LONG STORY SHORT By Kristine McGowan The river is in charge. That's the universal rule of whitewater rafting no matter where you are. From the big waves of the Colorado to the croc-infested waters of the Nile, the same rule applies: The river is in charge. Jason and I like rafting. Since 2017, we've run sections of 13 rivers around the world, five of them during this year alone. And before getting into a boat at the start of each trip, I remind myself of that rule—that I can do everything my rafting guide tells me to do, but at the end of the day, the river is running the show. I just have to hold on and hope it's in a good mood. On our trips from 2017 to 2022, we got lucky. The rivers we ran were all in good moods the days we met them. From the Merced River outside Yosemite to the Lütschine in Switzerland, none of them threw us overboard. Even the Colorado, which boasts some of the gnarliest whitewater in the world, didn't flip our boat during our 10-day trip down the southern half of the Grand Canyon. All that left us pretty damn comfortable. Seven rivers over five years, and we'd stayed in the boat the whole time? Crazy. We must be good at this, we thought. But this year, something changed. This year, the rivers we've met have been in less than perfect moods. They all took the universal rule of whitewater rafting to heart. And they slapped us in the face with it. Skykomish River, Washington We met the Skykomish back in April. We hadn't rafted in nine months, so we were stoked. Especially because this river boasts a Class-V rapid—the toughest but still runnable class of whitewater—which aren't all that common on commercial rafting trips. The rapid was named Boulder Drop, and it would come to haunt me. As of this writing, Boulder Drop is perhaps the most technical rapid we've run. As its name implies, several massive boulders shape the river into a haphazard stepladder here, churning the water into angry waves that roar over, around, and between the rocks. On our approach to Boulder Drop, our guide steered us into the rapid from one side of the river, allowing the current to zip us to the opposite bank. Waves towered on either side of the boat, and straight ahead, the first of the boulders waited for us, obscuring our view of anything else. As the rock drew closer, I expected our guide to somehow turn the boat away. Instead, he shouted, "Back paddle!" Everything happened fast. We paddled furiously and blindly—because now, we were sailing through the rapid backwards. Our guide zigzagged us through the waves, bouncing the boat off boulders and shouting commands over the thunder of the rapids. We couldn't see where we were. We couldn't see what was coming next. For the first time on a river, I thought: We might be screwed. Then Jason fell out of the boat. I panicked. Shouted. I thought he would be crushed between the boat and the next boulder. It was only after I pulled him back into the boat—my first rescue on a river—that I realized we'd reached the bottom of the rapid. No more boulders. The water slowed and quieted. Jason was safe. Still, I was shaking. Clackamas River, Oregon A couple weeks after running the Skykomish, we headed for the Clackamas in Oregon. It didn't turn out to be as rough, but this river still tried to take a bite out of us. Even before we arrived at the put-in, the Clackamas felt special. It was our tenth river, and this trip would be our first time rafting with my brother, Mat. So I was excited. I wanted to share my favorite way to experience the outdoors with one of my favorite people. But after the Skykomish, I was timid. After five years of rafting, a river had finally forced Jason to go swimming. I didn't want that to happen again. And I couldn't help wondering—when would it be my turn? Because it wasn't a question of if I'd go swimming anymore. It was a question of when. That when nearly happened on this trip. On the biggest rapid of the day, the Clackamas bucked our boat, and Jason and I bounced out of our seats. We barely managed to grab something—maybe the boat or maybe each other, I can't remember—before we both would have gone swimming. Later, my brother joked that he couldn't decide which one of us to save. Sure, I'm his sister, but Jason was sitting closer. We all laughed, me a little wobbly on my feet. But I still hadn't fallen out. Exploits River, Newfoundland It was June now. Almost two months since our last river. We were about to head out on our third river of the year, not to mention our third in a foreign country. Again, we were stoked. Until the guide started talking. Before every commercial rafting trip, the guide collects the guests and gives a necessary safety talk. After 11 rivers, Jason and I thought we'd heard it all. Wedge your feet into the boat so you don't fall out. Hold onto the boat