We called it Fairy Tale Rapids, and the name fit. The Class III drop was a silver ribbon of fast‑flowing water running through a forested gorge. It wasn’t long, but there were enough rocks to keep things interesting, and the towering standing waves at the bottom of the drop promised a lively finish. A bit too lively, we figured, looking thoughtfully at our heavily loaded Tripper. Still, there was a good‑sized pool below where we could bail, and we’d spent much of the day fighting a headwind. Now we fancied a bit of easy riding. We really didn’t want to spend the remaining hours of daylight lining down through the little canyon, slipping and slithering over algae‑covered pebbles. So we opted to make the run.

It took us only a few minutes to get ready. Then our four canoes dropped down the rushing tongue of water that marked the start of the rapids. Farwell and I were in the third boat. He was in the bow; I was paddling stern, and I didn’t envy him his job. The tongue wasn’t exactly a royal road. More like a cobbled cart track. Rocks, carpeted with brown slime, loomed up on every side, many of them nearly invisible in the tannin‑stained water. Still, Farwell guided us deftly around them all — all but the last one, that is. He overlooked a good‑sized boulder lurking just below the surface, near the point where the current lines converged at the bottom of the tongue. We didn’t hit hard. It was only a glancing blow. We just eased up on the shoulder of the rock. But then we started to pivot. And before we had a chance to react — it had been a long day, and the hot sun had made us both a bit dozy — the onrushing water had submerged our upstream gunwale. We didn’t go over, though. Not at first. We braced downriver, clawed our way off the rock, and continued on our way.

Our troubles were just beginning, however. A 17‑foot canoe can hold a lot of water, even when it’s half full of tightly lashed, waterproof gear bags. And in the few seconds we’d teetered on the submerged rock, our Tripper had drunk deep. So we now had only a couple of inches of freeboard. Instead of climbing nimbly over the seemingly endless succession of standing waves, we were wallowing through them, with each wave adding a few more gallons to our unwanted water ballast. And with hundreds of extra pounds weighing her down — a cubic foot of water tips the scales at about 62 pounds — our lively boat had become a sullen slug…Read more…

 

 
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