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< Sept/Oct 2000
	Olympic Preview
A Preview of the Coming Games

There's no eddying out. Rodeo paddler Aleta Miller is committed. Charging left, she flails her arms wildly, dodging blows that come from all directions. Then, she catches one out of nowhere, blindsiding her and knocking her off balance. "Don't tip over on this one," she thinks. "Not now." Never before had she been in waters like this. All she can do is roll with the punches. A collective roar rises from the crowd. Craning my head around the referee, I glimpse Shannon Carroll delivering the coup de grace. Aleta catches the haymaker square on the chin and stumbles back into the crowd.

I hadn't known what to expect at Gauley Fest, but it certainly wasn't a two-in-the-morning boxing match, complete with regulation gloves and ringside referees, pitting two of the country's top female paddlers against each another.

Gauley Fest. In 14 years of western boating, I'd always heard about it, but it was lifestyles away, rumors and stories filtering across the Mississippi. I'd heard about its namesake river also: two sections, the Lower and Upper, each boasting some of the best whitewater in the East. And I'd seen the poster--who hasn't?--with rafts disappearing into fog percolating through massive boulders.

To experience the festival firsthand, a watery Woodstock showcasing the East's best paddling and partying, I needed back-up, a partner who could score a hall pass and who knew how to boat and cut loose--not necessarily in that order. Bruce Edgerly, a long-time boating buddy from Boulder, Colo., took the bait. "That's exactly what Frequent Flier miles are for," he said when I popped the question.

The festival's prominence made itself known on the commuter flight from Washington Dulles to Charleston, W.V. "Hey Eugene," came a voice from a few rows back. "Heading to the Fest?" The voice, belonging to Dick DeChant, owner of California's Hyside Inflatables, carried over the heads of even more people heading back East from out West--the Teva crew, eight in all, who had just flown from Santa Barbara. On a plane that sat 20, 12 were on their way to Gauley Fest.

Kyle, a former east coast tech rep for Teva, was a festival regular and he quickly clued us in to local ways. Hurricane Floyd had missed the area, meaning it was still in drought. Everything was dry but the Gauley and Upper Yough. He also advised us to stick around for the annual Pimp n' Ho' Ball, held in an abandoned schoolhouse for locals and other riffraff once the masses had departed. This year would be bigger than normal as it would fall on a Monday--the last water release day--meaning hangovers were fair game for Tuesday. As the plane's lights glowed on the landing strip, he offered one more piece of advice. "To avoid road blocks and check points, stay on the main highway. It's the people who freak out and turn off onto the ramps who get caught." Rumors from the previous year had cops beefing-up their patrols and stopping any car with kayaks on top. This year would even see a pair of cops put kayaks on top of an unmarked car to blend in with the crowd.

We needn't have worried. Picking us up at our Super 8 the next morning in a 4X4 van with a 2X4 rack was Wayne Amsbary, a long-time Gauley video boater who grew up in the area and schooled at Clemson. Joining him was Zip, whose long blond hair matched Wayne's lock for lock. Our partners fit the profile of the typical attendee. Both were dead broke, blowing off what work they did have to go paddling. Wayne blew off video boating just to show us around. "I think the Upper Yough's going," he said over a breakfast of grits and eggs at Shoney's. A quick call to Mountain Surf, located at the take-out, confirmed the rumor and off we raced to beat the release. At Friendsville, we parked behind two women in a Starrk Moon Kayaks van. "You guys heading to the put-in?" Wayne asked. "Nope," they replied. "We're saving ourselves for the Gauley."

With only four days, we weren't saving ourselves for anything. We caught the main group--and water release--about halfway down. At the take-out we ran into Mountain Surf owner John Mason, who was packing his van for the Gauley. After a quick beer--and a promise to boat together--we headed south to Summersville. Car after car passed us on the highway, all topped with kayaks and all heading to the Nicholas County Fairgrounds. "It looks like everyone's going to a Dead show," said Zip, who looked like he knew what he was talking about.

