noticeably quickened.

Due to the blasé scout of Double Drop, the paddle-rafters, myself included, opted to appoint Kook as guide. But as we shot by a swollen tributary, while those who had scouted bantered back and forth about where we were on the river, I realized, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, we were definitely ‘no longer in Kansas’.

The Selway of legend, the Selway we heard stories about, was, literally and figuratively, rising from it’s long winter nap.

I had not gone on the scout but I sensed us barreling toward a major drop which had to be Double Drop. I distinctly recollect there being some back and forth amongst those in the raft about whether it was possible we could have already reached Double Drop. In the stern, Kook was equivocating and the remainder of the crew looked askance to me. The doubt in everybody’s faces was all I needed.

I superseded Kook’s command and called for an immediate eddy out on the left side of the river.

We watched as Robert, rowing feverishly, trying to slow his downstream progress, disappeared into the exploding chaos hidden by the river’s bend.

(To Be Continued.)

Pain and Suffering in Patagonia - Part 2

2016-02-21T16:38:00.004-08:00

(A little over halfway around the circuit trail of Torres del Paine, running short on food, running short on patience, our intrepid adventurers, having moved on to a camp safe from falling timber, discover ‘el sendero’ - the trail - might just get worse. . . )

The night following the lunch communication fiasco we camped away from the forest of quaking, due-to-topple-at-any-moment behemoths, enjoyed a final cookie and began dreaming of being anywhere but on that godforsaken trail. The winds off the glacier were sporadic, but always prevalent. As we tromped the western portion of the trail most exposed to the glacial torrents, we started encountering ravines with lively, splashy streams.

A few posed no challenge to cross but one was especially treacherous. Other than the slippery footing due to algae on the surface of the stones, gusts of wind with enough power to fling you backwards were palpable against our bulky backpacks. At one ravine, the winds were so strong we were forced to time our jumps to keep from being sent tumbling and cartwheeling downhill through a scree field of angular rocks the size of basketballs.

When we were all safely on the other side of the hazardous crossing, we paused to acknowledge our good fortune and recover our composure. It was then we saw him coming around the corner going in the opposite direction. I swear about two things in regards to this encounter.

First of all, the hiker was on all fours with every indication that he had been on all fours for quite some time.

Secondly, he was the spitting image of Steve Laboff. If he had not spoken anything other than Spanish, we might have assumed it was Steve Laboff.

He was miserable. Jeans torn at the knees. Face grimy, thinning hair matted to his balding pate.

And we imagined we were miserable.

This guy, alone, groveling on hands and knees with a heavy frame pack, muttering “El sendero es malo”, over and over, cheapened our misery.

Our spirits sank. Even lower than they already were.

He was groaning about how awful the trail was behind him, just as we were beginning to think the worst lay behind us. Our next thought was, “If he thinks the trail behind him is bad. . . . wait until he encounters what we just survived!”

We gave him swigs of water, attempted a few more clumsy and futile efforts to communicate about the trail ahead and behind, and then bid him adieu. It would not have surprised any of us if we had heard later that he had required rescuing. Or worse.

Our trudge south continued expecting the worse. It was not very long before we encountered the bad part of the trail that had shellshocked our crawling Argentinian friend. We were now walking through the remains of a significant forest fire which, though ugly, would not have been much to write home about except that the glacial winds blew relentlessly.

We were fortunate because the winds blew in the direction which we walked. Steve Laboff’s doppelganger did not have that luxury. He hiked and crawled into the winds. Fine ash and small cinders were airborne. Being a contact lens wearer, I was in my own special earthbound hell. The winds blew too steadily to remove my contacts, while the ash particulates were too ubiquitous to keep wearing them.

Misery doubled down for me.

Robert loves to tell about the times I break into, what he loves to call, my ‘fuck dances’. Though I have no recollection doing that at this time, this would - undoubtedly - be the ideal setting for a ‘fuck dance’.

I stumbled down the trail trying to maintain focus through watery, throbbing eyes. As per usual, when having as much fun as I was, time staggered on. But, then, quite suddenly, we emerged from the blackened ashscape into another inviting meadow like the one we hiked on our first day, the hurricane breezes tapered off and a shimmering, blue lake appeared as if conjured.

It was getting late in the afternoon, so we set up our tents near the lake and inhaled the last of our dwindled rations, figuring tomorrow we should easily reach park headquarters and the promise of additional foodstuffs. There beside a pacific lake in a verdant field of ankle-high grass under a panoply of stars I might never witness again, I felt confident I would sleep like the dead.

I could not have been more wrong.

The glacial winds behaved as if they were an out-of-control firehose left to writhe about untended. Where we had nestled down for the night was an enormous bowl-shaped valley. The terminus of the glacier was just to the north of us where it emptied into the lake.

The winds thrashed about all night, but they weren’t always tormenting our camp. As I said, they reminded me of a firehose unleashed with the water pressure on full bore. You could hear the winds whipping about the valley, sometimes very far off into the distance. At our camp, it would be as still and as calm as a becalmed sea.

But then, as I lay awake in my tent, doing a prone version of the ‘fuck dance’, I could hear the ferocious winds making their way down-valley until - of a sudden - camp was being beaten down by hurricane force gales. Our tents flattened to conform to the shape of our bodies as we hunkered tight. The winds pounded us for half an hour and then move away only to return after making their rounds.

I slept nary a wink.

Dawn broke. Winds died. Bleary-eyed and ravenous, we packed up. We hiked a good distance along the north end of the lake to a ferry we trusted to deliver us to the park entrance. It wound up returning us back from whence we came.

Which - in the grand scheme of our epic hike of the Torres del Paine - was par for the course.

Pain and Suffering in Patagonia - Part 1

2016-02-14T16:51:00.001-08:00

We utilized a half dozen modes of transportation to wend our way to the end of the South American continent - train, plane, taxi, rental car, ‘chicken bus’ and foot. When we reached Puerto Montt, we mulled over taking a ferry to the ‘earth’s end’ but airfare was so enticingly inexpensive and, as an added bonus, it included complimentary cocktails on a spacious jumbo jet.

We felt like dirtbag jet setters.

The ‘end of the earth’ was gorgeous and windswept. The glaciated mountains to the north were stark beckoning sentinels on the horizon. We were in the land of Patagonia and the Argentinian Fitzroys - famous climbing destinations and mountain ranges. Tricia, Robert, Kent and I came to Chile for river adventures, but we journeyed to the southernmost end to exercise our legs.

The jagged peaks we could see from the hostel were called the Torres del Paine, part of the region’s most noted national park. “Towers of the Pain,” I thought, “Great.” Actually the origins of the name Paine were lost to the sands of time, but, in the end, when all was said and done, and often while it was being said and being done, it was a fitting descriptive term.

We had two objectives on our two month tour of Chile - visit Patagonia and raft the soon-to-be-dammed Bio Bio River. We weren’t sure what we would do when we reached the wind whipped terminus of South America. However, having seen the majesty of the iconic Patagonia peaks that inspired the logo of the well-known outdoor clothing and gear company, and learning there was a trail that circumnavigated those peaks, it appeared to be kismet to set out on that trail.

Robert, Kent and I were quite familiar with backpacking, though, as we were soon to discover, it was not our strongest outdoor suit. Tricia was a backpacking newbie, but when our plan was being hatched, she didn’t bother to emphasize that fact to the rest of us. We set out knowing very little about the circuitous trail other than there were supposed to be some European-like warming huts, and possibly, food options at said huts.

This false hope was the reason we hoisted our heavily loaded packs and headed down the trail with three days of rations on a trek supposed to take seven days we planned to do in five days. As I mentioned previously, backpacking was not the outdoor skill we were noted for.

The day was lovely with brilliant blue skies. The four of us excitedly walked the trail through a meadow sprinkled with wildflowers. Even though we knew we needed to make haste, the meadow enticed us to lie down and bask in the warming sun. Our first day on the trail ended far short of our intended destination, but, at that stage, we were neither alarmed or concerned.

We were having too much fun at Tricia’s expense. At camp, we discovered her backpack contained two pairs of heavy jeans and the novel, Sacajawea, which was essentially a cinder block disguised as a paperback. She had been struggling with her pack throughout the course of the first day and now we realized part of the reason. If she was carrying those items, what else might she have packed?

On the second day the trail abruptly took a turn for the worse. A wind storm had knocked over dozens and dozens of trees with ample girths and we spent a good portion of the day clambering over the fallen forest. And then the trail veered into a bog with exposed, criss-crossing roots interspersed with mud holes of indeterminate depths.

Indeterminate until I landed in one and found it to be nearly up to my armpits. By that time, Kent and Robert were well up the trail. Tricia was struggling with both her backpack and her hiking boots and I was trying to be chivalrous and helpful and not fall into any more pits.

When we finally emerged from the bog, we found Kent and Robert at Campomento Los Perros, or The Dogs Camp. It was on this grim evening, exhausted from the challenging terrain and the physical impediments strewn in our path, we came to the realization we were seriously shy on foodstuffs. Backpacking innocence lost…

What we had not yet lost however, was a sense of humor.

It was ‘gallows’ humor, but humor nevertheless.

For dessert, Kent carefully carved one of the few cookies into four tiny segments. Stomachs rumbled throughout the night.

The following day the trail began to climb up and over a pass. For some unknown reason, the masochists who created the circuit decided not to bother with switchbacks. Their preference was - virtually - straight up. As we approached the saddle of the ridge, we walked on bare stone littered with rocks and pebbles. Winds gusting off the glacier that snaked down the valley on the other side of the ridge were so stiff the rocks and pebbles skittered across the stone, practically airborne.

Once more, Kent and Robert jogged ahead. I walked sweep with Tricia. Her overstuffed backpack and nagging blisters had her hobbled.

For some reason, we believed lunch was with our comrades who had disappeared. Consequently, despite hunger, we pressed on. The trail on the opposite side of the ridge plummeted straight down into a spindly forest of alder-like trees. We literally were forced to grab trees alongside the trail like monkeys. My hands quickly became raw and even my gallows humor succumbed to misery.

We caught Kent and Robert blithely cat-napping in a forest grove where we had hoped to camp. We slung our packs to the ground and plopped down exhausted and ‘hangry’ - part hungry, part angry. While discussing our options, the giant trees swayed in the glacial wind. Creaking and groaning. Fallen trees surrounded the open forest floor designated as a camp. We opted to move on.

As it turned out, Robert had packed our lunches in our packs.

(To Be Continued.)

Big D Little A Double L A S

2016-02-07T12:39:00.003-08:00

We called him Heavy D. Because his gait was reminiscent of Bigfoot and carabiners were a part of his stock and trade.

We called him Dilly Dally. Because his concept of time was warped. Skewed more toward the Latin American version than the northern European version.

I called him Big D, little A, double L, A, S. Because that was how the radio station I listened to growing up spelled Dallas, and I liked repeating it.

He was noted for absolutely not wearing a dirndl despite our most determined efforts. He was also noted for - begrudgingly - donning pink bunny rabbit ears to emcee Dinner Theatre on guide training despite feeling under the weather.

On that night, we called him ‘Angster Bunny’. It has taken him more than a decade to laugh about that.

