Filed under: Seattle, Uncategorized | Tags: guide stick, helical flow, laminar flow, rafting, rockport pub, Skagit, Skagit river, training, white water guide, White water rafting
“What the heck are you doing?” Asked Kenney coolly as we headed toward the rapids. Apparently, he didn’t like my choice of direction. “What the heck are you doing, man?” He started gesturing to the left, “turn, TURN, THAT WAY!”
His arm jabbed the air viciously to river right, and as water smashed over the bow and the crew paddled ahead. I had decided, apparently, to make an example of myself by doing everything in this instant wrong. In the panic I did not realize that I was actually pulling in the opposite direction that I wanted to go; I’d moved from my post to the back of the raft up the side and tried–as panicked guides do–to muscle the 1400lb boat myself, and finally, as the raft began to spin wildly our of control, I froze, unable to decide what to do. Which is why we went over the rapid backward.
“What are you doing?” Asked Kenny once we were in the slackwater, starting at me from behind his black transition lenses. I considered this for a moment before answering. “I got confused.”
“Well you’re better off going down a rapid backwards than sideways,” He added. This wasn’t meant to comfort, or to pretend I’d done something right. This was a simple fact. Now we move on; Kenny turned around to sit facing forward in the raft; he’s been sitting backward so he could stare at me as I guided.
* * *
The explanation went something like this; a guidestick is like a wrench in the way it pivots the raft–which is like a nut. That’s how you turn the boat. Try it in the shallows a few times. Got it? Excellent. Let’s go.
It was with this level of ceremony that we started out on our first day on the water as guide trainees. The previous day we’d spent learning knots, rigging, raft breakdown, how to throw bags, and what each piece of equipment was. We’d finished the day early, had headed to a local bar with the townies, and rather than drive all the way back to Seattle, I accepted the invitation of one of the other guide trainees–Tucker–to stay at his friend’s cabin, and experience which, in itself, necessitates explanation.
Detour!
* * *
We’d turned around three times on the same road before we decided that this pitch-black, heavily-wooded road with thick moss overhangs was the right way to get to the cabin. Tucker had gone off ahead in his car to make sure (again)–Mike and Erin had gone a few miles up the road to find a place to turn around the van and trailer assembly, and I stayed marked in the blackness, periodically switching off my light to test the creeepiness of the place before switching them on again quickly so as not to allow the ambushing mental-hospital escapees too much time to approach my driver’s-side window and ruin the sport of the whole thing.
Soon both vehicles returned and we continued up the road, past a gate, and around a mind-numbing number of curves to a bathroom where we brushed our teeth since the cabin had no running water. We left Erin and Mike there and continued on our way to the cabin. A few miles later we pulled over to a dark hillside. I grabbed my bag and my skull-smasher Maglite because I couldn’t find my headlamp and trudged up the incline behind Tucker. Slowly, a cabin came into view.
Making our way in through the back door, several things became abundantly clear. The first, and most noticeable, was the smell of being inside a bag of moldy bread. Tucker had mentioned the place smelled like mold, but after 5 minutes in there, I felt like I should brush my teeth again. The second, and perhaps more lingering thing to notice, was the universal fact that adorable vintage child decor–while cheery and kitcshy in the daytime–becomes completely horrifying to look at at night, particularly by the light of a Maglite. I’m not sure, but this may be the point at which the zombie apocalypse jokes started.
There is something decidedly unnerving about walking around a silent, abandoned house with a flashlight, particularly one festooned with little cowboys and pictures of 1950s-era kids staring from picture frames, so we set about brightening the place up. Tucker was tasked with lighting the white-gas lanterns, while I took on the project of building a fire. After refilling the lanterns and pressurizing them, Tucker succeeded only in lighting one lantern, and by “lighting”, I mean it pulsed dramatically. Dim BRIGHT dim BRIGHT dim BRIGHT, repeating the cadence about every three seconds. As far as the fire goes, I assumed the flue was open given the inches of wet ash I’d removed from the log cage, and started a meager fire. After splitting some wood with an ax we deputized as a tool rather than a decoration, I built it up large enough to look around for a bit without fear of the fire going out.