That's what Gauley Fest is like--a Dead Show. Only instead of wearing tie-dyes, everyone's in boating equipment, and instead of coming to see Jerry, they come to paddle the Gauley. And it's comprised of groupies, people who plan their whole year around a single event that isn't even based on a competition. Unlike other river festivals, the only competition comes from fighting your way through the beer line, vying for a dance partner or jockeying for position to surf a wave. Although the river runs over six four-day weekends every fall, it's only during one of them that American Whitewater (AW) converts the fairgrounds into the world's largest whitewater party--one that would do Jerry proud.

Though it might seem lost in the mayhem, the event does have a cause. It was first held in 1983 by a group of boaters rallying to block a hydro project on the river. Now it's a fundraiser for other access issues. "At the first one everyone just circled up their cars with music, beer and campstoves," said Risa Shimoda-Callaway, who has attended all 16. "It was more seat-of-your-pants." But she admits to a reason behind the debauchery: "There was a sense of urgency about protecting the river. Its releases were threatened, and the event served as a platform to protect it. If people realize the event helped save the Gauley, then it's serving its purpose."

Whatever its purpose--to raise money for conservation or provide an excuse to party like rock stars--the event has made waves as big as those on the river itself. Even the Washington Post paid tribute, running a story on Gauley Fest in its travel section.

After paying eight bucks each at the check-in gate for two nights of wall-to-wall camping with 3,500 other boaters, we were in. If most people drive in pairs, it's safe to say we had to thread our way through 1,700 kayak-topped cars taking up row after row of fairground real estate. Driving down dead-end passageways capped by buses, mini-vans and SUVs, we finally scrunched into a campsite. Our little chunk of Gauley Fest paradise. If you ever want to compare hull shapes, this is the place. Thirty-five hundred of them, all at eye level. It was like looking at cars at an auto show, with everything from speckled squirt boats to old school Crossfires topping every car in sight.

After setting up camp, we picked our way through the crowd for the last set by Fox Trot Zulu. It wasn't Jerry, but Jerry never played a stone's throw from world class whitewater.

Bam, bam, bam. The sound of stakes being hammered into the ground woke us early. Poking my head out the tent, I nearly got a shiner from a truck bumper just inches away. North Carolina plates. In the middle of the night, they had wedged-in next to us, decreasing our slice of Appalachia pie. By 8 a.m., our neighbors had all had a beer and a cigarette, and were taking turns peeling the red strips off bologna and frying the slices one by one.

Our breakfast of PBJs wasn't much better. But it got us out of the fairgrounds early, and we were soon on our way to the put-in. Our first glimpse of the mayhem came courtesy of the Summersville Dam, whose giant jets fuel the festival. Driving across it, I craned my head out the window to a mob scene, complete with rangers directing traffic. A fake excuse let us pass to the put-in where we tracked down Perception's Woody Callaway for a boat. "You want the smallest boat you can find," said Clay Wright, unloading the shuttle rig. "At least that way you can still do wave wheels while everyone else is waiting to surf."

The crowds came in the form of rubber as well as polyethylene. On the bathroom wall, graffiti summed up local sentiments: "Keep Wild West Virginia Clean...Kill a Rafter" and "Rafters Eat Roadkill." But there's good reason for the river's popularity: its whitewater. Rapids like Pillow Rock, Iron Ring and Sweet's Falls line up like festival-goers at a morning outhouse. Every eddy is an all star line-up, a Who's Who of kayaking. I shared the eddy at Insignificant with such notables as Eric Jackson, Charlie Walbridge, Ken Whiting, Eric Southwick, Simon Wiscombe, Dan De la Vergne, Shannon Carroll, BJ Johnson, Mojo Rogers, Clay Wright and Dan Gavere.

"It humbles you a little bit when you come from out West, doesn't it?" said Curt Burge, a friend from Colorado, after we witnessed an effortless seven-spin ride by an eastern no-name. "There are a hell of a lot of good boaters out here."

Milking every available playspot until the release trickled away, we took out just in time to catch the last U-Haul carrying boats out of the gorge, leaving us with a 20-minute hike up Panther Trail. A few good-ol'-boys waved us over from rocking chairs on a trailer porch as we drove home. "Come have a beer," they invited. We drove on.

