A ritual toast to the rivers of the world, "Here's to life!" I shout, and drink deep from the icy clean water, mixed from the melting of a hundred winter snows on the Divide. Every river I pass - the Lochsa, South Fork of the Clearwater, Salmon and Little Salmon - is pumping and high, with swells and waves rushing past. Three hours later I whip down past the Cascade Reservoir, look over and see that the release pipes are going full bore. The overflow channel is a solid flume of white shooting hundreds of feet through the air. Below, the riverbed is flooded. And then I know for sure - the North Fork's going to be good.

There's a limit to the bridles you can put on a river like this, and in the spring when the snow starts melting, there isn't much the Bureau of Reclamation can do at the Cascade Dam except open the floodgates and pray. Even at normal levels on the North Fork there are plenty of lost or ruined boats, boats wrapped around boulders, paddles destroyed. There have also been countless injuries - including deep bone bruises, teeth knocked loose, stitches, and dislocated shoulders - and several deaths. There probably would be more carnage except that when the water gets up, the river looks so mean nobody wants to tangle with it. To some of us, however, there is beauty in its power, rolling wild and free.

I soon meet up with my friend Greg to make a run. Greg's a good man, a reporter, writer, cabinet maker, a thoughtful guy who likes a challenge, whether it's shaping a block of wood for a table, or taking on a wild thing of a river. Greg and I have run the river together lots of times over the years, but if it's Class V at the normal flows, at 6,000 cubic feet a second you have to start scratching your head. Is it Class VI? Class VII? Class VIII? Who knows? The numbers don't matter anymore at this level. It's solid romping water, moving upwards of 35 miles per hour. But there's a problem with this river. It's Class V at any level. And once you've been on it when the water gets up, you have to redefine Class V. Normal flows and definitions just don't cut it anymore.

We put on at the top and paddle downstream, rounding the corners into Steepness, the first rapid. How to describe it? Close your eyes and feel the thing. It explodes, writhes underneath you, thrashing and punching at you. When you start out, your reflexes are always behind because everything's happening twice as fast as anything you've ever seen. It's like playing your kid's video game with the 3-D images and the motorcycle that goes 150 mph. The world whizzes by at breakneck speed, you hit a ramp and launch 200 feet into the air, hurtling through space and then ripping through the top of a palm tree. Only the North Fork is real. The tree isn't some fake soft-fronded palm, it's a 60-foot-long, anvil-hard Ponderosa blocking a corner as you pound straight toward the thing.

When you head into a huge rapid, there's a sense of disbelief. If it's a big rapid, the river drops off the face of the earth - all you see is a horizon line of humped-up dark water. You feel like you're revving your car straight for the edge of a cliff. You come up on it blindly and the whole rapid is somewhere on the other side, unseen. All the power of the world seethes beneath you. You feel it welling up and accelerating, pulling at you like a bronc in the stall, muscles tensing, ready for the gate to open.

The bronc's will is to break away, to fight every barrier and kick and snort and go like a hellion any way it can. A bad bronc might have some bad attitude toward you; he might feel those spurs and set you up. But this bronc is liquid and weighs thousands of tons and doesn't think and doesn't care. So you hang on the expectancy as you paddle toward that horizon line. Then, you slip over it - the bronc's cut loose and you're out of the gate. People think all that power means you have to be aggressive and attack, but that's not so. The water is the vessel of all opposites, hard but supple, complex and simple, and you can never forget that. You sometimes get carried away by the excitement, but you have to watch each reminder. It takes a clear head and calm nerves to run a river like this, you can't fight it or oppose its force. All that chaos has to be worked with smoothly, matching everything you do to the mood of the water. If you do it right you'll become a part of Nature's flow. And there's never any malice in the water's action. It just is, and it can't be anything different. If you find yourself wishing it was something different, then that just means you have more to learn.