I was given the upper bedrooms, which were largely clear, with the exception of a pile of clutter across the small hallway. Tucker took the downstairs bedroom with the big mattress, which looked quite comfortable. So it should have been of no surprise to us when we turned over the mattress to find a healthy sprinkling of rat droppings everywhere.
“Hey Tucker,” I said smirking, “what’s that terrible virus from rat shit?”
“Hantavirus. Shut up.”
Walking back into the living room it became apparent that rain getting in does not necessarily indicate an open flue, as smoke filled the air and transformed my flashlight beam into a solid blue streak, not unlike every 80’s horror movie I’d ever seen, a similarity I decided to purge from my mind.
Exchanging a mutual look of “aw, fuck it”, we closed the glass in front of the fireplace and went to bed. My pillow did not contain any treats from mammalian house squatters.
* * *
After our day of learning how the raft was to be set up and broken down, and our brief briefing in the shallows, guide paddles were thrust into hands and we were told “go”. The basic layout in my boat was Kenny sitting in middle, the rest of us paddling on the sides, and one person on the guide stick in the back of the boat trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
The trick to guiding it to stay close to the laminar flow but not in it, be aware of the helical flow coming off the banks and obstructions, aim for the inside corner, and always cross opposite the current. Make sense? No? Try assessing all that while looking a quarter-mile downstream while Kenny grills you on every decision and everything that you don’t see.
“There’s an island up ahead. Which side are you going to go on? Right. You’re going to want to go to the left. See how there’s more water moving left? Even if you didn’t you see how the water is higher on the right? That means the water is blocked up–maybe a gravel bar or something. You gotta look. Tell me what you see. Where”s the helical flow? Why are you aiming on the outside of the corner?”
The island we’re talking about is at least 500m upstream, and after staring at it for a good three minutes, I think I can kind-of maybe see that the water on the right is higher; but this is never something I would have noticed or even assumed would happen. Helical flow, laminar flow, the current–somehow Kenny is looking at the river and seeing this, and all I’m seeing are waves and chaos, and when he gives me the guide stick after lunch, there’s little I can do but point to the inside of the corners and hope like hell.
“There’s a class 3 coming up. Can you handle it, or do you want me to take it?”
Of course I can’t handle that. “Yep,” I say, “got it.”
“If you screw this up you’re going to dump the boat. Don’t screw this up.”
I am going to kill everyone in this boat. Holy god. But this is a test, right? It’s got to be a test. “I’m on it,” I say.
“Don’t screw this up,” Kenny says in his chilling monotone. “Don’t you screw this up. You know what? I’m gonna watch you. ” And with that he turns around and sits on the thwart right in front of me, staring.
“You’re eyes are everywhere! You’re not focusing on one spot! You’re constantly scanning!” he barks. I’m scanning for all I’m worth. The whitewater is coming up fast, and it’s big. Class 3s had been a joke to me when I was rafting; they are much, much bigger when you’re guiding. “Look more! Look at the whole river! Everything!” I’m making myself dizzy; I’m less scanning and more inducing a seizure.
“Look!” Kenny barks again “what are you seeing? See the helical flow?”
“Yep.” Nope.
“Ok, here we go!”
We crash into the whitewater and I feel it rip along the bottom of the boat with a dull roar. It jerks the raft back and forth. I point to the inside of the corner.
“Good!” Kenny says. Excellent. I have done something right. First set of rapids completed. Here come the second, and here’s where it all goes to shit.
I aim to the inside of the curve and brace myself. Wrong. Kenny points to river right. I turn. Kenny points harder. I turn. Point. Turn. Point. Turn. Now he turns around “what the heck are you doing, TURN!”
And the rest is history. What was I doing? Getting stressed and pulling the wrong way. Then when the yelling started I crept up the side and tried to power the boat myself instead of using the crew. Pointless. Now the rapids take the boat, flip it around, and with not leverage from the side, I can do nothing. We do down backward.
Once we are through Kenny’s yelling stops, he lectures for a bit, and I am sure–SURE–that I am done for. No one could have possibly screwed up so bad as to shoot a rapid backwards, and that’s when Kenny turns around again and holds up his fist.
“First class three rapid?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I breath.
“You survived it,” he says, bumping my fist with his. “Need a bit more practice.”
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