A story Dallas loves telling about me occurred during his weekend training. He accompanied me in the company van from the greasiest of greasy spoon cafes in the slumbering lumber town of Darrington to a county park located twelve miles out of town on the lower Sauk River. We knew very little of each other beyond the pleasantries we exchanged over the course of the training and the twenty minute ride from restaurant to campsite.

Basically, he knew me as the boss. I knew him as the eager trainee.

Winnie, my Australian shepherd/sheltie mix, had also accompanied us in the van. At the restaurant before we left, I let her out to stretch her legs. She was a smart, well-behaved dog and I rarely needed to look out for her.

As Dallas and I pulled into the county park I came to the sudden sickening realization I had driven off without Winnie due to having been distracted - no doubt - by the need to do some cat-herding. I exploded with a torrent of choice expletives and Dallas thought we had either thrown a rod in the dilapidated Orion rig or were about to drive off the bridge into the river.

I am sure he was terrified and impressed at how quickly I transmogrified from mild-mannered James to ranting-and-raving James.

No phone booths required.

Dallas was a young, good-looking buck who took to guiding like sows take to mud wallows. Being young and egotistical, I anticipated he might, like many self-absorbed males before him, become a hazard to himself and clients. But he surprised me.

His wake-up call happened early on. He said everything changed about his attitude toward guiding the day he fished one of his customers out of the frigid waters of some Washington river and got a look at what terror looks like up close and personal.

From then on, he never checked being empathetic at the door. He never forgot commercial trips were not about the egos of the guides, but about the experience of the guests. That guiding meant you had to know what it was like to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.

And the vast majority of guests have zero desire to find themselves without a boat in whitewater.

Two of his more memorable remarks were:

“If I had to, I could get infants down this river.”

And. . .

“That turd’s gonna shoot on through. . .”

The former came during a media interview when, in his inimitable way, he was explaining the confidence required to succeed in guiding a commercial raft. Enough to declare that you could take infants if needed.

The latter comment was uttered as he and I watched a raft dive over a falls on an impressively high water trip in May. I had my reservations and fears as I watched the boat lock in to the slipstream above the cascade, but Dallas was as confident as a blackjack dealer who knows exactly how the odds are stacked.

Dallas and I have always had a complicated and competitive relationship whether it be drinking games, horseshoes or esoteric topics. He was never one to blindly kowtow to my authority, and I have often listened to, if not harkened, his sage, and ample, advice.

We’ve watched one another’s backs on many occasions on river banks around the western United States.

We’ve howled at the moon and rebel yelled loud enough to disturb the dead.

But the story I like to tell about him happened on the Grand Canyon.

It had been a long day on the water and - for once - I was not the group leader. But, the downside was, I was not in charge of determining the itinerary. It turned in to a day where we pushed further downstream than I was comfortable and, as the afternoon acquiesced to twilight, I was not in any humor for shenanigans when we reached camp.

It was my group’s cook day. As it so happens, Dallas and I were partners, along with Ally, in a three member chore group. We were midway through the Canyon and, so far, Dallas’ primary contribution to our crew on the days we cooked was to bar tend. Which - ordinarily - was wonderful.

He was noted for never skimping when it came to the quality of alcohol. Nor the quantity for that matter.

(Another one of his favorite expressions: “Twenty four beers in a case. Twenty four hours in a day. It can’t be a coincidence.”)

I hit the beach that evening exclaiming to anyone in earshot, “I’m going to be useless!” Meaning I was prepared to do some drinking.

But, as the cooking commenced, some god-awful barley concoction, it became clear that if I wanted to be ‘useless’, Dallas needed, for Ally’s sake, to be somewhat useful.

He had already begun his bartending routine.

That’s when I pulled him aside and told him in no uncertain terms, “Heavy D, I love you like a brother. But if you don’t chop some onions, I’m going to heave you into the river.”

Incredibly enough, he took it to heart. The meal still sucked. But we had a swell time creating it.

Recollections of Lava Falls - Part 2

2016-01-31T17:52:00.003-08:00

The majority of my memories of Lava revolve around the aftermath.

The decompression.

The catharsis.

The blowing off steam on one of the beaches within easy rowing distance. Or the first beach you wash up on. Or a midstream boulder, a stone’s throw from the maelstrom, imbibing a post-Lava beer with my boat crew gayly snapping selfies. Ecstatic having the whitewater turmoil harmlessly upstream of us.

I prefer to camp far enough away Lava is not audible or visible but close enough to have plenty of time to clean up and still allow a large, lazy portion of the day for a party. By ‘clean up’ I mean retrieving items and rafts and swimmers and other detritus following any potential mishap.

Not a shave and shower.

It was on the beach at the bottom of Lava I learned of Lewis Carroll’s poem “Jabberwocky”. When I first heard it recited I was too much in the party mood to focus but I distinctly recall being enraptured by the gibberish which sounded grammatically correct and certainly teased the imagination. I vowed to memorize it - and I have.

“Twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe, all mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome’s wrath outgrabe. . . “

On the same occasion we shared the beach with another party - a party of twelve men and one woman. They were short on coffee. We were flush with coffee. Their female was exasperated at dealing with the twelve males lack of decorum and sophomoric humor.

Such as setting up the groover, aka ‘the toilet’, right on the boat exposed for all the world to witness everyone’s scatological habits. The female hinted she would consider swapping teams and finishing her trip with us.

A short time later, both groups met on a wide spot of the beach, like teams arranged for a raucous game of Red Rover. Spontaneously one of us galumphed between the opposing parties on all knuckles as a great silverback ape might, set down a sacred can of Folger’s, soaked the sand with lighter fluid and set it afire. The instigator bounded back to his tribe as everyone, on cue and without forethought, began to reenact the apocryphal scene from 2001: A Space Odyssey where the apes come upon a cold, black, completely out-of-place obelisk.

A ring of fire engulfed the red tin can while a herd of homo sapiens did their finest impressions of excited hominids. By hand gestures and grunts, we tried to make it clear we were trading the coffee for the female member of their party. We were not all stone, cold sober, but we weren’t intoxicated at this stage either. It was improvisation at its finest.

Whether or not anyone was clothed, I can’t recall.

In the end, they commandeered the Folger’s and I believe we settled for some other insignificant processed product and not the damsel in psychological distress.

On my most recent foray through the Canyon and past Lava Falls, we pulled in at Tequila Beach just as a research group being escorted by a commercial outfitting group was finishing their lunch. It didn’t take long for us to strike up some meaningful, impromptu conversations, empathize with their loss of a valued team member - one of the ten humpback chubs being ferried by helicopter into the gorge - and realize they were considerably more lax than your typical commercial crew. Meaning they had a decadent sense of humor and were likely not easily offended.

Due to that knowledge, a couple of us, who will remain unnamed, serenaded the last two of their oarsmen, as they pulled away from the beach, with a rousing imitation of orangutans on drugs who had somehow learned the words to an enthusiastic Maori war chant.

In hindsight, I’m sure they were bemused, envious and concerned they might be reading about us later in the news. Our celebratory party continued into the early evening aboard my raft beneath a multi-colored beach umbrella and bottomless shot glasses of Banderas - three separate shots with Spicy V-8, lime juice and Don Patron tequila. Red, green and white. The colors of the Mexican flag. ‘Bandera’ being Spanish for ‘flag’.

A few nights later we caught up to the commercial crew and their merry band of fish biologists and partied like it was 1999 and Lava Falls all over again.

My final Lava Falls recollection was in Chile on the Rio Bio Bio at an ominous rapid named in honor of Lava Falls - Lava Falls South. On our treacherous, bone-jarring shuttle to the launch for the upper canyons of the Rio Bio Bio, I remember staring into the canyon from an extremely long perspective and seeing the part of the river including Lost Yak and Lava Falls South and thinking, “If it looks this fearsome from a quarter mile, what’s it going to look like when we reach river level?”

It was scary enough knowing that an oarsman on a first descent was impaled by an oar rammed through his thigh. Between that uplifting anecdote and this intimidating preview, we started down the soon-to-be-dammed river.

Lost Yak Rapid and Lava Falls South practically blended together. After completing Lost Yak, Jerry Baird gave the guide paddle to me for the big one. Of course, I wanted to scout.

Kent, Robert, Tricia and Jerry were my paddlers as we wended our way downstream, dodging sleepers and rocks. Jerry was a veteran of the Bio Bio and I depended on his knowledge. But he was also fearless, undaunted by the nastiest hydrologic features.

Every dozen yards or so, I’d ask, “Is this the scout?”

Jerry would respond with a laconic “No” and dismissive wave.

After a couple more nervous exchanges, we were bordering on the point of no return. Kent, paddling in the bow like a good soldier, growled over his shoulder at me:

“Does the word ‘sandbag’ mean anything to you?”

Indeed it did. I pulled over posthaste.

Recollections of Lava Falls - Part 1

2016-01-24T14:28:00.002-08:00

My relationship with Lava Falls on the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon is relatively lengthy. For an erstwhile Canyon boater, I have stood at the brink of this geologically cataclysmic, gnarly stretch of water quite a bit. More than your average Grand Canyon duffer.

And, in spite of its surly reputation, Lava Falls has only spanked me and my crew mates the very first time I encountered it. Of course, I abide the hoary old adage, “There are those who have, there are those who will and there are those who will again.” Consequently, I take nothing for granted when I reach River Mile 179.

In my original encounter, I couldn’t find the fucking bubbles. But that is not the hoary river tale I am writing about on this go around.

(As an aside, according to the author of The Emerald Mile, the route known as the “Bubble Run” no longer exists. It’s magical period of existence, when those who found the bubbles slipped through Lava like greased pigs through the clutches of contestants at a county fair, ended some time in the early ‘90s.)

What I want to write about are my recollections relative to Lava. Though no other encounter, other than the first, included flipped rafts - like the converted, monstrous Idaho sweep boat decked from bow to stern in a diamond plated frame with metal drop floors which required the teamwork of two entire parties to flip up right - I have numerous associated Lava Falls memories worth sharing.

If for no other reason, Lava Falls deserves reverence because it sits alone toward the tail end of a Canyon river trip. The last rapid of unusual size after all the harrowing, significant whitewater upstream. After all of the other garden variety boat eating holes. After all of the other boat enveloping, asymmetrical breaking waves. After all of the Colorado River’s deceptive currents lurking in some of the more insignificant drops, eddy lines and unexpected boils.

It’s an old business teasing those who are first time Canyon boaters about the significance of Lava. My mentor on trip number one teased me mercilessly. And, I will admit, it is a tradition I enjoy passing along.

The teasing goes something like this - after surviving any number of drops between river mile x and river mile y, you catch up to one of the greenhorn boaters in the downstream slack water, who are still wide-eyed from their most recent success, congratulate them, and then say, “Nicely done. But it’s nothing like Lava. . . “

Or. . .

“Do you hear that?” Ideally, the teasing commences in Marble Canyon, days and hundreds of miles from Lava.

“What?”

“That rumble,” you respond.

“What is it?”

“If I am not mistaken, Lava Falls.”

