It’s a singular experience. Dragging your canoe back up river over land, and sometimes through water because over land isn’t an option, trudging slowly one by one past the rapids you just styled – and the one you didn’t – is no easy task; physically or mentally. It’s a seminal moment in the life of a paddler and one we likely all face if we progress enough… But we’ll save that for a bit, because it’s not where the story begins – or ends.
Humble isn’t a word often used to describe boaters, open boaters in particular. We have our little jokes…
Hey, why don’t you paddle a kayak?
Duh. ‘Cause my balls won’t fit!
It’s in good fun, but like all humor there’s a little truth swirling beneath it. That’s not to say open boaters, at least this open boater, really think we’re better than kayakers or rafters – or for that matter other open boaters. I’ve been fortunate to tag along with some truly talented river runners, many of whom are far better paddlers than I but happily include me and indulge a lame boater joke or two, occasionally even after throwing someone a rope.
The fact remains though, in order to enjoy whitewater paddling a healthy dose of self-confidence is essential equipment, as critical as the sacred quartet of boat, paddle, helmet and PFD. A lack of faith in one’s own ability to reach the takeout in one piece could very well result in one not reaching the takeout in one piece, possibly ruining someone else’s day in the process. Therein lies the rub. When does self-confidence yield to discretion without doubling back into self-doubt? Rhetoric not withstanding this is not a rhetorical question, fellow adventurers, and I’ll do my best to address it using personal experience. Ready? Good. This is where the story begins!
What’s errrbody doing tomorrow?
The usual responses:
Cossatot if it’s not too big, Little Missouri if it is. Frog Bayou – sticking close to home. Mulberry.
Then, Sunday morning…
Hailstone homie.
Hailstone? In May? You have my attention. By 7:52 I’d thrown Zeke the Dagger Prophet (we name all our boats in this house thank you very much) on the truck and headed north. It wasn’t the alpine start typical of the fourteen mile Hailstone run, but there was water, lots of water, and the crew was small and strong. But my friends, you know that little voice? The one that tells you something’s not quite right even when everything should be? It was a pervasive presence that morning; on Highway 16, at the Boxley bridge while setting shuttle, at the put-in as I fumbled for a response when asked whether I was feeling it… I was not feeling it. Now, every boater – at least every honest boater with enough water under the hull – has that story, that tale of a trip gone wrong or even aborted simply because someone wasn’t feeling it. Only yesterday a friend and very skilled kayaker conceded he’d been known to bag the entire day at the put-in for no other reason. Still, the siren song of one of the most elusive runs in Arkansas, and not in February at that, proved irresistible as I buckled my helmet and stuffed my doubts into my dry bag next to the trail mix.
Soon we were underway and I was nervous but elated – and rusty. For three years I had all but forsaken the single blade in favor of oars, returning to an open boat only occasionally for laps on the Nantahala or a Big Piney run; and those Nantahala laps? A year ago. That Big Piney run? Nearly two months ago. So, canoeing the nearly continuous class III/III+ Hailstone after three years of essentially no canoeing? Sure, why not?
What could possibly go wrong?
-Luke Coop
As we made our way down river I could practically feel the rust falling from my shoulders; from my paddle and my boat as sloppy eddy turns and peel-outs slowly improved, body mechanics gradually grew more fluid than forced and grunts of self-reproof gave way to shouts of euphoria. Suddenly I was open boating again and it was magnificent! We read and ran the rapids, picking our way between rocks and stopping occasionally to surf (or in my case watch) until Trey gave the signal to eddy out for a conversation. As we talked I observed a tree and a bluff with reflecting waves, both river left and just below us. Neither looked especially ominous. The line, he explained, would be center left and we’d be able to bounce through the haystacks. Simple enough! I watched as he peeled out nearly into the center of the river and headed down, then waited my turn as boater two of four did the same – until he didn’t.
Where’s he going? a voice behind me muttered, and I recall wondering the same. For some (at the time) unknown reason he had gone too far left and much too close to the tree for comfort, but he recovered so I shrugged it off and left the eddy. Then suddenly, I was taking the same line. Not good. I paddled forward hard, escaping the tree and a potentially dangerous situation, but before I could ask myself what went wrong I was in the water and my boat was rapidly escaping my grasp.
It is a step up.
