“But there was in it
one river especially, a mighty river resembling an immense snake uncoiled....
The snake had charmed me.” Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
Just below the put-in for the Numbers |
Fourteen years ago my paddling
partner, Noah, and I dipped our kayaks into the turbid waters of the Arkansas
River just downstream of the tiny hamlet of Granite, Colorado. The water level
was a spicy 2,000 cubic feet per second (cfs), not high exactly but fast enough
to push the river’s signature rapid, Pine Creek, into the realm of class V. The
two of us navigated our boats through a playground of bouncy class III-IV
warm-up water, arriving after a few miles at the familiar horizon line that
marked the start of the infamous rapid.
We were arrogant teenagers, admittedly
driven by ego and seduced by the notion of personal glory. Just a few weeks
earlier at a slightly lower flow of 1,500 cfs we had negotiated Pine Creek
without incident, but the extra 500 cfs proved just enough to tip the danger
scale into the red. We scouted for nearly half an hour, neither daring to admit
our skills might not be equal to the maelstrom below us. Finally it was me who cast
aside hubris and surrendered to the reality that I simply wasn’t up for the
challenge.
“It looks terrible,” I said to Noah
nervously. “It will always be here tomorrow. We’ll come back.”
But that “tomorrow” never came. The
next season, Noah badly dislocated his shoulder during high water in the
Colorado River’s Glenwood Canyon. The resulting swim was so traumatic he hung up
his paddle up for good. As for myself, my passions drifted away from the river
and instead towards high peaks and vertical rock faces as a climber and mountaineer.
Fourteen years ago I would have been disappointed with fifty river days in a
summer. Now I am lucky to count ten.
But every now and then, my mind returns
to the dark heart of that serpentine river between Granite and Buena Vista. And
I often want to go back and complete that run we started.
These days I am no longer a
teenager but a married man in the early half of his 30s. I have had enough
accidents, near misses and dearly departed friends to have molted completely
the illusion of teenage invulnerability. Any risk I am willing to take these
days is far more calculated.
In the last half decade, I formed a
new paddling alliance with an old friend, Derek, whom I have known since those
early, more-reckless years. After a particularly gratifying high-water run down
our backyard Colorado River, the conversation turned to the Arkansas and its
foreboding crux, Pine Creek and The Numbers. This stretch of river, once the
quintessential proving ground for the advanced and expert kayaker, has taken on,
in a sense, the role of the elder statesmen: a wise but aged representative of
a state full of world-class talent. While no longer cutting edge, it is still
considered a classic. And as it turned out, Derek had never paddled it.
So it was that the two of us ended
up strapping on our life jackets, cinching down our helmets and edging our
kayaks into the Arkansas. Derek was barely six months off open heart surgery,
and I was struggling with a troublesome neck injury that put my ability to roll
and maneuver with the same skill as fourteen years earlier somewhat into
question. We were infallible teenagers no longer.
After a brief scout and an honest
analysis of our rusty skillset, we decided to test our nerves on The Numbers before
considering the class V testpiece Pine Creek. Though a full number grade
softer, The Numbers still consisted of five miles of tumbling class IV
whitewater dropping at a consistent clip of just over 70 feet per mile.
Dropping into Number 5 |
There are six amplifications to the
otherwise consistent whitewater, each given non-creative but nevertheless effective
numerical designations (hence “The Numbers”). Numbers Four and Five had a
long-standing reputation as the most difficult, and after a quick car-scout,
Number Five seemed to give us the most pause. This, it seemed, would be the
crux of our day.
The rapid entailed a river-wide
ledge followed by an airplane turn of chaotic waves and fang-like boulders. From
shore it looked like the open jaws of a snake eager to engulf us into its twisted
interior.
After our pre-run scout, we
nervously slid our kayaks into the water and let the put-in fade behind us. We
negotiated Number One without incident, followed by Two and Three in quick
succession. I felt a measure of confidence returning. Every line was clean: no
flips, no swims, no bumps or grinds. The air was blue and the nearby Collegiate
Peaks watched over like surly security guards, arms folded over their chests.
Around a corner, the river narrowed
and accelerated into Number Four. Fourteen years before, Noah and I had plunged
through this difficult rapid an hour after our “failure” at Pine Creek. It was
this dusty memory I relied on now to guide us to the bottom. Right, left, right
past some formidable hydrology and we were through the heart of Number Four. We
congratulated ourselves with reserved exuberance, but the worst was still ahead.
After a brief lunch we paddled
under a bridge and carved into an eddy on river left at the top of Number Five.
From our low vantage, not much could be seen, only scattered boulders and the frenetic
leap of crashing whitewater. We glanced at each other nervously. Like Marlow in
Heart of Darkness, we had navigated
our river and now confronted Kurtz at last.
But the rapid proved less than our
minds had made it. I tipped over event horizon, punched through the river-wide
hydraulic and, a few paddle strokes later, landed in the safety of the eddy
below. Derek and I felt as self-assured as adolescents, having conquered each
rapid with cool confidence and nearly flawless execution.
“We should have done Pine Creek!” I
exclaimed. With the worst behind us it was easy to be cocky.
Derek nodded. “We can come back
tomorrow. It will always be there.”
Yes,
I thought to myself as my kayak bobbed up and down in the eddy. It will be there tomorrow. And the day after
that.
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All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions
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All writing is the original work of Brian Wright and may not be copied, distributed, re-printed or used any form without express written consent of the author. Find out here how to CONTACT me with publishing and/or use questions
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