Depending on how much fun you are having with this, it can go on for days. All the way to Lava Falls Eve where it is customary to compose and sing Lava Falls carols to the tune of Christmas songs. As in John Cole and Linda Hedlund’s scintillating performance filmed and saved for posterity by Dane Doerflinger. A Lava Falls carol to the tune of Jingle Bells. They wrote the lyrics down so the group could follow and sing along.

“Lava Falls, Lava Falls, La-a-a-va Falls,

Lava Falls, Lava Falls, La-a-a-va Falls. . . hey!”

Etcetera. Ad infinitum. As long as you can stand it.

Weather conditions on the day of a Lava scout are rarely notable and often pleasant enough in the fall and spring. But, on one trip, as we rounded the last bend prior to Vulcan’s Anvil - a massive black volcanic plug squatting a quarter mile above Lava like the imposing obelisk it is - the cloudless skies at our backs came face-to-face with the blackest, most ominous skies I have ever seen.

The diametrically opposed fronts collided on a line where lava flows surged across the river creating the Canyon’s most notorious whitewater. Angry, roiling clouds and stiff upstream winds, followed by a torrential downpour halted our downstream approach and caused everyone to seek whatever shelter they could find amongst the skimpy tamarisk along the banks.

We hunkered down for an hour as the storm buffeted the Canyon.

Until recently, those clouds that swept over us, blackened the day and dumped buckets of chilling rain were my most ominous memories of arriving at the precipice of Lava. However, on the latest trip, though the weather was blue skies from horizon to horizon, activity overhead once again gave us pause. A Park Service rescue chopper buzzed our party making a bee-line to the bottom of Lava Falls just as our party was pulling into the eddy to scout.

On the beach below the tumultuous rapid we could see a group gathered. The helicopter landed nearby. Through binoculars, it was obvious grief or anguish was one of the emotions coursing through the gathered party. From the cliff above Lava, our group tried to stay focused on the task at hand - each of us seeking our own clear route past towering waves and hydraulics that may have only recently visited disaster on the crew below us.

Needless to say, it was a very sobering scout.

At the conclusion of our uneventful runs, we reached the beach known as Tequila Beach, or Recovery Beach, named for obvious reasons, and learned the reason for the ‘rescue’ helicopter and the glum body language we noted through our spy glasses.

It was a research group who had contracted a commercial rafting company to run the length of the Canyon so that they could remove non-native trout and restore the threatened and native humpback chub. What we witnessed, spying on them from afar, was their reaction upon learning one of their prized chubs had not survived the helicopter ride from rim to canyon floor.

In other words, our morning of anxiety-laden thoughts had been triggered by the death of a single fish.

Perhaps river karma for my teasing was to blame.

Jesus Shaves

2016-01-17T12:00:00.000-08:00

(The original working title for this story was 'California Dreamy'. But I came across an ammo box sticker years ago at Bumbershoot that I couldn't pass up. And it has long been my favorite sticker - along with Porkins Lives, of course. Due to the walking on water reference, I thought it just as fitting.

