It's past eleven and pouring rain. We're driving slowly down the backroads outside Salida, Colo., looking for a place to camp. Our truck is so disgusting it's funny; I barely have room to sit. Looking down at my feet, I can see crumpled Egg McMuffin wrappers, a bib from the last rodeo, a Frisbee, a broken paddle blade, and a few beat-up books. The climate control hasn't worked since Boise, the clutch is shot, and I knocked off one of the mirrors unloading boats. We're blasting Fishbone on the stereo to keep ourselves awake (out of what speakers I haven't blown) and I've been wearing the same clothes for six days—filthy basketball shorts and the same capilene paddling T-shirt.
Welcome to life on the pro freestyle circuit, where the best paddlers in the world travel from competition to competition, living on Powerbars, beer, and the undying belief that life is wonderful as long as a job doesn't interfere with boating—all day, everyday. From early spring through mid-fall, kayakers from all reaches of the planet congregate on the National Organization of Whitewater Rodeos circuit, traveling in packs from location to location, competing at a different site every weekend. Rodeos are held all over North America, in just about every state or province with whitewater (even Wisconsin hosts an event). Typically, each contestant will have three "rides," usually about thirty seconds long. The idea is to go end-over-end continuously in as many ways as possible. Competitors receive a score based on how many moves they perform, the number of different moves, and how well they perform the moves. Almost everyone competes in kayaks, but there are also categories for C-1s and open canoes. A top rodeo boater can make difficult tricks look smooth and graceful. A less-skilled paddler looks stuck in a huge, angry blender.
Training Season...
In the off-season, we do the usual things to be able to afford spending time doing nothing but paddling. We write frantic, semi-literate pleas to sponsors. We might "push rubber" (guide rafts), make whitewater videos, or lead kayaking trips, everywhere from Nepal to Ecuador to Zambia. Many pursue their drug of choice—adrenaline—on the slopes, snowboard instructing or ski patrolling at places like Whistler-Blackcomb or Jackson Hole. A few hapless souls die the slow death known as "getting a real job." On the circuit, these folks are easy to recognize: they don't have to eat out of dumpsters until at least the second month of competition. There's also a handful of "Trustafarians." For top competitors, the months before the circuit can be the best time for training. Travel and competitions don't interfere with boating. Many paddlers will live at sites where they can hone their skills, braving miserable weather and worse living conditions. Famous holes like Rock Island, Tennessee, and the Full James, in New Zealand, become home for the winter. A typical day includes two paddling sessions, two huge meals, and a six-pack of the cheapest beer available.
And it Begins...
Folks tend to start the season with a serious attitude; goals are set ("I will win every rodeo by at least a hundred points"), promises are made ("I will not total the Perception RV this year"), and hopes run high. At the hole in Maupin, Ore. (a mediocre hole due to low water), in early May, we had to wait in line for almost an hour the day before the event. Over two months later, lines for the hole in Durango, Colo. (an absolutely great play-spot) were never more than a few minutes.
Often, however, Mother Nature can stir things up. We got to the point where we'd start convulsing when a local at each site would remark, "Boy, winter sure is staying around late this year!" We'd get used to boating in snow, hail, and freezing rain, then setting up tents in the same conditions a few hours later. My typical outfit from late April until the end of May (during which we competed in Virginia, Oregon, Washington State, Montana, Wyoming, and Utah) consisted of the following: helmet, PFD, skirt, skullcap, Gore-Tex drysuit, pogies, thin capilene tops and bottoms, thick fleece top, fleece socks and booties. And since we paddled all day, living out of a truck, nothing ever had a chance to dry.
We quickly learned the one rule on the circuit was that no hole was ever the right level. The New River was too low, the Clackamas was so high that Bob's Hole was a small wave. The Swan was so low due to cold weather that the rodeo turned into a "freestyle-through-a-rapid" competition, in which each contestant would paddle through a short section of river, doing tricks as they went. At first, we whined and moaned that none of the holes were perfect. Eventually, we realized that we were still living the best life we could imagine, even if Trestle Hole was 1,000 cfs too small.
In the Thick of it...
During the circuit, folks tend to travel together, training at the same local holes and running the best nearby creeks. But certain groups, usually defined by sponsors, tend to emerge. The Riot squad, a rowdy bunch from all over the world, were known for staying up all night partying, stumbling over to the hole on the morning of the event, and somehow still managing to kick everyone's butt. Team Dagger had a clean-cut, All-American image, while Wave Sport paddlers boasted dyed hair, piercings, and skateboards.
Not everyone loves each other but we tend to get along. The rodeos are often very competitive, and many athletes take the events seriously. But each boater cheers for the others, and if someone starts to "go off" (have a good ride), everyone gets excited. We formed a huge, highly dysfunctional family, a fraternity based on paddling and everything that comes with the sport (alcohol, other recreational substances, complete lack of a social life, and frequent injuries). Gossip centered on who had recent close calls ("Sammy Splitwheel pinned on a log on Vallecito Creek for six hours yesterday"), who had been looking good in the holes ("Cassy Cartwheel got a three-billion pointer at Redsides last Friday") and the latest romantic developments ("I haven't had physical contact with the opposite sex in over a decade now").
Approaching the Take-Out...
As the lifestyle takes it toll, things become less serious. There are obvious signs that the circuit is winding down. Once, I asked a top paddler why he was still wearing street clothes a few minutes before the event. He raised a big cup of beer in salute and replied, "I'm not going to waste forty-five bucks on the entry fee when I can drink all day and have just as good a time." While training was paramount early in the season, many paddlers abandoned the hole in order to throw themselves down the scariest local runs. A recent guidebook rated a certain creek Class VI- up to 400 cfs; circuit boaters would routinely paddle the run at 1000 cfs. There were many days when I would drag my exhausted body into the local pizza parlor at dinnertime, amazed that I was still in one piece. Freestyle kayaking may be tiring, frustrating, wet, and cold, but at least it's relatively safe.
There are awful moments on the circuit—choking at a big event a few minutes after a great practice ride; swimming on an ice-cold river during a hail-storm; eating fast-food every day for months on end until I thought if I saw another seven-layer burrito my frontal lobe would fuse. But afterwards, when friends would ask me if I plan to go back and spend more time on the freestyle circuit, my answer comes quickly: "I’ll see you next year."
