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My stomach churned and my intestines felt like a tangled mass of silly string as we bumped along the rough dirt road. Suddenly, as if in a show of empathy, my boat shot out from the stack in which it was sandwiched on top of the van, taking a few hard bounces on the sagebrush before coming to a rest in a cloud of dust.
I couldn't help but wonder if it was an omen.
I was about to embark on the biggest run thus far in my short but storied kayaking career. And as I battled overactive nerves, I questioned whether I was being overzealous in my skills assessment. In the group of 20 or so, I was without a doubt the greenest. I had been coerced into it by a couple of guy friends who, although possessing the best intentions, also possessed a completely different threshold on the pucker meter (not to mention a completely different set of testosterone-producing hardware). What was considered "fun" to them typically took years off my life. What they could do backwards in their sleep required every ounce of courage, skill and dumb luck I had. Despite all this - and the fact that they had taken great pleasure in some of my more prominent carnage - they had never let me really wander into harm's way, and I trusted them implicitly.
Besides, it was at a time in my life when I had trouble defining my limits. There was always time for one last bump run, one last ride on the wave, one last beer. Stopping, downloading or walking a rapid was never considered.
Nevertheless, for a brief moment I found myself secretly wishing that my boat had suffered irreparable harm in the mishap. No such luck - not even a pad came loose on that old warship. So, once tightly crammed inside, intestines still writhing, I hesitantly paddled into the unknown.
"You'll be fine," my mentor smiled back at me as we put on. I thought I detected a sinister smirk before he quickly paddled off to get front-row seats for my first probable carnage.
Fortunately, I did not live up to my reputation of notoriously bad lines and sloppy saves in that rapid, or the next one for that matter. But these were all just warm-ups for what lay ahead, a drop with the dubious distinction of being called the "Snake Pit": a frothing, foaming, cesspool of pestilence and rocks avoided only by the equally portentous "Death Ferry." An already deep-seated dislike for the slimy (I know, they're not really "slimy," but I don't like them anyway) vermin did little to allay my fears.
I studied the line as executed flawlessly by a few boaters and deemed it doable enough. Unfortunately, I wasn't quick enough in my scout (a common boating faux pas) and was soon treated to the site of another cohort missing the ferry and getting sucked backwards into the pit. She made several attempts to get out, only to be repeatedly slapped upside down. After the umpteenth window shade, she pulled the cord and swam out. The boat stayed.
Needless to say, the snake pit in my stomach rivaled the one downriver as I pushed off to accept my fate. As if trying to facilitate my destiny, I gave a half-hearted attempt with wooden arms before succumbing. There was a brief, euphoric moment of weightlessness as I stopped paddling - something I can only liken to the light people see in near-death experiences - before I was promptly doled out my punishment. I was pummeled upside down but somehow rolled up. All my senses were askew except for my hearing, which registered an urgent "paddle out of there" from the carnage gallery. Although I couldn't see a thing, I hastily heeded the advice, blindly paddling forward - which proved to be invaluable.
For many, this would be a momentous victory. But for me, it rang hollow. I knew how close I had come to a long-overdue thrashing and couldn't help but feel that somewhere out there was a recircing hole with my name on it.
We soon reached another horizon line, cleaved by a McMansion-sized rock. A few of the cautious ones gathered on shore to strategize when complete chaos broke loose. We watched in disbelief and horror as one member of the party, in what was either an attempt at proving his manliness or suicide, went for the meat. Despite a perfectly obvious sneak route along the left, he threaded a thin line between two rocks in the middle of the river, which ended in a small drop and a big, hairy pour-over. He soon proved that not only was the pour-over frighteningly ugly, but it also was the perfect pinning spot. An anxious exchange ensued, with those coming in for the save urging him not to pull his skirt for fear water would fill the boat and cause it to fold. Eventually, he felt it was his only recourse as water pounded his back and he sunk lower into the water. The boat held, and he swam out. Meanwhile, as most eyes were trained on this, another scenario began to unfold. Another member of the party, suddenly itching to try his luck, attempted the sneak. As he neared the end of the chute, he was caught off guard by an eddy that grabbed his boat and flipped him. Unable to roll up, he was pushed directly into the house rock, where he got caught up for a few moments before disappearing. An eternity passed while the rescuers scrambled for their boats. Before the first one could get there, the missing kayaker resurfaced - minus his boat - downstream of the rock. It was as if he had found the path of least resistance underneath the rock and was pushed through. As for the boat, it was not as malleable as a human body and was stuck hopelessly sideways at the mouth of the sieve. Now efforts turned toward retrieving two ill-placed boats, and it suddenly became painfully clear how easily things can go from bad to worse.
As I stared, slackjawed, on the sidelines, I once again heard a wise voice, as if from the great beyond. One of the better boaters of the group, who I had met that day and have never seen since, had watched the drama unfold alongside me. Perhaps noting the sheer look of terror on my face, he put his hand on my shoulder and calmly asked, "Missy, have you ever walked a rapid?"
The answer was a hesitant "no," although something told me it might be time. Without further ado, we shouldered our boats and hoofed it past the mayhem. And for the first time that day, I felt confident in my decision.
-Missy Votel
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