Two things - when you become a river guide, bumper stickers are no longer bumper stickers but ammo box stickers, and because of the protagonist of this tale, Orion began using oarlocks versus whatever archaic contrivance we had been using previously. Hallelujah!)

~~~

In the end, he wasn’t known as Randy “MacBackRub” for nothing.

But, in the beginning, a few of us swear we saw him walk on water.

It started on the Skykomish River on a dreary western Washington day early in the spring. Temperatures hovered around nut-clenching and penis-shriveling

The good news was - it wasn’t raining. At least not yet.

Our guests were a UW fraternity and, though the river was high and the weather was less than ideal, Scott, Mark and I figured the show must go on. But, first, we needed to rendezvous with a Californian guide who called me out of the blue to see if he could tag along.

The three of us - all veteran guides - loitered in the company van at the launch site shooting the breeze in anticipation of meeting this guy from the ‘other’ sunshine state. We heard a knock on the sliding door of the van and, upon opening it, we eyed a guy wearing a cowboy hat, plaid flannel shirt, canvas shorts and flip flops. Of course, he also sported a mountain man beard.

Scott and Mark immediately suspected we were dealing with a yahoo.

If not a yahoo, a Californian too vain for his own good.

They refused to cut him slack. While the three of us were dressed to make a run at the South Pole, Randy McChristian was dressed for warmer climes. Luckily, he brought neoprene but it was a shorty wetsuit suitable for not-particularly-foul-weather conditions.

Needless to say, his lack of understanding of the appropriate gear both baffled us and made us dubious of his supposed skills and ballyhooed experience.

After he and I chatted one another up, he boldly asked if he could row the safety boat. The Skykomish was running somewhere within the vicinity of burly and unpleasant. Even under the best of circumstances, I rarely allow anyone to be in charge of my fate on - what I consider - serious white water.

But, for some inexplicable reason, I capitulated. No doubt begrudgingly.

We launched on the South Fork of the Skykomish and after an uneventful, predominantly dry, definitely smooth ride, the four of us were standing on boulders on the right bank of an angry-looking section of river appropriately enough called Boulder Drop.

Three hundred yards or so of mesmerizing currents, exploding waves and intimidating hydraulics. Three hundred yards requiring several decisions, a few maneuvers and poor odds that nothing will go awry. Especially for non-self-bailing paddle rafts.

Especially at what, in the industry, we like to call “pushy” water levels.

Randy seemed undaunted. He was eager to dip his oars in Boulder Drop’s waters and experience the chaos firsthand.

I don’t remember his exact demeanor as we looked down upon what was - at the time - the nastiest bit of white water any of us ever wanted to voluntarily boat, but I am guessing it fell within the range of giddy to sublime. He reminded me of a determined rodeo cowboy preparing himself to take on the wildest stallion, or an ancient yoga master reciting the Bhagavad Gita while doing a headstand. In other words, even though this was his first gander at Boulder Drop, his pulse rate was rock steady.

Meanwhile, Scott and Mark put on a their best swagger. Beneath the bravado? I could only hazard a guess.

I queried Randy about his markers and route, found his response to be reassuring and steeled myself for what was surely one of the first times I ever dropped into this stretch of hellish white water without being in control.

Long story short - he made it look effortless.

In two shakes of a lamb’s tail (okay - how about. . . faster than I could tie a double fisherman's knot?) he was tucking the raft into a bit of calm water on the left bank downstream of the cascade. I couldn’t have been more impressed. We bobbed in the river’s intermittent pulse awaiting two paddle rafts brimming with youthful college students’ vim and vigor.

Mark led. We watched his raft plunge over a steep chute, get swallowed, recycled, flipped and then all we saw were seven bobbing hockey helmets.

Scott’s plunge produced the same result.

And - suddenly - we had, what we call in the industry, a “yard sale”. Boats, paddles, water bottles, bobbing hockey helmets attached to flailing bodies - all choosing varying courses through the remainder of the rapid. Needless to say, my adrenalin spiked. I grabbed every throw bag available.

Randy, on the other hand, could have been standing in line at the bank. He patiently waited as if he were at a stoplight.

As the first two swimmers approached, he rowed out, rescued them, then returned to the eddy. He darted back out to grab the next several. I threw throw bags to expedite the process. On the next pass we scooped up a few of the stragglers, ferried to the opposite bank and collected the rest.

With fourteen of us in the safety boat, Randy rowed into the main current and we began retrieving the detritus of a double flip - paddles and boats in particular - en route to our scheduled lunch stop a quarter mile downstream. Scott and Mark, like the good guides they were, swam to save themselves.

Somewhere, somehow in that quarter mile journey everyone was reunited with their crews and gear.

When we landed for lunch, it was clear a few of our guests were a tad shell-shocked. Most verged on hypothermia.

Once more, the white water cowboy from SoCal came to the rescue. He built a campfire, acted like everyone had just won a huge payout at Vegas and made sure no one was left to brood about their circumstances. It wasn’t genuine, but it was an Oscar performance, and it was precisely the response the frat boys required.

As time went by, Randy wore out his welcome, especially with the back rubs and all; however, on that day, he walked on water.

Trip of a Lifetime - Part 2

2016-01-10T12:08:00.002-08:00

(In my last post, myself and fifteen intrepid adventurers found ourselves up to our armpits in darkest Peru lashing down gear on six rafts at the put-in for a 24-day expedition down the Grand Canyon of South America - the Rio Maranon.)

So there we were. In a working gravel pit. Sweltering under the relentless onslaught of the equatorial sun while lashing gear for the next three weeks, and then some, onto our Chinese-manufactured, inflatable aircraft carriers.

We were as excited and giddy as a bunch of pigs wallowing in a mud hole. We were prepping to run a river in Peru!

Unfortunately, a slight hiccup in our river time bliss arose - nasty, ubiquitous, biting gnats. Easy - at first - to ignore, but only at your peril. Before long, we noticed our calves, ankles and hands were swollen, or in the process of swelling, from bites. On the fortunate side, the learning curve was steep. It did not take long for us to learn you had to wear protective clothing from dawn to dusk in combination with repellent.

Long sleeves, long pants. Check.

Pants tucked into socks. Check.

Socks whether you were wearing shoes or sandals. Check.

Neck gaiter. Check.

We further learned, when journeying to the latrine, you had to coat your backside with repellent, or pay the price in blood and bites.

“Some camps MAY have biting insects.” the website read. As the trip wore on (and never has ‘wore on’ been more apt), we decided that phrase should be amended to read, “Biting insects are ubiquitous, rapacious and incessant, especially in September and October. Prepare accordingly.”

I itched so badly at night I was forced to pop Benadryl every evening before bed for two weeks straight.

The website also forewarned about intestinal issues being likely to occur and sanitation was not to be taken lightly. On a river trip, I have never taken sanitation issues lightly but - apparently - I had never encountered a river more likely to give you diarrhea.

Bleach was mandatory in every dish washing basin. In our hand washing station. In our filtered water. Vegetables needed a light bleach bath. Ideally, a light bleach sauté nightly may have proved prophylactically beneficial.

Even so, most of our team members fell ill. Some of us more than once over the course of three weeks. It was not necessarily a debilitating illness, just local ‘bugs’ that caused many of us to stagger stoically to the bathroom a half dozen times in the morning only to emit stools the consistency of milkshakes. Stools in vivid colors, ranging from your run-of-the-mill brown to exotic tinctures of orange and yellow.

I don’t know with certainty about everyone else, but I had what is known in impolite company as “Hershey squirts” for the entire journey. And twice I felt nauseous for a substantial portion of a day. One evening my nausea was so caustic I felt I was going to fart, shit and vomit simultaneously. Acid reflux was thrown into the mix as well.

But in the end, the coup de grace was the towns and never feeling as if I was “getting away from it all.”

The trip’s midsection included a half dozen villages or towns. With the towns - though seemingly necessary for resupply - you were capable of accessing the world wide web. In fact, phone service, at least within the country’s limits, was available up and down the river corridor. Though wonderful in many regards and circumstances, in my view it was anathema if you wanted to realize the full therapeutic benefit of river travel.

An antiquated sentiment in a brave new world.

The illness, the bugs and the sneaking suspicion that no matter how much hand sanitizer, bleach water and caution you used you were going to ingest some type of water borne contaminant, made it impossible for me to ‘be in the moment’. Made it impossible to forget the outside world.

My Peruvian adventure trip of a lifetime unraveled due to insatiable insects, rumbling bowels and a lack of a sense of being Out There.

The whitewater in the vernacular of our guide was ‘fun’ and ‘good’. In rudimentary translation, ‘challenging’ and ‘recommended scout’.

The scenic beauty was not epic, but it had its moments. The cacti, flocks of parrots, the miniature Redwall Cavern, the mango and coconut trees all deserve a mention.

The Peruvian people were the most welcoming people I have ever encountered. Their friendliness, openness and kindness can not be overstated.

The outfitter’s services - food, shuttles, accommodations, the gear and the guide were all top notch. The fact everything came together was a testament of tenacity.

Of course, my fellow travelers made all the difference. Even in my darkest hours in darkest Peru, I loved the fact I was with THIS group of people. Their spirit was indefatigable. Their spirit never broke.

No braying donkeys. . . no crowing roosters. . .no swarm of niggling gnats could destroy their spirit or dampen their enthusiasm to find the humor in episodic, nocturnal shit fits.

Or canyon hikes stifled by the equatorial sun and ending boxed in with nothing but a trickle of orangish, mining contaminated water. Or weak coffee, tasteless beer or tepid water.

As a rafting group, we set the time record for lining, portaging and running the notoriously dangerous Wasson’s Slide. The cherry we placed on top was we also negotiated the fearsome boulder-choked gorge without losing anything of significance. Apparently an uncommon occurrence for groups of clumsy rafters.

Even though the most pollyannaish were acting like gloomy Guses, every once in a great while, we reveled in the occasional refreshingly clear stream, sometimes accompanied by a series of waterfalls or cleansing pools.

A couple of end-of-the-day parties rivaled any blow out on any Grand Canyon trip.

In the end, the river trip of my lifetime failed my expectations, but it did leave me with an indelible impression and ample tales of my time in darkest Peru.

Trip of a Lifetime - Part 1

2016-01-03T16:14:00.002-08:00

Two winters ago an article I read in American WhiteWater magazine struck a chord with my sense of adventure. Resonated with my alter ego.

The alter ego not married to the couch. The alter ego which still has a hankering for a dosage of adrenaline. (Though the dosage is - admittedly - getting smaller.) The alter ego who imagines himself as one of the most interesting men in the world. (“Whose passport requires no photograph.” “Who won a staring contest with his own reflection - Dos Equis.” You need to know the commercial to appreciate the reference.)

The article was written about one of the major tributaries of the Amazon. Possibly even the actual source tributary for the Amazon, according to the article’s author. It was the Rio Marañon. The Grand Canyon of South America was how the article touted it.

And it was - in the immortal words of Paddington Bear - “in darkest Peru.”

How dark? I couldn’t have guessed or imagined by reading the article. But the story fired my imagination because it was a river that could be rafted for 24 days. Even longer if you went into the jungle regions. Even longer than that if you wanted to head down the Amazon. However, for 500 kilometers, it was a river that meandered and dashed through canyons comparable to the grandest of all canyons.

And - better still - it was a river that would not require a herculean effort because the author of the story about the Rio Marañon was also an outfitter who outfitted Marañon trips. All I would need to do would be to rally enough boaters to fill out our exclusive ‘trip of a lifetime’. The outfitter would provide the rest, including a Spanish-speaking, English-comprehending guide. All for a price similar to a private Grand Canyon-outfitted river trip.

The rallying began in earnest and, before I learned too much to turn back, I found myself on an international flight to Lima, Peru, with three packed duffles of river gear and 15 party members to follow with their own small hills of gear in tow.

I get stoked about rafting and wilderness and the outdoors for all kinds of reasons.

Floating a river is the closest I ever get to being spiritual. I get high from the ‘flow experience’, and I am not referring to the river’s flow. Flow is being so in tune with your surroundings that you lose yourself in the moment. It is as if the molecules in your universe are in exquisite agreement, and you are dancing with those molecules in perfection. You become the molecular equivalent of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire.

Seamless. Synchronized. Flawless.

The world you left behind is completely tuned out. It’s just you, the river, the boat, the oars and the elements. Everything that means anything is in your mind’s eye or, actually, in sight. It is the ‘flow experience’ and every athlete knows of which I speak. In fact, it happens with any activity with which you have become intimate. Writing, pottery, oratory, horseshoes. . .

Rhapsodic ‘flow experiences’ only happen periodically. In my case, predominantly with whitewater, when my concentration is naturally at its peak.

A lesser version of it, but still transcendental in nature, far broader in scope and the main reason I set off down rivers, is my overall experience of being detached from all the cares, responsibilities and worries that plague us all during our daily existence.

To put it succinctly, I leave all the mental baggage - eventually - behind. And this is every bit as magical as it sounds.

