The visions wouldn’t end, and the wave of fear would not crash then recede. The whitewater trip I dodged for years has finally arrived. The fear was built on knowing myself – I’m clumsy and my mind is constantly adrift, not good traits for navigating rapids. But my friend Wade wouldn't let go this year. So I went.
An uneventful morning drive took us past the middle section of the Ocoee –our Sunday destination – and the mostly dry upper section. The temperature, already mild for June, dropped as we rose into the Nantahala National Forest, just south of the Great Smoky Mountains, and set up camp aside the Valley River. Our rustic cabins gave a little bit of privacy at a busy campground. We unloaded and set up for the mountains.
The river cuts through the Nantahala Gorge, a steep slice of real estate deep in the mountains. Wade steered the boat with his friend Dobbs and myself in the other two spots. We were both rookies at the mercy of a river rat who took us through every major rapid and spun the boat at will.
Jaws, the rock formation to the left of a Class 4 rapid at the run’s beginning, came and went. We paddled through and I perfected the art of ducking into the middle of the boat every time I
I had visions of river "carnage" - getting tossed from the boat at every noted rapid and fighting the current back to the raft. It didn't happen. Most of the time I wedged myself in. At one point, Wade declared that I had given birth to his dry bag.
Obviously whitewater moves fast, so it only took two hours to cover the nine mile course. The biggest obstacle awaited us at the finish. The Nantahala drops 15 feet in its last quarter mile. We passed the Bump without incident, then came Nantahala Falls, the last rapid on the river.
We tilted over the falls. As we landed I knew the angle was wrong and no amount of leaning would keep me in the boat. I put my hands over my face so my glasses did not beat me downstream, and plunged out of the boat. In The Life Aquatic, there’s a moment of silence as the malfunctioning helicopter hits the water. I had a similar sensation as the rushing water when I submerged. In a few second, Dobbs fell out behind me.
Stopping proved hard – the water was deep and not the kind of place to stand. I mostly floated until a spectator offered a rope, which gradually dragged me to shore. Like a fishing tired of fighting on the line, I flopped onto a flat rock and rested, then left the water. It was a good moment for a small ego. The bus took us back, and we lounged at Pizza By the River (the other PBR) until
Driving back, the water generators had already slowed, reducing the Nantahala’s rapids to ripples. It seemed like a cheat - all that force gets turned off at night.
The gang returned for a second Nantahala run on Saturday, but I passed. My body felt like I lost a fight the day before (which I essentially did on those rocks). In need of a relaxing day, I sat by the creek, talked with the fisherman, read a few short stories while rain roared in, turning the placid Valley River aside our campsite into a muddy, fast-flowing stream. The campground was the site of several great meals, good champagne and an impromptu volleyball ball where I dove for every volley within 20 feet of me. Those who stink at volleyball must dive - it's in the rulebook, I believe.
Judgment came Sunday. We were bound for the Middle Ocoee, with its 20 named rapids and in two weeks prior, its first rafting death in 15 years. Wade assured me it wouldn’t be an issue. Then he proceeded to spend part of our Wednesday shift showing people wipe out on the largest rapids.
The upper section, which hosted the Olympic whitewater events in 1996, ran dry when we passed on Friday and Sunday mornings. But the middle section grew thick with rafts. The highway hugs the mountain wall above the river, so every step of the river is visible.
My nerves didn’t die until we exited Hell’s Hole to a placid river stretch that ended with the take-out ramp. Without that focus, my mind would wander - strange as it sounds, I leaned on fear to keep my paddle moving.
As relieved as I felt, fortune just went our way. We got tossed from the raft at an easy rescue point – I could stand in the water if the current weren’t so relentless. We should have never fallen in; another raft took a terrible line through a rapid while we took the best one. They crashed into us and emptied both boats. Once we collected our crew - Wade ended up a few hundred yards downstream - we got through fine, albeit short two paddles.
We stalled on some shoals due to the paddle shortage, but it made little difference.
Not everyone had such luck on Sunday. Sure, I hate to hear that news. What starts as fun ends with a bad break.
That doesn’t dampen my trip – the rapids took care of that. As we went on, the splashed barely bothered me. On the big rapids, enough water flowed into the boat that I quickly grew accustomed to it. I just couldn't handle it with any regularity. That clumsiness problem pairs poorly with undercut rocks and swift eddies.
If it's all the same, though, I'll pick a wide, calm river for my next paddling venture.
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