Back on the highway, traffic had backed up 20 minutes just to reach the fairgrounds exit. Inside, the festival was in full swing. Although there were countless sub-party areas, the main festivities took place in a ribboned-off area where a large circle of booths met at a stage to give it the air of a flea market. Commanding the center were giant RVs owned by Perception and Teva, each serving up beer and music.

Making the rounds, I grabbed a peppers-and-onion polish dog and ran into Chris Emerick, a typical Gauley Fest attendee who showed up with only a sleeping bag and pad, planning to borrow everything else. A visit to an apparel booth unearthed another. "Hey, do you work here?" a visitor asked. "I blew out the gasket on my drytop." Many vendors turned vaudeville by organizing sideshows. Dagger held a Cross-dressing-with-Cucumbers contest, and Perception had participants going from buck naked to full paddle gear.

Dancing filled the remainder of the evening until my eyelids, tired from getting peeled back during the day and squinting into the park lights at night, forced me back to my tent. Just as I settled into a warm bag, a loud roar wafted over the cartops. Its source: an impromptu boxing ring, complete with referee. I got back out, picked my way through cars like a rat in a maze, and saw the crowd encouraging two guys wailing on each other. Then came Aleta Miller and Shannon Carroll. "But I don't want to hit you," pleaded Aleta, as they touched gloves for a friendly bout.

Where their styles may be similar on the water, in the boxing ring they are anything but. Aleta's pivot-from-the-elbow fly swats were no match for Shannon's errant haymakers. When the girls were through, the guys took center stage again until no one else came forward to challenge the men's champ. The matches then followed the natural drunken progression to wrestling and chicken fights before Summersville's finest closed down the show.

We awoke again to the sound of hammers, this time being used by vendors to tear down their booths. The whole thing lasted just six hours, from six to midnight. In the field, people were moving slowly. Aleta, in particular, looked worse for the wear. A bad start would get worse at the local Shoney's when, after forgetting to pay for gas, Nicholas County's finest politely reminded her.

Day two on the Upper saw little trouble, and a personal break-through with my first ride-the-entire-wall splat below Sweet's Falls. After breaking camp, we headed back to the put-in to sleep, where flickering light from Woody's RV VCR sucked us into watching Austin Powers with the rodeo crowd.

It wasn't stakes, but sirens announcing the day's water release that woke us the next morning. Low-lying clouds shrouded the river, making it as misty as people's heads. It reminded me of the Gauley I had seen on the poster. While several folks debated about whether to paddle or save energy for the Pimp n' Ho', someone else organized an impromptu rodeo, charging $20 a pop--winner take all--for a contest at four different playspots. We passed the group about halfway down, content to wallow in our western mediocrity.

By the end of Day Four I felt like I had been on the Grand or rodeo tour for a month. We had been living the dream for half a week, not knowing where we'd sleep, where the next meal would come from, or what section of river we'd boat. I had slept in my jeans four nights in a row, subsisted on fast food and boated my ass off. It was beginning to take its toll. My ailments read like I was the one who had stepped into the ring: a tweaked stomach from swapping ends; two rubbed-raw "Mr. Clean" toes; a bloody thumb knuckle from rolling; dry hands in need of bag balm; a chafing neck gasket ring; eyelids still reeling from peeling on Insignificant; a whack to the helmet in Iron Ring; post-padding nasal drip; and, of course, the general tiredness and euphoria that comes from paddling and partying.

The real party, of course, was yet to come. With obligations back home, Edge couldn't make the Pimp n' Ho', so I bid him farewell and headed out solo for the weekend's climax.

Now I was alone in West Virginia, its peculiarities greeting me on the way back to Fayetteville. "Two bedroom apartment for rent: $150," read one sign. "Pit Bull pups for sale," read another. At a gas station, the headline of the Register-Herald said, "Gun Club's Aim Holds True." After negotiating several wrong turns flanked by no trespassing signs in the Fayetteville backwoods, the Teva van was a welcome sight. Back with my own kind.