No rocket science degrees are required. Take portrait pictures of all the participants of a 24 day river trip on every fourth day, and I guarantee you will see the weight of the world disappearing with each photographic session. I live, breathe and sermonize about the wonders of a river trip for that particular reason, as well as the incredible feeling you get when you realize the group you are living with day in and day out has begun to coalesce.

Esprit de corps is an equally potent elixir that doesn’t follow automatically with every raft trip, yet when it does, coupled with those other two experiences, feelings, transcendental planes of existence, however you want to refer to them, you have - as far as I am concerned - the closest thing to nirvana on earth.

Which brings me back to Peru. And the Rio Marañon.

When dawn broke on the morning of our put-in, we awoke to another seductive river in another seductive canyon, but this time, we were in Peru!

The sinuous river tumbled down from points unknown to us in the Andes hemmed in by imposing canyon walls. What we heard was that, unlike our “mandatory portage” at Wasson’s Slide on Day 8, upstream there were dozens of mandatory portages. Rio Maranon was, to date, a river untamed.

Though sadly destined to be impounded and much of the adjoining countryside inundated with a series of hydroelectric dams. Which was one reason we chose to come to one of the darkest corners of Peru. We were to witness it first hand and then help spread the word back home.

Our launch site was near the confluence of two rivers. On our journey from the town of Huaraz, a jump off point for international mountaineering expeditions, we stopped to tour the ruins of Chavin de Huantar. Our passionate tour guide, Esteban, was also a shaman and was not unfamiliar with the medicinal and ceremonial values of San Pedro cactus. He told of us times he was transformed into a jaguar and wandered the grounds of the temple late at night.

But even more interesting was the significance of the Orion constellation to the Chavin culture. On the temple’s grounds there were reflecting huacas, indentions scooped out of huge, stone slab, that mirrored the Orion constellation. Our shaman guide, Esteban, blessed our trip.

All in all it felt like an auspicious beginning to our trip.

(To be continued.)

Not the Sharpest Tool in the Raft Shed

2015-12-27T11:59:00.001-08:00

The first time I rowed a raft was on the Rogue River. Come to think of it, the very first time I rowed - anything - was on the Rogue River.

Thirteen kayakers led by a WWU professor hired me to haul their cargo on a week long trip. But there was one glitch - I was a paddle guide. I had no idea how to row. What I knew about rowing you could put on the back of a matchbook cover.

But it was an offer I couldn’t refuse for two reasons. It was the Rogue River made famous by Zane Grey, the pulp fiction western writer, and by guide books claiming the Rogue harbored one of the country’s ten biggest rapids.

More importantly, the kayakers were paying me five hundred dollars for the week.

I saw no reason to dissuade them of their offer, or mention my deficiency. I set about building an oar frame out of knotty pine purchased at the local lumber yard.

I found a blueprint for a rudimentary frame in a river running handbook. I wisely, and assiduously, countersunk the bolts binding the planks together. I coated the planks with layers of varnish. I purchased oar stands and meticulously attached them in the best anatomical position for my height and inseam.

The trouble was, I procrastinated on constructing the frame just long enough to leave no opportunity to test my skills. Add to that the fact that what I knew about the Rogue River could have easily been added to the back of that matchbook cover detailing what I knew about rowing.

Besides, what could go awry?

I was familiar with oarlocks, but what I was accustomed to seeing on oar boats in Utah was a system called ‘oar rubbers’. Essentially, rectangular strips from a tire hose clamped, on each end of the rubber strip, onto each oar. The pin on the oar stand could be shoved between the strip of tire and the oar and, finally, capped with a plastic knob. The knob prevented the oar from popping off the pin and provided a smooth, round surface instead of a potential impaling rod.

Ingenious.

Cheap, too.

Practical? Not at all.

You couldn’t rotate or ‘feather’ your blades. You couldn’t pull the oars across your body to ‘ship’ them on board. You couldn’t adjust in any direction.

But one positive feature was you also couldn’t - easily - lose the angle of your blade or have the oar pop off unexpectedly in mid-stroke.

In any case, I knew no better.

Overnight gear for fourteen people on a sixteen foot raft for a five day river trip was bad math. To be honest with you, I have no recollection of how it all fit together, or how I managed to strap it down. Especially since the only knots familiar to me were the half hitch and the bowline.

I probably used a plethora of straps in a spider web configuration.

Due to my experience paddle guiding, reading rivers was second nature. That knowledge and skill set sufficed from the put in at Graves Creek, around Rainie Falls, over Upper Black Bar Falls and through the turbulent Mule Creek Canyon without mishap.

But just past Mule Creek Canyon’s narrows was the crux rapid - Blossom Bar.

Once upon a time, Blossom Bar was boulder-choked and unnavigable. That was before boatbuilder Glen Wooldridge, a pioneer of the Rogue who was the first to navigate it from the town of Grants Pass to the Pacific Ocean, decided to dynamite it.

Our leader signaled me to eddy out. As we scanned the quarter mile of white water pocked with immense boulders and dubious channels, I remember he remarked how it was not uncommon to witness gear boats from the commercial outfits get wrapped on the part of Blossom Bar called “The Horn”.

The crux move within the crux rapid.

I still hadn’t admitted I was a greenhorn in terms of rowing. Maybe he suspected as much and figured, if he threw down the challenge gauntlet, my competitive nature, which, surely, he picked up on over the course of a week, would rise to the occasion. He did, after all, have a stake in my success. The fate of his and everybody else’s stuff was in my hands.

As we stood on the cliff, the kayakers picked their way through the chutes and drops. They spread out in the rapid loitering behind every boulder. They looked like they were having the time of their lives.

I returned to my overloaded boat, pushed off, settled behind the oars and locked my eyes on the path I had chosen along with the markers I needed to get me there.

I think I miscalculated how much room I had at the entrance. Or maybe I could not quite see over the hump of gear in the bow. My right oar jammed into the rocks at the apex of The Horn. I pulled with my right oar while pushing with my left oar in an effort to spin into the channel. My right oar suddenly felt free of all encumbrances including the oar stand itself. I mercifully swung backwards down the chute and flushed through. I’d line up for the next boulder in line and initiate the spin move again.

All of this with just one able oar.

In this manner, I cartwheeled through the remainder of Blossom Bar. As I caromed off and by each boulder - and there seemed to be dozens - a kayaker smiled and gave me a friendly wave. Blithely unaware I was totally out of control and his or her stuff was in mortal, imminent danger.

When Blossom disgorged me, I crabbed over to the lefthand eddy with the one useful oar and a death grip on the useless one. On inspection I discovered the reason why I rowed Blossom Bar with - effectively - one arm tied behind my back.

Instead of bolting the oar stands to the frame, I used wood screws. Lesson learned.

Dam River

2015-12-20T10:50:00.000-08:00

“So, this is how it is going to end,” I thought.

Ironic.

Steelhead Falls - Lower White Salmon - low water

It appeared I was to be the first drowning fatality on one of my company’s outings. After all these decades. Nothing sobering about it. I was already as sober as a church deacon. I was being flushed through an unfamiliar gorge toward an uncertain ending. My thoughts as incurious as a heifer facing her demise.

I can’t define irony but I know it when I am experiencing it.

It was only moments before I was masterfully in charge of my raft and three powerful, experienced paddlers. We were wending our way downstream on the Lower White Salmon, marveling at the changes since Condit Dam’s removal. The dam had plugged the river for quite some time, and was now meticulously deconstructed and effectively vanished. Videos immortalizing its vanishing act were viral internet sensations amongst the conservation crowd.

Time lapse photography. Aerial cameras, perhaps drones, observing the destruction of the obstacle that had been put in place in order to control both the river and the environment. Bloggers remarking and pontificating. Social media erupting into a tempest of huzzahs, figurative back slaps and congratulatory comments.

For the last century - in America - we plugged up rivers as if tourniquets were the cure for every ailment. But in the modern age, we’ve realized that “if your only tool is a hammer then every problem looks like a nail.”

We stand on the precipice of a new age. And dams are no longer - in this country anyway - looked upon as the only answer. Time to try a tool other than a hammer.

So, I wanted to see the Lower White Salmon unleashed from the confines of Condit Dam. I heard through the river running grapevine there was white water and wood and a rapid where the former dam once stood. But nothing I heard rose to the level of ‘Alarming’ according to my finely honed sense of white water conservatism. In other words, I was blithely under-informed as to the character of the river before I found myself thrashing about in its chilly waters as if I was being sucked down a sewer pipe in an unexpected flash flood.

To be clear, we had ample opportunity to be better informed. We were fresh off our annual guide training course. So, even though it was the very beginning of a new season, the fourteen paddlers in four rafts were armed to the teeth with experience, the finest gear professional deals can buy and a whole week to limber up.

At a bar the evening before, we collected beta from a friend who guided the White Salmon and who rafted the lower stretch several times since the dam was removed. The discussion centered on the Class V drop - Steelhead Falls - at the old dam site. But all agreed it would be a mandatory portage since it kicked off a narrow gorge which was known to include a random log or two.

Talk included the nature of this falls. The height. The width. The surliness of its nature. The chasm it protects. How it captures rafts like belly buttons trap lint.

The bar banter was all ‘sturm und drang’. Anxiety generated for anxiety’s sake. We planned to portage.

To portage, we would have to grab a micro eddy upstream and then walk the rafts to the falls. While holding tightly to the bowlines, clinging to ropes imbedded in the cliff wall on the left bank, we intended to line the rafts over Steelhead Falls.

All was good in theory. Except, when we reached the busy, challenging water above the chasm and the falls, it became instantly clear we were not going to be able to eddy out. The current was too swift. The eddies too tiny. The hydrologic features leading up to the river wide reversal too protective and likely to spin us out of control at the precipice of the falls.

I watched as the lead boat - way past the point of no return and way too far right - plunged over the horizon line and disappeared.

No dramatic breaching like a whale. No spectacular inflatable back flip. Just gone. Out of sight.

I urged my crew to paddle and worked the raft to the river’s left side. If I was going to run Steelhead Falls blind, I wanted the best possible position to succeed. However, when we arrived at the brink of the falls and stared down into its frothing maw, we saw our lead raft blocking most of our path.

I shouted numerous profanity-laced commands in quick succession and braced for impact. I was hopeful - for a split second. The boat, with Neil and Craig in the bow and Dane on my left, surged forward. But, as a guide, you know when the odds are not bending in your favor. You know when the river calls the shots.

I felt the raft shudder to a halt. Watched Dane and Craig get siphoned overboard, and just as I reached for a handhold to clamber toward the rising downstream tube, Rivers’ raft, the third in line, cascaded on top of us. Without a handhold, I had no chance of staying on board.

Once I was over board, I was engulfed by the turbulence of the falls, shoved momentarily up against the floor of what I assumed was my raft, and then regurgitated downstream like a leaf in a flooding gutter.

So there I was. Thinking morbid thoughts, sucking water, struggling to keep my head above the waves and flailing about with my arms in search of current going anywhere but downstream.

To no avail. Worse still, white water loomed ahead.

“So, this is how it is going to end. . . .” I was drained of my stamina and exhausted.

“James!”

The next thing I knew I was yarded on board an upright raft by either Robert or Tom, or both, and they paddled us to safety.

Irony, I supposed, would have to wait until another day.

A Most Unlikely Candidate

2015-12-13T14:54:00.000-08:00

The call came in the dead of winter. It was a Seattle winter; therefore, instead of layers of snow blanketing the ground, or biting Arctic air knifing through your thickest, down jacket, there was a dismal grey light coming through the window and the streets glistened with rain. Any phone call was a welcome distraction.

His voice sounded young, his questions were many and he spoke in the laconic parlance of surfers. Or, in his case, a snowboarder.

He wanted to know about rafting and, specifically, guide training. He hailed from Baltimore and was working his way westward. That winter, he was a “liftie” at Schweitzer in the panhandle of Idaho. A Democratic governor with a penchant for Krispy Kreme donuts and blue dresses had just been elected president and - frankly - anything seemed likely.

Even so, I was dubious.

A snowboard punk thousands of miles from home, unfamiliar with the Northwest, expecting to land in Seattle and earn a living guiding! What were his odds, I wondered? I fielded his questions, promised to send the information about guide training, and promptly filed it away in that sliver of your brain reserved for useless detritus destined for the trash bin.

Except to relate the story later to a few friends and my partner about this teenager from inner city Baltimore, who said ‘dude’ more often than not, and planned on driving to Oregon in March to freeze his ass off learning to guide a raft.

A week or two later a check arrived covering the cost of his training. The itinerant snowboarder called once again to see if it would be all right if he crashed at the warehouse the night before the seven-day river trip that kicks off guide training.

I didn’t see why not.

The warehouse was an outbuilding behind a farmhouse on acreage in a rural part of King County. His presence would alarm absolutely no one. In any event, I remained skeptical of his attendance. Potential trainees backed out at the last moment numerous times in the past. The likelihood of this character showing up seemed as far-fetched and remote as the dark side of Jupiter.