-Stewart Noland
I have a tattoo of a capsized canoe on my left shoulder. It’s skillfully inked and I love it, but I recall as the artist worked he couldn’t help but ask why I wanted the canoe upside down in the scene. I explained that upside down canoes are funny to boaters, and when they flip over epic tales come tumbling out to be gathered for the campfire. But really, more than anything else, the moments when my canoe is upside down are sometimes the only moments I feel right side up. Amidst broken relationships, job loss and other hazards boating has been one of the few constants; something that asks of me only what I’m willing to give it and promises only – but always – a good time in return, even if that good time involves a capsized canoe.
Son, if you ain’t swimmin’ you ain’t tryin’.
-Arthur Bowie
Members of a good crew will check on the swimmer first. Boats are replaceable. Boaters, not so much. Once they’ve confirmed all is well they will retrieve the boat if necessary. As my crew chased down Zeke I swam toward the voice in the eddy shouting Swim Luke, swim!
We briefly addressed whether I was okay – really okay (I was) – then proceeded down river, he in his boat and I on foot, toward the other half of our group, my canoe and another check-in.
Deuce, you okay?
Yeah man, I’m good! Sorry y’all had to chase down my boat.
No worries. Just glad you’re okay. How you feeling about it now?
The question had been asked already, but now the answer – the true answer – was pivotal. So, how did I really feel?
We talk a lot in boating about risk management. Paddling, especially whitewater paddling, is an inherently risky activity. I know this because I’ve proffered waivers for signature and signed a few of my own, and they all say it in bold type with fonts larger than the rest of the words on the page. But what is the risk exactly? Drowning? Sure. Injury? Oh yeah; major and/or minor, and perhaps worse than any of the aforementioned, injury to the ego!
But there’s another kind of risk, the kind that was my overarching concern that day. How did I really feel? Honestly, I felt I was getting better by the moment and was probably up to finishing the run, albeit with a lot more swimming. I’d already swallowed half the river and was no worse for the wear. My boat was safe thanks to the crew, the saddle was ready to remount and my paddle was in my hand. After talking things through with the guys I even knew more or less what went wrong; not enough speed leaving the eddy and I needed to have ferried out into mid river rather than simply trying to pick a gradual line down and over.
Here’s the thing though. It wasn’t just about me. The other crew members were there to enjoy a rewarding day on the river, not babysit an open boater who chose to resume his paddling career on one of the most challenging runs in The Natural State. Please understand, no discouraging words were spoken. Not one. My companions were beyond gracious and these thoughts were my own, but they were true and I knew it.
The Hailstone’ll class III you to death.
-Walter Felton
It’s true. There aren’t any rapids rated above III+ or possibly IV depending on the water level (big and pushy that day incidentally), but the Hailstone is a numbers game with little spacing between features, meaning recovery isn’t easy, especially with a canoe full of water thrown in for good measure. In other words, my buddies were in for a long day if I chose to continue downriver, so we conferred and I made a very difficult decision – hike out.
Wherever you are have a good time. You’re gonna be there anyway.
-Alamo Jones
Unintended swimming not withstanding I was having a good day, and I resolved my hike out would be a part of it rather than an ignominious end to it. After all, attitude isn’t any less important off the water than on, and I figured I had it to do so I might as well make the most of it. There was plenty of good news. I had more than enough food and water. I’d made the call before descending fully into the gorge, my boat and gear were all still in fighting shape and so was I – save for the usual bumps, bruises and abrasions that serve as reminders of a day well lived – and best of all, I hadn’t imperiled my crew or their continued enjoyment of the day.
The Hailstone offers the same stunning grandeur as the rest of the Buffalo, only in spades, and while the hike out wouldn’t be easy, particularly with seventy-something pounds of boat and gear in tow, things could be a lot worse. Besides, the keys were hidden on Trey’s van, so I knew after dispatching the shuttle bunny role I’d demoted myself to I’d be able to get to the beer! (Not to worry; I saved some for the boys.)
After helping hand my canoe up the steep bank onto the bench “trail” Trey offered one bit of parting advice.
You’ll be fine. Just don’t get in a hurry.
So, we went, they down river and I up; they by boat and I by foot, alone with Zeke and my thoughts. And there were thoughts; many thoughts, often (if not always) ending with question marks.