In only its third year, the Pimp n' Ho' Ball has become a badge of courage for Festival goers, a mini-Gauley Fest every bit as core as its predecessor. Held in an abandoned schoolhouse, complete with broken windows and classrooms converted to house a climbing gym and halfpipe, the party is the brainchild of local video boater Matt Darpli. After getting waved into a grassy parking lot by an attendant, I found him, dressed in pimp attire, talking to one of 14 private bouncers hired to keep the Fayetteville police at bay. He gave me a wrist band, a wad of fake money and led me inside past one of 24 kegs to a VIP room upstairs. Inside, various insiders were putting on make-up and costumes and indulging in various pre-party activities. "There's no party or dance scene in Fayetteville," Darpli said. "We wanted to create a party where people could check their inhibitions at the door." The people funneling in were doing just that. One guy was dressed up as a girl with a mattress strapped to her back. A woman strutted around topless, save for baby bottle nipples glued to her own. "This whole thing went from a random event to an industry-sanctioned party quickly," he continued, adding that 20 sponsors now backed the event. From 350 people attending the first one held at a church, the event drew 600 people its second year and Darpli capped it at 1,000 this year.

Below our balcony, the school gymnasium had been converted into a dance floor complete with cage dancing and chain link fence covering the walls. It had the motif of a ghetto. Mist from dry ice machines filtered through the dance cages like fog devouring the Gauley. Raw energy was being expelled like water from the Summersville Dam. "It's not easy living on a round planet that moves," said one bleary-eyed dancer in the mosh pit. "That wave at Insignificant is like sex on acid," said another.

I had to get out. The Perception RV was home base, every bit as much as the eddy above Sweet's Falls. Their crowd, too, was getting ready to rage. Veronica Griner emerged as a slutty schoolgirl. Woody came in a cape and necklace, with hip pads glued onto his Tevas, adding another four inches to his 6'3" frame. Rodeo paddler Kelly Murphy appeared shaking a set of tail feathers. I knew then why Woody had plugged in Austin Powers on his RV's VCR. They were getting primed. "You bee-have," said a too-tall Woody to an approaching lass.

Then nostalgia caught up with him, as he realized this marked a passing of the torch to a new generation of paddler. "We're the old school that understands the new school," he said, waving his hand across the crowd. "But it's still the same energy we had when we were young, and the same love for rivers and paddling." He was right. Apart from the costumes, the Pimp n' Ho' captured the same energy the Gauley Fest did years ago.

By the time I came to, my watch read 3 a.m. My wife would have been proud that I left early--but not with what I was wearing. Instead of wearing jeans to bed to cut the cold, I was now in bright red, polyester, bun-huggers. Making matters worse, Zip drove away early in the morning with my real clothes, forcing me to resurface sober in the flaming red trousers. Crawling out of my tent, I hurriedly made my way over to Woodyville to borrow a pair of shorts. A trail of Kelly's tail feathers led up the steps to the RV. Inside people were moving slowly, having trouble filtering coffee.

On a table nearby, a stack of homemade fliers touted the next gathering: the Bunch's Boater Bash at the Asheville Pizza and Brewing Co. Those who could afford the time and braincells would make their way south and circle their cars at yet another river gathering, just like the early Gauley Fest pioneers did years ago.

--This year's Gauley Fest will be held Saturday, Sept. 16. (Note that this is a week earlier than the traditional date.) For more information, contact Phyllis Horowitz, Box 636, Margaretville, NY 12455; (914) 586-2355.

Gauley Fest Survival Tips

• Bring earplugs to block out early morning risers

• Don't set your tent up in the field; move it into the trees to avoid sun and noise

• If you're planning on driving around at night, take your boats off your car to avoid rousing suspicion from the law

• Bring a camp chair or two

• Don't hang your clothes up outside to dry at night--they won't

• Go for the all-you-can eat pancake breakfast on the premises--but brew your own coffee

• Bring $5 with you to the take-out to pay for your boat shuttle up Panther Trail

• Come prepared to boat your ass off

• Bring cassette tapes, or be prepared for your radio to be on eternal scan