Nobody can deny that growth is risky business. The fact is, if you intend to advance within a discipline, you must take a certain number of chances. That's true whether you're a mountain climber or a gymnast, a bicyclist or a whitewater paddler. But how far should you go? How much of a risk can you take before the quest for skill-improvement becomes simply bravado? Or foolishness?
One day early in June 1985, three friends and I launched a pair of open canoes into a stretch of the U.P.'s Presque Isle River that has been referred to as one of the ten most challenging whitewater runs in North America. Our plan was to paddle as much water as we could and portage the most serious trouble spots.
We put in during a light, cold rain, on a day when the temperature never rose above 45 degrees. The river was cold and, after several days of rain, running fairly high. A friend who had kayaked the same stretch six weeks earlier, during spring flooding, noted the water level and pronounced the run a piece of cake. We weren't so sure. He was an advanced kayaker and a veteran of trips down famous whitewater rivers all over the continent; we were four canoeists with plenty of enthusiasm but only limited experience in heavy whitewater.
Not that we were absolute duffers. We had just spent the past year logging more than 1,500 river miles doing research for Canoeing Michigan Rivers, and had paddled most of the significant rapids in the state. To prepare ourselves for the Presque Isle's Class III and IV pitches we had spent several days warming up on nearby rivers like the Black and Montreal. We were comfortable with our equipment and confident that our canoes--whitewater designs and Royalex hulls--were durable and responsive enough for the river. We had a basic knowledge of first-aid, and had discussed various alternatives in case of mishap. Finally, we knew our partners, and knew--or almost knew--our own limitations.
When one of our boats wiped out we could hardly have been more prepared. We knew from studying topographic maps that Minnewawa Falls would be a difficult piece of water, that it followed a long stretch of winding river and quick descent, that it was far back in steep, rocky, heavily forested country. From the first moments after we stopped to scout we knew we were facing the most difficult rapids we had ever attempted. Standing on a large rock, with a clear view of the entire run, we had a long, sober discussion about the possibilities of getting through, and the consequences of failing.
Briefly, the run looked like this: The main volume of the river, and the only feasible route, was to the left, where it dropped over a three-foot ledge into a tangle of backrollers and sidecurlers. There was a narrow passage between the waves, wide enough for a canoe, but it was clear that if we went in too far to the right or left we would be in trouble. Immediately below the ledge the river paused in a turbulent eddy just large enough to turn a canoe, then pushed up hard against a rock the size of house trailer. We would have to drop into that eddy, turn 90 degrees right to avoid being pinned against the rock, go 20 feet, then turn 90 degrees left and enter a fierce chute between more large rocks. The chute looked like a boat-eater--80 feet of river squeezed into 20 feet--but there was a tongue through its center wide enough to ride between the biggest waves. The challenge would be to turn quickly enough to catch that tongue straight on. From there it would be easy. The rapids emptied into a lake-sized pool bordered by rock ledges and sand bars. The total length of the run was about 50 yards. Gradient was steep, dropping maybe 20 feet in that distance.
The run looked intimidating, but not impossible. Mark Wilkes and I, feeling our oats perhaps, spotted a way through and were anxious to try it. Mike McCumby and Craig Date, who would be in the second canoe, were less certain. I'm not sure they ever really saw the same route we did.
Mark and I made a final run-down of the course we wanted, then walked upstream to our canoe. We pushed off and immediately realized one of the basic truths of river-running: perspective from water level is dramatically different from perspective on shore. We could not see the passage through the waves at the first drop--could see nothing but the abrupt edge of the horizon drop and the cloud of mist above it. We backpaddled to slow our progress until we were close enough for Mark, in the bow, to rise up and look for a way through. At the last possible moment, almost to the brink, he spotted one, we paddled furiously to adjust our position, went over, and broke through the battery of waves at the bottom. We turned hard right in the eddy, were swept 20 feet, turned hard left, and rode the furious chute into the pond.
We cheered, of course, but at our level of experience there was more luck involved than skill, and we knew it. We stayed in the canoe and positioned ourselves in the pool below the rapids. Mark got his camera ready, and we waited for Craig and Mike.
It was obvious immediately that something was wrong. They were too far to the right when they went over the first ledge, trying, I suppose, to take a more direct route to the chute between the rocks. Backrollers below the ledge swamped them. They managed to stay upright coming into the heaviest water, but we all knew it was hopeless. They wallowed in the first wave, tottered, and were capsized.
Craig said later it was like being sucked into a garden hose. Most paddlers know the sense of helplessness, the shock, the cold, the power of the water. Add to that the presence of large, jagged rocks, and the chance that a swamped canoe carrying a ton of water might plaster you against them. The aerated water would not float him, even in his floatation vest, and he was pulled under, tumbled, buffeted, and finally spewed out into the pond.
Mike was having more trouble. As they capsized, his head narrowly missed striking a partially exposed rock. His feet had gotten wedged under his seat and for a moment--a very long moment--he was trapped under the canoe. When he wrenched free, he too was sucked under, tumbled, and finally spit out into the pond.
It ended with no real harm done. Except for one broken thwart on the canoe, there was no damaged or lost gear. Everything, including Craig's cameras and lenses, had been adequately sealed and secured. We took a breather on shore while Mike and Craig changed into their emergency clothing, then we loaded up and went on our way.
The question is, did we screw up?
Hindsight is indeed golden. We're able to look back now and get a pretty clear view of what we did right and what we did wrong. In our defense, we had worked hard to learn fundamental whitewater skills; we wore the proper type and size personal floatation devices; we were comfortable with our partners and our equipment; we scouted carefully; the rapids emptied into still water where rescue would be relatively easy.
But the condemning facts remain. We attempted water significantly more challenging than our abilities warranted; air and water temperatures made the risk of hypothermia high; we failed to make certain that both teams of paddlers were sure of the route or of each other's intentions; in the event of serious injury we would have had to walk more than eight miles to the nearest paved road; we had not worn protective head-gear.
Yes, we screwed up. And we're lucky we didn't pay dearly for it.
The next day, in atonement, we completed the remainder of the river wearing head protection and in the company of our friend the kayaker, who proved to be an informed, qualified guide. We portaged the infamous Gorge, where the Presque Isle descends about 140 feet in one mile, as well as a number of lesser drops and pitches, all of which made Minnewawa Falls seem tame by comparison. We came away from the river awed and humbled, a little more skilled, and maybe, if we can remember those lessons every time we're getting adrenaline surges watching waves and holes, a little wiser.
The point is, we should have tempered our enthusiasm with good sense. We wanted adventure and we wanted to improve our skills. Nobody can be condemned for that. But if you learn by taking small steps at a time it's always easier to judge challenges in the context of your ability. You'll know whether running Minnewawa Falls involves taking a big step or a little step. You'll take chances, sure, but they'll be justified chances.