Lisa Farin |
Boulder Drop Article
Lisa Farin |Boulder Drop Article |
|
"There was a time," Amy said, "when everyone in sucession crashed and burned - after they were out of our sight below the first big drop. Like lemmings going over the cliff, we inadvertently followed one another to what was to become a major yard sale of boats and equipment. I was so intent on making it down safely that I didn't notice until I reached the bottom that I was utterly, completely alone down there - and the only one still in my boat."
"What about the time Richard bragged about a clean run down Boulder Drop - despite the fact that he rolled no less than four times!" said Julia.
"Four times? The run's only a quarter-mile long. Was he upright at all during his run?"
"What about Larry, the Boulder Drop 'virgin' who flipped and swam and very efficiently got himself into the downriver swimming position with his feet in front. He landed in one of Boulder's enormous holes and it held him - vertically. We all looked upstream and saw Larry walking on the water."
My own first encounter with Boulder Drop was from the road. Standing with the other spectators, watching the rafts and kayaks go bouncing down, it didn't look bad at all. It didn't even sound intimidating. Not like Killer Fang Death Falls or The Meatgrinder. No, Boulder Drop, a technical class IV rapid on the Skykomish River in Washington state sounds like just your run-of-the-mill rapid through a bunch of boulders. But my first look at this rapid should have tipped me off. At the time I was naive, but now I know the first rule of whitewater: where spectators flock, carnage soon follows.
It's such a nice, pretty river in every other respect. Wide, gentle, class III rapids dot the run from the put-in. Until you get to Boulder Drop: just like a vacuum cleaner, it sucks you in and twirls you around. Time and again I'd set off kayaking this stretch of river but every time I reached Boulder Drop I was overwhelmed with an insurmountable urge to climb up on the rocks for a better look. The further from the water, the better. Ah, the joy of scouting. You get the pleasure of letting your legs revert to their natural position: straight. If you're lucky, you have the vicarious thrill of watching someone else make the mistakes that you're not supposed to make. And, best of all, you get to postpone the inevitable: "just a few more minutes, while I analyze this boulder garden," you tell your friends, while all the time you're actually composing a prayer to the river gods: "please river gods, get me through this one alive and I'll never do anything to pollute you. Wait, I said that last time. Well, I'll never, um, eat fish again. At least freshwater fish." But the scouting expedition can only last so long. Sooner or later, you're going to have to walk it or run it. And the main problem scouting Boulder Drop is that you can only see the first half of it before the river plummets over some boulders (that's why they call it Boulder Drop) and out of sight.
My first chance for an escorted run down this rapid was in midsummer when the water was lower than the rafters like it but still adequate for a kayak. At 1100 CFS my friend Anne told me this was as easy as it ever gets. Technical, sure, but relatively friendly - if a drop like this can ever be called friendly. And, besides, I had Clay, the local kayak club expert, along to show me the way.
"See the entrance at the top," Clay said to me, "you can pretty much sneak it on the right." Yeah. I like that word, sneak. This guy was speaking my language. "I'll meet you in the eddy below and give you more instructions." What? What happened to my mentor, my leader, my guide - not even telling me the whole story. Making me wait and sweat it like some kid watching a horror movie on TV, glued to his seat through twenty commercials because he can't stand the thought of momentarily looking away and missing the hero's escape from the clutches of the evil space-pods.
But I was beginning to get a feel for this. Sort of like a scavenger hunt: find a red stick, then look for instructions next to it. Only this time, I missed the last eddy (my "stick"), and with it my final instructions. Once I overcame my temporary paralysis and my arms began working again I started paddling as hard as I could, following the second rule of whitewater: when in doubt, paddle like hell. Unfortunately, I paddled over a pourover and into an enormous hole. Once in it I flipped immediately and tried in vain to roll. Funny, my roll usually worked, but it seemed uncooperative this day. I set up again to roll and then for some reason my arms again became immobile. I remained tucked on my front deck, arms extended, upside down for some time. Eventually the hole spit me out, but I was still upside down. By the time I realized that the river would never right me of its own accord, I'd drifted into another big hole. I was still underwater, still not breathing, and not much closer to home than when I'd flipped. At that moment I decided that I was not having much fun. So far, it was Boulder Drop one, me zero.
As the summer progressed, I went on to run Boulder Drop several times without incident, making the entrance move and eddy, down to the next eddy, then through what we called the "Airplane Turn". I've always wondered why it's called Airplane Turn. Maybe because paddling it is reminiscent of the nauseous feeling one often gets when an airplane makes a steep, banking turn. Or maybe because, as in flying, you have to just go on blind faith that this endeavor is actually going to keep you alive until touchdown. In a plane, it usually does. In Boulder Drop, it's a little more iffy.
As the water rose with the winter rains I became more confident. Maybe too confident. One sunny May Saturday Robin and I found ourselves kayaking this river in the midst of a flotilla of commercial rafts. Around here, you get used to seeing rafts on the river. I guess they have the right-of-way, since they're bigger (the third rule of whitewater: yield to bigger craft). I had ducked out between two rafts, thinking, I'm faster, I'll be eddied out below the first turn long before they're even close. Well, once again I missed an eddy and instead became caught in a sticky ledge hole. As I struggled in there, sidesurfing to stay upright and rocking back and forth to try to break free, the raft behind me approached ever closer. Robin sat in the eddy to my right (I'd asked him to keep an eye on me, and, sure enough, he was. Unfortunately, all he was able to do was keep an eye on me.) Milliseconds before the raft would have run over my immobilized boat, I broke out of the hole and tumbled downstream, paddling as hard as I could to stay in front. I don't know who was more frightened the raft guide, me, or my companion watching helplessly from below. The raft passengers, I'm sure, thought it was all just great fun.
Well, you know what they say about jumping back on the horse. The following weekend I ran the river again, at an even higher level. Unbeknownst to me, the holes I'd become so intimately familiar with had become a veritable a "wall of water" at this level. Buried in the waves, unsure of the usual route, I managed to let gravity take over until I was hit by the Berlin Wall of whitewater. No longer traveling forward, I was, once again, upside down. I tried to roll. It didn't work. I tried again. It still didn't work. The memories of my inaugural swim still fairly fresh in my mind, I decided I was going to keep trying until I righted myself. When I finally did, on my third try, I noticed a throw rope draped across my bow. One of the rafters on shore was convinced I wouldn't make it, but he didn't know my determination. Or lung capacity.
One late summer day, I volunteered to lead another "Boulder Drop Virgin" down the rapid. Big mistake. He handily followed me, weaving in and out among the rocks. At the last minute, I decided to go around, rather than over, a 3' ledge near the bottom. I ended up pinned against a rock, thinking "I sure hope he's not following me right this minute." I telepathically tried to relay alternate instructions to him: "go over the ledge, into my boat and you'll knock me out." Imagine my dismay when I saw him niftily avoid me to the right. "Wow," he said as he paddled by, "that was close. I almost hit you." I wish he had. Boy, I really wish he had. After a few uncomfortable moments, I finally got myself unstuck, with some expert coaching from one of the other members of our group.
I won't go into details about all the other mishaps I've witnessed in
this rapid - both firsthand and when watching my friends. Suffice it to
say that airborne, vertical rear-ender, and flying leaps over pourovers
are not uncommon occurrences here. If nothing else, we've provided oodles
of entertainment for the spectators on shore. But hope springs eternal,
and I keep thinking that someday, somehow, someway, I'm going to lick this
thing. Or die of embarrassment trying.
© 1996 Lisa Farin
(Published in American Whitewater, Nov./Dec. 1996)
home | kayaking | diving