We run down through Nutcracker, Disneyland, Double S-Turn and Slide, one after the other into the meat of the run. Huge geysering drops that never stop, they just go and go, merging into one another. It's manic, like a roller coaster cruising down a broken, mangled railway - one endless, massive derailment, pounding and shaking the ground as you scout along the bank for most of a mile before eventually saying, "I know the line." Then you get in and become part of all that pounding and shaking. It's our element and we're on, rapid after rapid - Bad Jose, No Where to Run, Bouncer, Down the Middle.

Then we come to Jacob's Ladder, a long gradual left turn, one of the narrowest and steepest parts of the river - and the most intimidating. At 6,000 cfs, the water funnels into a flume and when it hits the first ledges, it humps up into exploding waves that break violently across the river, up into the boulders on the bank. Miss the move, and you'll be surfed up into the rocks and ripped apart. The word is, just don't miss that move! Then it drives down a straightaway to slam into a river-wide hole 10 feet high. If you get through that, it lunges down another huge drop and slams into this Thing. You could sort-of call this Thing a hole, but it looks like the water's gushing out of the earth itself in a huge mounding pile the size of an 18-wheeler. Then, you have a half mile of Golf Course, winding, exploding, huge with 12-foot-deep holes and logs along the side. Enjoy.

We stand at the bottom of Jacob's and scout. "So, what would you call this, Professor?" I ask Greg.

Greg rubs his neatly trimmed beard and hmmms and then hmmms some more. Finally he says, "It's Class VI-plus. The limit of controlled navigability." A pause and another hmmm. "I guess it might be possible to wash through something harder and still be alive, but..." He lets the sentence dangle in the air because there isn't much point in finishing it. Then he adds, "I'm not trying it." He waves toward the end of Golf Course, a long, long way downstream. "I'm putting in at the bottom."

"Well, I'm running it," I say. "Watch for me."

Kayaking is "free soloing," like climbing without a rope. You push out into the current and deal with what's there, come what may. There's this great purity because it's always just a one-shot deal. You get one chance only and you have to lay your best shot on the line. In water like this, it's everything you've got. So all the thinking and pondering has to come before, all the considering of safety and lines and weighing and assessing the moves. You have to answer the question, "Can I do it?" If you say yes, you pull into the current and deal.

I do so. Down the lead-in to Jacob's, cutting through the breaking waves and driving straight into the close-out hole. As I hit, I flatten myself on the deck with paddle feathered out so it doesn't get ripped out of my hand, and I submarine through. A quick spin back to the left and the river gives me a straight flush into the Thing. It's towering over my head and thwwuuup, I'm into the center of it - all froth and deep, deep, deep until I erupt out the backside, then, spinning and cutting and rodeoing through Golf Course. It comes and comes and I twist and move with the coiling water. My boat gets shot completely into the air, punching through endless exploding waves and holes.

A long way down, after 80 seconds of bizarre dealing, I pull into the eddy where Greg is, panting with muscles screaming for rest. I bob there, breathing heavily and hanging onto the branch of a tree that has toppled over into the water. Greg looks upstream, then back at me. "Commendable paddling," he says.

"Thanks," I say between pants.

We still have another six miles out of 15, but we both know we're through the worst. Everything's gone smoothly - even at this monstrous water level - and I let down a notch. Another mile downstream, we eddy out at the top of Jaws. It's a long rapid, the river flushing back and forth for turn after turn, piling against the rock walls on one side, and boulders and ledges on the other. We get through unscathed. One big rapid left, and then we're off to the lower five miles and big-time water right to the take out. Greg smiles, gives a little nod, and peels out of the eddy. I wait a few seconds - not long enough - and paddle into the rapid 30 yards behind him.

Suddenly, we're hurling along as fast as a runaway car down a steep mountain, bouncing and slamming and jumping. Huge waves launch up before me. Whoosh! Over the top, the explosion at the crest kicks me out of the air and I balance and fly. For an instant I can see far down the river, then the water shudders with a huge twist and a surge shoves me one way, then lurches up, grabs and rips at the paddle. Greg's far ahead, popping up, then gone. Then I'm up at the top of another wave and Greg pops up, his boat skipping away to the right. I hunker down and brace because I know I'm about to hit a big hole. I crest the wave and there it is, an erupting white wall. It's all reflex. I get small, with my head on the deck and the paddle feathered into the hole, shoulders hunched so they won't dislocate. I dive into the thing and it bucks me wildly. Like Greg, I'm shot, skipping far right by a manic, driving power.