However, on the morning of our departure, I pulled into the drive at the warehouse and noted a road-weary Ford Bronco tucked against the side of the building. I opened the warehouse and started rummaging about in the gear. The instructors and some students arrived and the quiet morning began to give way to bustling activity. The inhabitant of the truck had not yet stirred and with every passing minute my curiosity grew exponentially.

When he finally emerged from the back end of the dust-caked, previously blue truck with the Maryland license plates, he was just as goofy and young as I had imagined. A ponytail reached to the middle region of his back but, for having spent the night curled in a ball in his vehicle, he was tidy in every way. In fact, his jeans looked freshly pressed. He pulled a weathered Baltimore Orioles cap partway down his forehead and sauntered up to introduce himself.

“Hi. I’m Kook.” he croaked. His smile was charming, off-putting and mischievous all at the same time.

But, with that hello, the legend commenced.

Only a teenager, but unlike most teenagers I’ve encountered, Kook was on a mission. A fellow ski bum spoke to him of guide training and, even though he had never been rafting with no idea how to swim, he was undaunted.

Now, I would be lying if I told you he excelled. I would be lying if I told you he displayed any sort of promise.

He persevered. He entertained us with his notorious, ass-wiggling, ass-slapping, ass-exposing ‘Kook dance’. He gave effort. At the end of the four weeks, he volunteered to do whatever to secure employment.

One of Orion’s veteran guides offered him a mother-in-law apartment in his basement in exchange for yard work. Meanwhile, Kook made himself indispensable by offering to work odd jobs around the warehouse, repair gear and serve river trip lunches. All the while he continued to gain experience on the river awaiting his debut as a guide.

It was during this time when, as the lunch person on the Wenatchee River, he responded to Governor Gardner’s query as to how he had come to be here with this memorable, guileless, innocent remark, “I drove my truck, dude.”

Kook was one of a kind. It took him a long time to hone his river running skills, but, in the meantime, his sense of humor as well as his rafting foibles kept us entertained.

Like the time he was caught in a hydraulic feature in a raft on the Skykomish and he was beseeching the river gods - out loud for all to hear, “Please let us go, please let us go, please let us go.”

Or the time he was tossed into the turmoil near the bottom of Boulder Drop. As he floated toward rescuers in the eddies below, he raised his paddle straight overhead - the universal distress signal for Swimmer - as if the dozen boaters with rescue lines might have not seen him.

Or the time he cheated Lava Falls so far left he beached his boat on a small boulder near shore. When we went to discuss his predicament, yelling and gesticulating from the left bank, we realized, Kook was seated to row in the opposite direction of what would - normally - be customary. Though clearly rattled by the powerful forces arrayed before him, once freed from the obstacle, he rowed safely to the bottom of the rapid.

Kook guided intermittently for nineteen seasons. Somewhere during that time, he graduated from a culinary arts program having learned to be both cook and pastry chef. He even earned his commercial bus drivers license. He continually redefined ‘indispensable’.

Our inveterate dog paddler, who came to be here by driving his truck, even, eventually, learned the crawl stroke.

The American Rafting Association

2014-11-21T11:39:00.000-08:00

By my estimation, I have trained over 600 river rafting guides in my lifetime. A majority of them under the auspices of my rafting company, Orion Expeditions, Inc., informally known these days for search engine purposes as Orion River Rafting.

I have a very clear idea of the skills someone needs to become a successful river rafting guide. After all, I provide the training in order to meet my company's needs for a river staff every season. My employees must be an extension of me. I need to feel comfortable giving them the responsibility to escort the general public down a variety of white water rivers.

When the state of Washington opted to look into white water rafting operators in the mid-90s - in response to tragic deaths during a rafting season - I chose to get involved along with a number of other prominent outfitters to head the legislature off at the pass from enacting onerous and unnecessary rules and regulations. It was clear, due to the tragedy, they were in the mood to go overboard, or choose the path of least resistance and merely use an example state's existing regulations, like Idaho, as a template.

In my opinion, this was 'throwing the baby out with the bathwater'. Washington's boating community, especially the outfitters, were already exceptionally attuned to safety. Outfitters provided all the essential white water accoutrements to their guests - wetsuits, wetsuit boots, helmets where called for. Guides carried extra clothing. Boats had rescue lines and throw bags and spare paddles. No one boated alone. The outfitters who catered alcohol in the early days were no longer in business.

In other words, most outfitters were ahead of the game and extremely safety conscious. The colder waters of Washington state really compelled us to do so. So, after weeks of haggling with the state legislature, we earned the right to create our own in-state version of licensing and drew up the law to regulate our livelihoods.

Now, enough time has passed and the industry has matured and there are national voices seeking to streamline river rafting guide training.

I don't have a problem with that. . . except for one thing. I want my guide training to be grandfathered in without my having to get certified by an outside organization. After several decades of training guides, I feel my company has earned that.

But to be on the safe side, since this movement seems to be inexorable, I, along with members of my instructor staff, who also have decades of experience training guides, are creating the American Rafting Association. We will decide the protocol. We will certify guide trainings, instructors and programs. We have the experience and gravitas to do so. Perhaps more so than any other organization attempting to fill the void.

If you have a guide training program you would like for us to certify, drop us a line. We are not looking to profit from this. We are just trying to get out in front of the parade and not be left behind to clean up the elephant dung and have to pay to do so.

If you want to be a member, contact us. Membership is free.

We are looking to build a safer white water community and more knowledgable, safety-conscious guides without numerous monetary and time-consuming hurdles.

River Rafting Lessons We Learned from the Gauley River

2014-01-30T11:46:00.002-08:00

River Rafting Lessons from the Gauley

Sixteen Orion River Rafting guides trekked cross country in a revitalized school bus last September to test their skills on one of the premier white water rivers to be found anywhere in the world - the Gauley River in West Virginia. The Gauley River, dam-controlled and administered by the National Park Service, offers two sections of river to whet your white water appetite which are not-so-cleverly known as the Upper and the Lower. The Upper reach of the Gauley, which sports five noteworthy drops, was the section where we spent four lengthy days recreating and - ultimately - getting schooled.

Here is what we learned:

Never underestimate the kindness of strangers. Whether it was the kind-hearted campers at the put-in who welcomed our oversized rig to crash their party or the boaters strewn throughout the river offering encouragement and advice or the acquaintance of one of our party who was willing to take time out on a Friday to show us all the well-worn, white water routes, we found nothing but people willing to give. It certainly made our stay more comfortable.

Constant water levels are your friend. Unlike many dam-controlled rivers I have encountered, when they say “dam-controlled” on the Gauley, they mean water levels that remain constant for hours and days. Once you are familiar with the set water level, you know - pretty much - what the river is going to do at any given point along the way. At the least, you know exactly how much rock will be exposed, exactly how big the wave will be and just how the ‘sticky’ the reversal will be.

Back country roads in West Virginia are hell. Even though the Gauley is one of the most popular rivers in the world, and even though it is administered by the National Park Service, the roads in and out of its egress sites are narrow, rutted, pocked with boulders large and small and hell on a one-time 48 passenger school bus. Just try getting lost on one to really learn how hellish they can be.

When difficult white water is not also frigid more fun can be had. I wouldn’t say the waters of the Gauley were warm, but they were nothing like the snowmelt, glacier and cold rain fed rivers of the Pacific Northwest where neoprene is fashionable deep into summer. I am a cold water wuss due to my Southern roots, but even I relaxed a notch in the temperate waters of West Virginia.

Even dam-controlled rivers can surprise you. There is an air horn near the launch site for the Upper Gauley which is operated by the Army Corps. The Army Corps are responsible for the dam. The purpose of the air horn is to alert boaters and anyone along the banks of the Gauley downstream of the dam that there is going to be a sudden rise in the water level. It still surprised us on one of our two run days but, fortunately, it merely made for a better tale to tell.

Don’t let the local white water boaters egg you on to do something stupid. The attitude of white water boaters on the Gauley is schizophrenic. On the one hand, they are highly cognizant that a majority of the rapids on the Gauley, both Lower and Upper, are dotted with undercut rocks which are especially hazardous to swimmers. On the other hand, “cash for trash”, meaning tips are better when rafts unload guests, is a definite rallying cry and guides bored with the ‘safe’ routes tend to opt for style over safety (assuming the undercut rocks are as ubiquitous as they claim).

Due to opting for style over safety in the terminal Class V rapid - Sweet’s Falls - partly in response to the local peer pressure, we wound up parking a raft permanently in the middle of the falls and then having to abandon it because it was draped over a boulder midstream. At least that was an easier lesson to learn than having someone in the raft, or several someones, seriously hurting themselves, or worse.

The white water of the Upper Gauley River was everything we had hoped it would be and, as a bonus, we came away with a few lessons firmly planted in our minds and only a small dent in our pride.

the backeddy / 11.8.13

2013-11-08T10:21:00.003-08:00

the backeddy 11/8/13

“Where the World is Always Coming to a Beginning”

Wrap Up of 2013

Trust me, the title pun was unintended.

If you have been following posts and threads on Orion Guides Facebook page over the last month and a half, you will know exactly what I mean. It has to do with West Virginia, a rock called Dildo and an unfortunate mishap. Apparently, the saga ends with the NPS lowering the river to 400 cubic feet per second in order to retrieve the erstwhile rock-condom before it became part of the geology. In any case, the journey to the Gauley River was a fitting denouement to a very successful river season.

We had fun and it gave us some perspective. What more could you ask?

Guide Training

The previous season's guide training found us in the uncomfortable role of outlaws caught red-handed on the Deschutes with too few toilets set up, too few kitchens for too many people, improper disposal of driftwood and - unbeknownst to any of us - training our newbies to 'trench'. Consequently, this past season, we scheduled training to coincide with the Spring Breaks of both WWU and UW and braced for a low turn out and miserable weather conditions.

Lo and behold, the turn out was exemplary and the dreaded polar-like storms never struck. In 2013, there would be no snowfall during the River Olympics. And, as it turns out, rangers are nowhere to be seen on the Deschutes at the end of March. I guess they have better places to generate an income. . .

Outdoor Adventures

For the first time ever, Orion and Outdoor Adventures teamed up to offer a joint Guide Training program. We combined staffs and students and - as far as could be determined - the end result was beneficial to both companies. Ever since Bill Corson and his family took over Wave Trek’s rafting enterprise on the Skykomish, he and I threatened to link our guide trainings together. in 2013, we finally followed through on that threat.

For those of you too new to appreciate the connection, Bill and Blair Corson were the first father and son to attend our spring training simultaneously - don’t ask me to remember what year it was, but I would guess in the early oughts or late nineties. Beginning there, they proceeded to thoroughly invest their time and energy and future in building their own thriving and reputable outdoor adventure company.

Snowpack and Runoff

The 2012 white water season was remarkable for its consistent water levels throughout the summer. Remarkably, many new guides who worked consistently through the 2012 season never saw the Wenatchee below 5000 cubic feet per second. This was because, due to the perfect storm of meteorological factors, rivers maintained a high water flow into early August.

I mention this now because we hoped - beyond all hope, as it turns out - that with the lofty 2013 snow pack we might get a similar ride. Unfortunately, some of the factors present in 2012, were absent in 2013. For instance, summer did not arrive in 2012 until early July. Not only was its arrival earlier this year, but we had a heat wave for about a week in May. The heat wave brought the Wenatchee River up to burly levels for a week or two before settling down.

In fact, 5000 cubic feet per second showed up around Independence Day and, for the remainder of the season, Wenatchee guides got a taste of what it is like to outmaneuver rocks and -really - entertain our guests. To our staff’s credit, they managed the low water well and continued to deliver an entertaining and safe service to our guests.

Groupon

Year Four of the Great Groupon Experiment and, once again, the reviews are mixed. The positives continue to outweigh the negatives however - guides are getting constant work during the season, equipment is being more fully utilized than in the past, the pre-payments are a plus for the company bank account, not all Groupons sold get used (about 2/3rds follow through) and our name recognition receives a significant boost.

On the negative side, the profit margin is reduced, discounters tend to remain discounters and people looking for a deal are slightly more of a headache than typical customers.

In 2013, due to some kind of software glitch with our online third party reservation system, I was unable to program it so that Grouponers could book online with their Groupon codes. The upshot was that all of those Groupon purchasers needed to contact the office in order to book their river trip. All 3100 of them!