when I give the command. But this guide assailed us with warnings we'd never heard before: Don't wedge your feet in or you could break a leg. Hold on when I tell you, but also let go when I tell you or you could dislocate your arm. If the Skykomish and Clackamas had left me timid, then it seemed the Exploits would leave me absolutely shitting in my pants. Or wetsuit. Quickly, we saw that this river was different from the others. The section we ran contained just three rapids, each one a raging beast in its own right, and all of them crammed back-to-back. On most rafting trips, you get a stretch of calm water after each rapid, which allows you to catch your breath and prepare for what's coming next. But on the Exploits, each rapid fed into the one after it, an exhausting daisy chain of whitewater. To give us much-needed breaks, our guide steered us into an eddy after each rapid. That, in turn, forced us to paddle upstream afterwards, so we could catch enough momentum from the rapid we'd just run to successfully get through the rapid up next. I don't remember which rapid it was. I just remember paddling hard, then the boat bucking underneath me. And then the boat wasn't under me anymore. I was in the water. It finally happened. The Exploits was forcing me to swim. I didn't have a chance to hold my breath before going in, but luckily, I bobbed to the surface right away, thanks to my PFD. And I saw Jason there, next to me in the water; he’ fallen out, too. He grabbed my hand, and the rapid propelled us forward together. Water smacked my face and splashed into my mouth. But I could breathe. My heart pounded, a drumbeat in my ears, but with Jason's hand in mine, a cautious optimism wrapped around my fear like a cozy blanket. No, this wasn't fun, but we'd get through it. That’s when the water sucked me under. I didn't understand it. One second I was floating, and the next I wasn't. My head went under before I could inhale. I think Jason's hand started to slip out of mine, or maybe that's my brain being dramatic. I couldn't have stayed under for more than a second or two before our guide was there, grabbing hold of my PFD and yanking me back into the boat. He got Jason in moments later. After we’d gasped enough to steady our breath, he explained that I'd slipped into a whirlpool, which pulled me under. My body was shivering, my arms limp. My hands grasped the paddle half-heartedly. For the first time, I wanted to bail on a rafting trip. The only kindness the Exploits showed us that day was its brevity. After just three rapids, Jason and I staggered out of the boat, our asses thoroughly kicked. And I did not want to get back on a river anytime soon. Green River, Utah
Well, joke's on me. Because before we'd ventured out on the Exploits, we'd already booked our next rafting trip. The Green River had been on our list for a long time. Ever since we ran the Colorado in 2019, where one of our guides recommended a trip on the Green to us. So we should have been especially stoked for this trip. I think Jason was. I, however, was not. To assuage my anxiety over getting into yet another boat, I asked Jason for all the details. (He'd booked the trip for us.) How long would we be on the river? How many miles? How many people in the boat? What class were the rapids? The last detail helped to calm my nerves most. Only Class II-III rapids. Nothing as violent as the whitewater of the Skykomish, Clackamas, or—thank God—the Exploits. We probably weren't going to swim against our will. Then again--the river is in charge. The rule circled in my head for the first mile or so of our trip on the Green. It stayed there past the first few rapids and well into the day, while we ate lunch on a beach. But at some point, the rule began to fade to the back of my mind. Maybe it was during conversation with our fellow paddlers from Phoenix. Or maybe it was when I gaped at the red and orange walls of the slanted canyon looming on either side of the river. Or maybe it happened while I was paddling through whitewater—and, for the first time in a while, shouting with delight. At some point, I forgot the rule and remembered to have fun. Over the years, our rafting goals had shifted—or maybe just my goals did. With each trip, I sought out the gnarliest whitewater. The biggest waves. The rivers that promised Class-IV and Class-V thrills. Somewhere along the way, I forgot why we'd started rafting in the first place. How fun it could be to just ride a current. To connect with other people who loved doing the same thing you do. And to see a breathtaking landscape from the perspective of the powerful force that had ultimately shaped it. The Green River reminded me of that. That the river is, indeed, in charge. And that is a wonderful thing.
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