It's wonderful and we're cooking. Then suddenly I'm right on Greg's tail, and shocked we're so close. Jesus! Get away, I think, or he'll hit a hole and my boat will break him in half. A split second decision. I spin the boat and try to put some distance between us. Little thoughts fly through my mind: Get away, get away...spin and move away. But the river takes anything you give it and hammers you over the head. A wave catches and throws me, kayak and all, 15 feet through the air to the side. I land upside-down and the water's all rushing bubbles, gushing into my face and tearing at the paddle. We still have another long corner before the crux - but anywhere in here I could slam a rock and get knocked out. Get up! A quick sweep of my paddle, and I'm upright and moving. Then, damn, Greg shoots upward out of a hole right across my path. If I come down on him when he's caught, I'll either kill him with my boat, or he'll kill me.

I backpaddle again, trying to get away, but the river is pounding around the corner above the crux. We have to get right - the whole left side plunges over a big ledge into this nasty, bullshit place we call Dome Hole, one of the ugliest holes on the river. I spin right and start making my move, but out of nowhere Greg shoots in front of me again and I'm backpaddling to get away. Another wave explodes underneath me and I'm airborne, flying upside-down way to the left. I land head down, start rolling, then I'm crushed into a rock.

Stars explode in front of my eyes and a huge, sharp, cracking pain explodes in my head and shoulder and back as my body crumples around the rock, narrow and sharp on the front, cutting the water apart like the prow of a ship. For an instant, I can feel the water smashing me against it. The pain's overwhelming and my head fills with lights and then I wash free upside-down, stunned and seeing stars with a sharp, metallic taste in my mouth.

I'm hurt bad, and I know it. The water's wash-boarding across a shelf of boulders, slamming every one. Greg's over to the right, and I'm way left and hurt and I know Dome Hole is just downstream. My mind screams, "It's shallow, shallow, shallow! You'll hit again. Get up!" I roll with pain piercing through my neck, shoulder and back, and I just get upright as my knuckles rip across another boulder, tearing the skin off my hand. I look down at the blood sprouting bright red from the knuckles and bone but I don't have time for any of that. No time, no time, get back right.

The river turns sharply right and the water drives high up onto the left bank, waves breaking back onto me so I can't turn. I have 40 yards, a couple seconds to move right. I sweep hard to spin the boat. There's a sharp grating of bone-on-bone and I gasp as a lightning bolt of pain stabs through my neck. I sweep again and there's another bright flash and a wave of nausea as the bones scrape across each other. A little voice says, "Broke your collarbone in half..." The thought is there but it's just another of millions that don't matter in a world rushing by faster than I can reel in.

The water doesn't stop, it never stops, and I'm washing away and my head's ringing and I'm fighting to stay upright, but the boat's slipping over the washboard rocks, skipping and ricocheting, and my head and shoulder and back are white-hot pain. The Dome Hole. It's just downstream. I know it's there, and I'm calm, but I know the whole river is carrying me right at it.

The metallic taste fills my mouth and I sweep a third time to another explosion of pain. I'm not mad, frustrated, or scared. I'm just thinking, "Make the move." But the water is flushing me left, and I'm bearing down on the corner. Suddenly, I know I can't make it. I glance and see a big curling wave on the ramp above Dome Hole and know I have one chance to take a stroke and catch the wave enough to surf it back to the right, away from the gut of the hole. I've got maybe a second watching it coming and setting my backstroke, then I'm swept up on the wave and it breaks down on me and I stroke and - nothing happens. My right arm doesn't work, it's paralyzed. I'm willing it to work, but my torso screams back at me with another explosion of pain. Time freezes, then the curling wave lifts me up, spins the boat effortlessly, and flushes me backwards down the ramp into the biggest hole on the river. I'm calm, looking up into the blue sky and thinking, "I'm in for it now."