Consequently, I spent WAY more time in the office than I ever have - including weekends. As it turns out, fielding hundreds of calls from novice river users and answering dozens of unique questions was a ‘positive’. Most buyers of Groupon deals are completely unfamiliar with our service. Being available to answer their questions, not to mention being available to put out all the fires that happen normally during a season with both guides and guests, was an enormously positive outcome.

In any event, all indicators point to a fifth year of Groupon guests. My plan is to keep tinkering with this thing until we get it right. Or until Groupon goes the way of the brontosaurus, whichever comes first.

Real Guests

Not that we have any ‘virtual’ guests but, other than our discount shoppers, we do service nearly 3000 guests who pay something much closer to our ideal rate. Some of these guests are long-time clients (we even have a couple of regular Season’s Pass holders - aka our ‘professional’ paddlers), some are reliable annual youth groups, like Wilderness Ventures or the Pacific Science Center.

In 2013, we attracted more wedding parties, bachelor and bachelorette parties and family reunions. People seem to be finding us through our web site, the Leavenworth Chamber of Commerce (and their web site) and rack cards distributed regionally. Of course, word-of-mouth, due to having a stellar staff doing a stellar job is still the number one means of maintaining our customer base.

This coming season, we are starting, once again, with a bang since Overlake School, Lakeside School and Chelan County have contracted with us for multiple Deschutes trips in early April. We even have an adult multi-day Deschutes trip pre-booked for May. A bachelor party as far as I know.

Near Death Experience

On June 11th, at the conclusion of Western Washington University’s annual Recreation Program Methow River trip, while wrangling a stack of inflatable rafts on one of our flatbed trailers, I fell from the top of the stack backwards after a bow line snapped and met the box truck’s bed on my way to the ground. Somehow, I managed to impact the bed with the only portion of my anatomy that could absorb the blow without significant damage. Of course, this is assuming you do not consider separated, or cracked ribs, as significant damage.

Incredibly, I did not break my back, cave in my head or damage fragile internal organs on my way to slamming the gravel parking lot. Fortunately, I was immediately surrounded by a gaggle of first aid trained raft guides. All of whom were ready to put their skills to use. From their perspective, my mechanism of injury did not bode well.

However, despite having the wind knocked out of me and my ribs rocked, I knew I had miraculously missed the most important parts of my body - head, spine and kidneys. Following the lead of Scott Teitelbaum, temporarily out of rafting retirement for some fun and sun, the guides kept me ‘down for the count’ until they fully assessed my ‘level of consciousness’, etc. A half hour later I was being driven to Wenatchee for an emergency room visit.

X-rays showed nothing obviously broken, though I understand cracked ribs do not always show up on x-rays. What was most remarkable, considering the fact that the pain of sneezing for the next month was damn near unbearable, was that there was no visible bruising on my back. And, only a a day later did I realize the first three knuckles of my right hand were severely aggravated and swollen. But, enough of my woes.

So, Who Is This Stellar Staff You
Speak Of?

I know if you are a guide from yesteryear the names and faces seem to change prolifically each season - if you are paying attention at all - and guides seem to be getting younger and younger.

A few of the guides you might wonder if they are old enough to be baby sitters, let alone responsible enough to captain an inflatable raft through white water with complete and utter newbies. You would be correct in both regards. The names and faces change every year and youth IS being served.

However, what you will be pleased to know, as one of the many keepers of the Orion flame, is that the quality of our guide recruits (which still predominantly comes from a vast network of former guides) continues to be as remarkable as ever. Recall those passages from the Old Testament in the Bible that go on and on with who ‘begat’ whom? Well, the same begatting has been going on now for the past 35 seasons.

Here is our Honor Roll from our 35th season:

Bekah Killeffer - Loyal Stevens Pass employee by winter, equally loyal and hard working Orion guide, Chumstick tenant and Jill-of-all-trades by summer. Customers snap to attention when Bekah speaks whether it be by phone or in-person.

Kris Stemmler - Denizen and employee of the Mt. Baker Ski Area who appears at first blush to be a cross between Rowdy Yates and Kurt Cobain. He knows as much about meteorology and weather as Cliff Mass and is a rock solid guide and customer service rep. A ‘bouldering’ savant, I understand.

Alexander Martinez - Aka Xander, sartorially splendorous in the finest outdoor threads that guide pay can buy, excellent entertaining youth groups and a workhorse over the past few seasons guiding, managing and purchasing overnight meals on the Deschutes.

Elijah Countrywood - Eli, an electrician by trade, stepped up this summer to take on River Managing on both the Sauk and the Tieton, bringing to the job description his inimitable and laconic style. His contribution on the Tieton was especially appreciated due to the fact that hanging in Rimrock Retreat for three weeks straight can be stupefying.

Matt Simmons - Fortunately our in-house plumber has become adept at kayaking because it means he has more than one reason to make Leavenworth and the Chumstick Country Club home during the river season. Matt was part of the glue that kept the Wenatchee staff together and his ever-growing white water skills and calm under fire were needed occasionally.

Nancy Martella - Whoa! Didn’t she go through training in the 80s? True enough, but, besides her enormous contributions every spring during guide training, where she serves as our moral compass and touchstone to the oral history and purpose of Orion, this past season, after I went on injured reserve, she dropped everything she was doing and spent several weeks mentoring the guides at the CCC and shuttling guests. Chaos gets held in abeyance when Nancy comes around.

Rivers Moore - Stepped up his game this past summer by accepting greater responsibilities and shared river managing duties with Eli on the Sauk. If the name sounds familiar to old timers, it is because Rivers is one of our ‘legacy’ guides, the son of Ric. He’s a kayaker first and foremost, a rock star in the making, and an excellent lead guide.

Janelle Deane - President of the Washington Kayak Club, cheerful and energetic, she jumped right in to the fray, subbing in June on the Lakeside trips and quickly became indispensable. I was particularly appreciative of her willingness to take the reins on river managing the Skagit trips in August.

Sebastian Sherman - Forever to be known to us as “Sea Bass”, he seemed to have become lost on his way toward becoming a river guide for Outdoor Adventures and we were very happy to have him. Handy with tools and not befuddled by cars, he was a serious student and tireless worker.

Lucian Burns - Our claustrophobic sailor who volunteered to drive back and forth across the country in a school bus with thirteen humans and a dog. He actually trained with us in 2012, but having had enough of his stint in Houston, Texas, between the humidity and the imbeciles, he returned to the Northwest to try guiding for the summer. (I just made the imbecile part up.) Even though he dressed as though he was still in Texas, he logged numerous trips on the Wenatchee at all kinds of water levels.

Robin Thomas - One of our youngest staff members, but with a work ethic that would please a Latter Day Saint, she became an integral cog in the Orion wheel always ready to “fill-the-gap”. Records show she guided more than 20 days consecutively during the height of the season. Her stalwartness is already legendary.

Danielle Bartolomucci & Nicholas Sund - I had to lump these two together because, besides the fact that they are both Neil Comeau protégées, and besides the fact they became an “item” following (or during) Danielle’s guide training, they both trekked from Portland to Leavenworth throughout the season to help make sure we were always fully staffed. Their dedication and reliability was astounding and sorely needed. In other words, it was nice to have a “twofer” you could count on.

Jacob Rodan - Like Robin, fresh out of high school and one of the most unlikely of guides, but turned out to be an Iron Man in terms of white water stamina and displayed a remarkable rapport with guests. You underestimate Jacob at your own peril.

Of course, there were many more contributors, and I am deeply appreciative of each and every contribution that keeps a shoestring business like Orion alive, but these were the stalwarts. The ones who carried the torch week in and week out.

The Future?

Groupon.5 - of course, with a few modifications. A continued emphasis on rebuilding the Sauk program. Running the Wenatchee from Exit Drop down later in the summer to take advantage of the last of the waves. Less Skagit, more low water Wenatchee. Maybe try inflatable kayaks - again - for later in the summer.

Continue looking to be more ‘visible’ in Leavenworth. Make better use of our unlimited potential on the Deschutes. Improve the amenities at the CCC and figure out how to run a tighter ship out there. More fun river trips like the Gauley and the Lochsa.

As Jasper, our All-State, grain fed, good good-old-boy used to intone, “Never stop training.”

Going to Extremes

2012-11-27T14:25:00.003-08:00

Leavenworth, Washington

I first set foot on an inflatable raft in the '70s. It was a product of military surplus, but designed specifically for white water rafting. The bow was upturned to deflect and plow through waves, the fabric was neoprene reinforced by fabric and there were multiple chambers. Built by Rubber Crafters in West Virginia, it was one of the best river running crafts being manufactured.

Forty years later, we have inflatable rafts that are lighter and even more durable, self-bailing floors, urethane coating embedded with abrasive substances for better grip, foot cups, rafts that have uplifted kicks in the bow and the stern - basically - all sorts of technological and design advances. Catarafts, 'Creature' crafts and smaller, more maneuverable rafts are exploring and challenging white water rapids, and stretches of river, unimaginable twenty years ago. What's "possible" is getting extended every season.

Life jackets are better made as well as being more comfortable. Some are designed specifically for white water rescue purposes. Customer life jackets are light years ahead of the old Mae West, kapok jackets of the early days of river running and a few iterations better than the jackets with metallic clips that were prone to getting clipped onto a raft's safety line. Extra flotation, crotch straps and shoulder straps in addition to waist and chest straps.

: Top of the line rafts and gear in 1974.

Dry suits designed for water sports in general (wind surfing, surfing, diving, kayaking, as well as rafting) have become more affordable and more durable and more useable (drysuits of yesteryear would have been a nuisance to wear in a kayak or on a raft). Helmets, paddles, safety gear - everything river related has been upgraded, redesigned and improved. Like all outdoor activities reaching 'maturity' on an industry-wide level, the advances and various options can be mind-boggling.

In short, the sport has matured and with it the gear and the enthusiasts who dedicate their lives to it. White water adventurers are venturing into the outer reaches of what is possible and, with the advent of miniaturized video cameras and the broadband capabilities of the internet, all of us sitting in the comfort of our homes can vicariously experience these exploits. Film festivals, dedicated to envelope-pushing adventures, go on tour promoting death-defying adventure-seeking.

It is enthralling to watch these adventurers sallying forth well beyond my comfort zone. I like North Face's slogan, "Never Stop Exploring". Always admired the mountaineer George Mallory's explanation for climbing Everest, "Because it's there. . ."

But my concern as a commercial river rafting operator is that novice white water enthusiasts (our customer base) will fail to read the disclaimer that ought to be apparent ("Don't try this at home!"). Novices watch or read about these extraordinary endeavors and some are enthralled with the notion that is what they should aspire to. However, what's possible, in terms of white water, for those with training, dedication, passion and innumerable hours of expertise, is not suitable for the majority of our guests. What's possible for kayaks, catarafts and specially-designed white water crafts is - more likely - beyond the realm of possibility, if safety is your top priority, for commercial paddle rafts.

Our customer's safety, which has to be our foremost consideration, includes, as commercial river outfitters who take beginners for hire through Class III, IV and, occasionally, Class V, making the tough decisions about whether, on any given day, certain guests should tackle certain stretches of river. If guests come to us with a preconceived notion of what is 'possible', it strains our ability to make that always difficult choice.

And it is not just guests, commercial guides need to appreciate the difference between what it means to have commercial paying guests in your raft as compared to having hand-selected friends or other guides. The fine line we walk every time we launch out onto white water is the line between providing the safest trip possible for everyone in the raft while providing the most exciting trip possible for everyone in the raft.

Erring on the side of caution should be a no-brainer.

History of Orion River Rafting - Part 9

2012-11-21T16:44:00.000-08:00

Leavenworth, Washington

It was the beginning of a new decade. Michael, Paul and I were in our mid-twenties, essentially penniless, living hand-to-mouth. Each of us lived with our girlfriends in their rented houses or apartments. Michael's wife-to-be, Rosie, was somehow cajoled into allowing her second story two-bedroom apartment near Green Lake to become Orion's original Seattle headquarters.

At the time, I paid no attention to the Business section of the paper, but I was aware that America was suffering an economic malaise, or a hangover, from the oil shocks of the '70s. There was a question whether Americans would fork out perfectly good money for unnecessary luxuries like raft trips. Traffic was so light, it was possible to circumnavigate greater metropolitan Seattle in less than a half hour.

I distinctly remember the owner of Zig Zag River Runners, Jim Fielder, a quotable character with a mop of hair and a brushy beard, a six foot four philosopher lothario, state that he had read that during the Great Depression Americans spent more than ever on frivolous purchases and, in particular, for 'death-defying' rides on roller coasters. He had no doubt that raft trips would continue to be popular with the public and, indeed, he proceeded to book 10,000 corporate clients in the upcoming three-month season.