What happened? How could I have prevented that swim? Should I have kept going? Should I have come in the first place? How long will it take me to hike out of here? Did I just bumble heedlessly through Poison Ivy the way I bumbled heedlessly into that rapid? Oh, speaking of rapids, this one was fun! Seems like I remember a waterfall just ahead, but I’ll have to wade slooooowly and line the boat to reach it and pass it. This shale is really slick, loose and kinda stabby! That hill’s way too high to climb even without a canoe in tow. Ouch, thorns! This is what I get for leaving Izzy the Adventure Dog at home. Ooooooh, that rock’s a nice place to sit and have a snack.
I passed the next two hours or so in this manner, eventually hitting the road just above Dixon ford.
Not too shabby! Overshot a little, but not by much!
I reached Trey’s van to find the keys exactly where he said they’d be and began to make my way out, carefully negotiating the deeply rutted road and doing my best to find that balance between slow enough not to tear up my buddy’s rig and fast enough to get that two wheel drive behemoth through the tricky spots without sliding back downhill. I chuckled to myself as I pondered the real possibility that the hike out might’ve actually been a little easier than the drive out. Before long I was on the highway and headed back toward the Boxley bridge and my truck.
Because the rack on Trey’s van was too high for one person to easily load a boat onto I’d left Zeke in the trees by Dixon ford. That was the way home anyway, so after parking the van and exchanging pleasantries with the early shift at the takeout I headed back to get him, recalling as I cinched down straps I’d left my PFD in the van. Just as well; I wouldn’t need it before Trey could get it back to me. I wasn’t quite ready to return to reality though, so I headed back to Boxley to retrieve it.
From the bridge I watched as the river made its still rowdy way down to the White and beyond, stopping often to churn up a usually placid eddy or strip more layers of bark from the Willows who’d made the unfortunate decision to take root there. Eventually I left, instinctively turning toward Ponca rather than taking the shorter route back down 21. I lingered at Ponca a moment, taking in the familiar scene of the Buffalo still rushing over the low water bridge though afternoon was rapidly yielding to evening. There were many people passing the same time the same way, but no one interrupted my reverie save for an inquisitive older gentleman.
You fixin’ to put in?
No sir, I actually just took out.
That water’s rollin’!
Yes it is, I chuckled, then I told him the sordid tale.
Damn son, you gonna be back and show that river who’s boss?
I thought about his question. The truth is, I don’t look at river running that way. Whether I style a run or hike out, the river was there when I came and it’ll be there when I’m gone. It didn’t invite me and it owes me nothing. Sure I need skills and confidence to boat it, but show it who’s boss? Nah. I’ll be back – a little more humbled until the story finally does end, but I’ll be back.
See you out there!
Deuce
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Luke, Great read on the Hailstone Trip, we were the group that was putting on just before you guys, The Stone was the biggest I had ever paddled it that day and it was really “juicy”! My first trip on this Arkansas Jewel was in the mid 80’s in my 16 ft Blue Hole, we had no idea what we were getting into, It was almost as big as it was a few weeks ago but we made it. I know you made a good decision that day, its no shame to say it just was not my day. Love the adventuregram, keep it up!
Rick, the encouragement is much appreciated. There’s no community like the paddling community!
I love your words and recollection in writ. Thanks for the almost 3 months of paddling. We gota go do the Hailstone soon again, let me know day or night.
Tell Gracie…miss her already
SYOTR
Chunkie Cheese
Thanks Chuckles! Sure am missing you up here. Got kinda used to having you around!
Good story telling Luke! forget the humble bit, not worth the effort 😉
Wait, I thought you were trying to humble me those times you whacked my hands with a paddle. I mean, you said it was because I was grabbing the gunwales, but I always figured humbling was the real reason!
Luke – I am so glad you did not get killed and that you decided to walk before you took a worse swim and or endangered your friends. I’m sorry you had to discover that the rust of skills doesn’t fall off automatically as soon as you get back on the water. I hope you seriously carefully plan on working your way back up before you tackle Richland Creek or the Cosatot and that you keep wearing your helmet. I’m not going to be with you unless I am in my Overflow X and probably not even then. My knee and now hip are saying don’t go places you might have to walk out of, cause you are now a VERY poor hiker. I still sea kayak more than most people paddle, but I haven’t been in any of my canoes in five years due to four total knee replacements to my right knee and I am opting not to have hip surgery at 68. You might see me running shuttle or teaching rolling, but my trips are almost all scenic now and timed around when I last took a pain pill. I will follow your adventures when you take them, but I look forward to sharing a campfire with you after a Buffalo float in dry weather. Stay safe and healthy.
Sounds great, Eric! Thanks for the kind words.