I hit the bottom, and the water drives me down and the river cartwheels the boat end-for-end like a kid's toy. I feel the boat airborne and I twist it, cranking my body to the left as the boat flies out and twists upright. For an instant I'm balanced. Then I'm sucked back down into the gut of the thing and can feel it driving me deep, and then the boat surges out of the water, rising and airborne in another cartwheel and I hang my weight back and twist and drive the boat with my knees as it flips through the air. I land high on the backwash. I can feel I'm way high up near the balance point on the crest and I know this is my only chance. I dig my paddle deep into the bursting water and pull. I pull and pull with my bad arm as the hole yanks and rips my paddle and the pain explodes in lights flashing through my body. Waves of nausea flush through me like the water, and my arm and back are locked up and I can't move them but I keep pulling with everything I have. And then I wash free. My balance is almost gone, I'm fighting to stay upright, spots dancing in front of me, nausea pulsing. My whole right side has seized up. That grating bone pain pierces deep inside me, and I'm thinking, "You have to get out of here or you're dead."

Another 150 yards, around the next corner, there's an eddy, and it's the only chance I've got. I can hardly keep from flipping, muscles seizing and refusing to work, my body's gone rigid. The bright piercing pain is everywhere now. I can't move my paddle on my right and so I lock my arm down against the deck and brace left and get hit again and again down through the last big holes and breaking waves of the rapid, totally at the mercy of the water, trying to stay upright because I know I can't roll if I go under again.

If I wash past the eddy I've had it. There's another big rapid below that's a half-mile long and I can't do it, I can't swim in this shit. I round the corner turning toward the eddy, but the current spins me as I hit the eddywall, shoving me back out into the river. I'm swept downstream. Exhausted, muscles locked up, panting, I concentrate and lean on my left blade, weakly sculling and trying to time my turn. I finally get the right angle and wash into the end of the eddy. The water sloshes back and forth like it's in a huge tank, and I scull and spin to the bank and grab onto a rock with my left hand. I sit there fighting to stay conscious, concentrating on a piece of driftwood in the water as the spots and nausea and the whole world grows and fades in pulses.

Greg pulls into the eddy. "What a rapid!" he yells out. He's half laughing, amazed at how wild it was. He hadn't even seen what happened to me because he'd been too busy dealing with his own epic. Then he notices I'm bent over. "Are you okay?"

"Broke my collarbone, I think. Can't move." He quickly gets out of his boat and stands in the water holding onto me. Dazed and nearly paralyzed, I keep concentrating on that little piece of driftwood in front of me, flipping and washed back and forth by the waves. Greg helps me out of my boat. We cut off my drytop and flag down a truck on the highway. A few hours later at the hospital they poke me and make their CAT scans and X-rays and shoot me full of Demerol. They find a dislocated collarbone, separated shoulder, ripped cartilage along my ribs and down my sternum, badly bruised shoulder blade, and torn muscles from my neck to my shoulder and all down my back. The river stomped me. But I made the eddy.

That was six years ago, I've been back since and paddled the river many times. I'm as recovered as I'll ever be, and it's good enough I guess. My collarbone still pops and snaps, the shoulder still hurts. When I get tired, the muscles in my neck lock up. But you take your lumps and try to come away the wiser for it. Six inches to the right and I would have caught the entire force of the rock on my helmet, been knocked unconscious and drowned. Six inches to the left and I would have taken the hit on my lifejacket. Life sometimes hangs on the details. Make of that what you want.

I was on the water late that fall, three months after the accident with a group of friends. I wasn't healed, but the water was low and not nearly as difficult. It was a great Indian summer day and I love paddling and I love that river, even if it almost killed me. As we got to Jaws, we eddied out and one of my buddies said, "Where's that rock? Show us that damn rock and let's dynamite the thing!" I laughed and let them go ahead, this time with plenty of room. I hung back thinking about that day, still sharp in my mind and the pain in my shoulder. I ran the rapid cautiously, well behind the others, making moves cleanly and trying to find the same boulder.