During the early years, Zig Zag was ubiquitous. Jet black cargo vans were everywhere with 'Zig Zag' magnified in white and sprayed across their sides like the mark of Zorro. Bus signs with colorful shots of rafters caught in a moment of whitewater ecstasy --- mouths agape, water splashing everywhere, huge grins and sunshine --- could be spotted all over town. And right beside the beautiful shot of beautiful people was 'Zig Zag' and their toll-free number. Zig Zag rented downtown office space on one of the top floors of the Terminal Sales Building across from the Virginian Inn and installed a bank of phones for their small army of persistent phone solicitors.

When asked where the name Zig Zag came from, Jim Fielder used to explain that he had always been an admirer of Crazy Horse, who was known to paint a distinctive bolt of lightning across his cheeks prior to battle. Fielder claimed his distinctive scrawled Zig Zag logo was reminiscent of Crazy Horse's markings. Of course, having such a memorable name, usually associated with the tobacco rolling papers, could also be seen as a promotional coup. I think Jim saw it as free advertising. A promotional bonus.

Since Zig Zag was noted for psilocybin mushroom float trips and skinny dipping on the Skagit, being associated with marijuana was not necessarily a negative. Rafting demographics was primarily baby-boomers with newly acquired disposable income who did much more than 'inhale' in the '60s and '70s. In other words, Zig Zag's public would not take umbrage to the association with marijuana or any other minor recreational drug.

Zig Zag's guides nicknamed themselves with monikers like "Bottomfish" and "Underwater John", or just "Crazy Ned", and they would hit the beach comparing notes regarding how many guests they had put in the water that day. The more swimmers, the better. 'Carnage' was not to be shied from and - in fairness to them - there are many places around the globe where river rafting is viewed as a glorified amusement park ride where customers are meant to provide entertainment for the guides.

Almost all of the names of the rapids and obstacles on the Wenatchee are attributed to Jim Fielder and Zig Zag --- Rock N Roll, Satan's Eyeball, Gorilla Falls, Drunkard's Drop, Snowblind, Granny's (Perhaps tellingly, 'Snowblind' was named for a book Jim enjoyed about the underworld of cocaine.)

While the Zig Zag juggernaut concentrated all of their efforts on generating business, and building a formidable, seemingly prosperous business, Orion made a conscious effort to be their antithesis.

We copied their sales tactics by targeting corporations' human resource departments and employee groups --- but we never hounded people with phone calls. We copied their classy swoosh-like corporate typeface --- but we weren't willing to pay thousands of dollars to a nationally known designer to create it. They didn't offer food --- we did. Their guides bragged about flipping --- we took pride in not having any swimmers, if possible, yet still offering a thrilling ride.

Jim Fielder was a master of self-promotion landing meaty newspaper articles on a regular basis and, to be fair, we rode his coattails. As Luke and the Jedi Knights were to Darth Vader, the rest of the rafting industry were to Jim Fielder in the early days. And just like Luke, if we hadn't fought the good fight against a worthy adversary, we wouldn't have been pushed to excel.

It wasn't the early '80s that I brainstormed the slogan "The Good Guides In The White Rafts" (at the suggestion of my father), but the imagery was directly connected to this ongoing adversarial relationship with Zig Zag.

'Good' versus 'evil'.

White, as in opposition, to black.

Safety first rather than entertainment first.

Or, for you Seattleite readers, Dick's Drive-In burgers versus MacDonald's.

Spring is the Best Time to Raft the Deschutes

2012-11-19T14:09:00.003-08:00

The season on the Deschutes River in north central Oregon is year-round due to dams that lie upstream from the prime overnight stretch that Orion River Rafting utilizes for its multi-day river trips. Unlike free-flowing and more notorious rivers around the West, the dam-managed Deschutes rarely fluctuates more than a foot or so in height throughout the year. Consequently, while many rivers in the western United States may be overflowing their banks in May, the Deschutes River is, more likely than not, flowing higher from the spring melt, but in no danger of flooding.

May and June are prime months for river rafting the Deschutes because the weather in eastern Oregon (east of the mountain ranges) is drier and warmer than the maritime coast to the west. Even so, the river is running higher than it will at any other time of the year, providing the maximum amount of excitement and adventure out of the numerous Class II+ to Class III+ white water rapids sprinkled throughout the course of the trip. July and August may have the heat of summertime in a high desert environment, but the months of May and June should be plenty warm without the crowds.

The scenic beauty of the basalt canyons are enhanced by the vibrant green lichen in the early spring and the lush green grasses on the hillsides. By July, the grasses will be a distant memory. The solitude of spring is also a primary reason to choose a river trip prior to the end of June, or before school is out across the Northwest.

Another reason to select a May overnight river trip date on the Deschutes is the ability to build campfires (contained by a firepan) and meals cooked by your guides out of Dutch Ovens. Dutch oven meals can make or break a river trip, and our guides excel in the art of cast iron cooking. On June 1st, a river wide fire ban goes into effect.

A family river rafting trip on the Deschutes River is an excellent choice any time of the year; however, if you have the luxury of opting for a spring time date, you will be pleasantly surprised at all of the pluses - enhanced white water, fine weather, fewer people, verdant landscape accompanying the basalt cliffs, a warming campfire each night and delectable baked meals from Dutch Ovens.

Showcasing the Tieton River

2012-09-05T11:03:00.004-07:00

Tieton, Washington

Labor Day has come and gone, the Seahawks are starting the football season, Seattle is in the midst of breaking a record for days without rain and - as I type these words - the Tieton River, a mere 30 minutes from Yakima, begins its annual white water rebirth. Why, you may ask, is there water sluicing down the red rock canyon on the east side of White Pass, while every other commercial rafting river in the state flows at a trickle?

The Tieton River owes its September existence to two factors: irrigation and fish. Irrigation needs place a demand on the river late in the summer and that is why, toward the end of August and the beginning of our 'Indian summer', the outflow from Rimrock Lake starts to escalate. But fish are the true driving force behind the September resurrection of one of the busiest Class III white water rivers in the Northwest.

Thanks to our government accommodating the needs of fish every year immediately after Labor Day weekend, white water enthusiasts have - at least - three weeks to get out and play on the busy, fun waters of the appropriately named Tieton River, which is said to be an Indian word for "roaring waters". The Tieton River includes a dozen or more boat-drenching rapids and innumerable sets of delightful waves. The best white water can be found between the dam and mile or so below Rimrock Retreat, Washington, with rapid names like Double Barrel, Dodge City, Grimy Gulch, High Noon and Waffle Wall.

Camping is rarely an issue on the Tieton River because 90% of the land appears to be Forest Service. Besides the half-dozen established campgrounds along the river, there are another half-dozen on Rimrock Lake and more primitive, undeveloped camp sites than can be counted. Call the Naches Ranger District (1-877-444-6777 ) in Naches, Washington if you are concerned about reserving a site or reserve online.

So, if your summer just flew by and you were unable to get out rafting, the Tieton River is your last chance for 2012 before the fall rains begin to inundate the region. Combine your 14 mile river trip with a leisurely drive through Mount Rainier National Park or a spontaneous visit to the wineries around Yakima. You can also drive up to the artist colony/town of 'Mighty' Tieton on the plateau above the river for a dose of creativity with jaw-dropping views of the Cascades.

River Rafting Testimonial II

2012-07-03T09:13:00.000-07:00

Leavenworth, Washington

Thanks to Jermaine for posting this thorough, descriptive review on Yelp. Jermaine is another one of our enthusiastic, authentic customers that Yelp filtered. I think the trouble with Yelp's algorithm is that it does not take into account the potential for an effusive review that a white water rafting trip is likely to produce. Jermaine was STOKED after his experience. Like Apple computer's early evangelizers, those who take their first journey down a river often emerge at the take-out with an "AHA!" look on their face.

Here is Jermaine's experience:

"I booked a trip with Orion River Rafting for the 28th of May, with no fear at all, not even thinking about our trip until about one week before the actual trip, then the fear started to set in on all that could go wrong on the water with me not being a strong swimmer. My wife was not afraid at all, that is until we got to the first white waters, then she got nervous. All my fear subsided once I got to meet all the cool people at Orion.

Our Whitewater Rafting trip begins!!!

My wife and I met up with Orion River Rafting at a Park in Cashmere WA at 1045 for the 1100 trip. (I suggest trying to be at the park 30-45 min before the show time. I tried to do this but it did not happen.) The directions they gave us made it easy to find them in the park, which was the meeting place for a lot of other outfitters in the area.

When we found Orion at the park, we got all of our instructions on getting ready, and on the things we needed to do, we also got our wetsuits, a very simple experience. Everyone at Orion was very organized and very friendly to everyone attending. From there we loaded a bus, and chauffeured 14 miles to Leavenworth WA, to another park, where we got to use the restroom, and finish getting suited-up for the trip, and took a short walk to the river where our rafts were waiting for us.

At the river's edge there we were giving our safety instructions from our guides Allen and Cher which were very clear and easy to understand. Matt another guide (which was not working that day) went with us and was really helpful in helping us out with our life jackets and getting us some practice with our rowing commands, and entering and exiting the water with the rafts. So all was well and we were off.

: It's all smiles and grins on the Wenatchee River near Leavenworth.

Everyone on my raft were first-timers except for one person (Matt). Our group included two couples and Matt, the off duty guide. From the starting point the view behind the guide is awesome, I think the best on the trip.

Our experience on the water.

The river was moving at 12,000 cfs so it was kinda fast. We would be drifting along in the calm beautiful peaceful waters, having good conversations, joking, taking in the sights, then we would hear the roar of the white waters in the distance getting louder and louder as we get closer, then before we knew it we hear the command from Allen our guide "Paddles Ready!"

Now it gets fun!

We look up and the first things we would see were two or more towering walls of water looking down on us surrounded by white water for 100-500 or so yards depending on the area of the river, with a dip just before each of the towering waves, some of them breaking at the peak. The breaking waves are the ones that usually get you splashed hard, and the smooth waves we usually just sail over them, sometime catching air, only to be splashed afterwards by the white water all around us.

Splash, splash, splash. up, down, up, down, big wave, turned around, wet, cold, wet, cold shocked by the cold water the entire time, then surprised we all made it through it. If you want to best seat on the raft, and you want to set the pace for the rowing of the raft, sit where I sat, on the front left side, or on the front right side of the raft. In these two places you will "as Allen put it," have a more intimate experience with the water.

In other words, you will be hit harder by the waves than any other person on the raft. (So much Fun!!!) Allen was awesome, he kept us from the major hazards he knew of on the river, I was not worried about any of the hazards on our trip. The guides knew what they were doing. Also everyone has to do their part, and keep the raft from the problems areas. With teamwork and the awesome guides you will without a doubt have a WONDERFUL Adventurous experience!!!

The price of the trip was worth every penny we paid for it. I am working on another trip with Orion with more friends for later this year.

Why I like Orion:
1st Their rafts has pockets for your foot, to help keep you in the raft.
2nd The lunch we had was very nice, enough for everyone, and a good variety of food.
3rd The guides are really experienced, and caring, Allen gave my freezing wife and another person on our raft his extra personal jacket to use to keep warm with.
4th They are very organized.
5th They really do keep everyone safe on the river.
This was class III+ waters, but the entire experience was nothing less than a Class V (inside joke)
Give Orion River Rafting a try you will really enjoy this company and their guides."

WE like to say that the Wenatchee River is a Class III river with a Class IV heart. Wenatchee's white water is EXACTLY what 95% of rafting guests are looking for when they sign up to go river rafting.

Raft the Wild, Scenic and Undisturbed Sauk River

2012-06-26T09:31:00.002-07:00

Less than an hour from downtown Seattle, undammed waters coursing off Glacier Peak and the surrounding wilderness, merge to form a river federally protected under the Wild & Scenic Rivers Act --- the Sauk River. In the morning, you could have an Americano at the original Starbucks and stroll Pike Place Market dodging flying fish and you could still make your launch time for this ten-mile dash through Washington's verdant back country.

: White rafts waiting for their good guides. . .

Between Whitechuck River and the struggling logging community of Darrington, the Sauk cascades between boulders worn smooth and round, and a forest draped with delicate, light-green club moss and carpeted with mosses in dozens of shapes and shades of green. The white water rafting is superb with active and challenging rapids that demand a guide's attention. Even the name's grab the guide's attention: Guide Trap, Alligator Hole, Jaws and Waterslide, and more than a half-dozen others.

The Sauk River is wild, scenic and --- for the most part --- undisturbed. The odds are you will be the only party rafting the river. The Forest Service limits the number of visitors who can raft the river and tourists overlook the natural beauty of this part of Washington in favor of drier climates. However, if you live in the northern half of Puget Sound, west of the Cascades, and you are looking for the best white water adventure possible for novice paddlers - the Wild and Scenic Sauk River is the finest option available.