Paddler News Feed

 

•	Features
•	Hotline

< March/April
	Features
Gauley Daze! Jeremy Deem

It’s training day on the Gauley River, September 12, 1996. 3,800 cfs gushing out of

the upper right tube at the base of Summersville Dam. I stare into the storm of a river before me. Blaine, Scott, Mike, Josh, Chuck and I approach the surging eddy, raft in tow. "FIRST two, GET in!" Mike yells from the rear. Two of us leap into the boat. "SECOND two, GET in!" The second two comply. Mike and the fifth paddler jump in behind us.

"All FORWARD! Forward HARD, guys, forward HARD!...Left BACK!... ALL FORWARD!"

Waves crash over the raft, one upon another upon another. We’re sideways. We leap for the high side of the boat. Then we’re no longer together. I’m drowning. I bounce on the river bottom. Turbulence torques my body. I can’t see. I want air. Suddenly, briefly, I’m above water, and my trainer is looking straight into my eyes, and yelling. "Swim!" he seems to say. I try. I can’t. A rope hits my face. I’m vomiting water onto gravel.

People are screaming and whistling. My eyes are blurry. Blaine appears in the river. Then he’s gone. Scott’s arms flail, and then disappear. Ropes fly. My head drops to the ground, and when I lift it again, my friends are beside me.

Eight years later, not much has changed.

"This is a whole new deal," says Ryan, a guide training with Class VI River Runners. He is still in awe after his first day on the Gauley, swollen to nearly four times its normal flow by the runoff from 2004’s Hurricane Frances. He’s just finished a summer guiding in Colorado during one of the worst droughts in recent memory. "We had to walk the boats down the middle of the river," he says of the drought. On some runs it was only 89 cfs."

It’s clearly a lot different here. A whole new deal, as he would say, both on and off the river. "In Colorado, the end-of-the-season party was at a bowling alley, where they paid for the shoe rental and some soggy poppers," says Kelly, Ryan’s girlfriend and fellow trainee. "Our first night here we got a free buffet and beers and met a bunch of awesome folks. Then today we paddled some of the biggest whitewater we’ve ever seen."

"Yep," Ryan muses, "this is a whole new deal."

The Gauley River rises in the misty peaks of West Virginia’s Appalachian highlands. Trickling north, the stream gains momentum, winding through the lonely mountains where country creeks such as the Cranberry River, Muddlety Creek and Big Beaver Run swell its flow. Summersville Dam gathers the waters into a vast reservoir, and the Army Corps of Engineers meters out the water for recreational and hydroelectric purposes. For six weeks every fall, that purpose is whitewater.

Downstream of the lake rage two stretches of some of the finest navigable whitewater on earth: the Upper and the Lower Gauley. The Upper features nine miles of deep, warm, pool-drop whitewater highlighted by five monstrous rapids and countless Class III-IV falls. The Lower 17 miles consist of numerous big drops and endless Class III action. Surrounding the river: the Gauley gorge, an Appalachian Shangri-la. During six four-day weekends in September and October, the Army Corps releases into the gorge a perfect dose of water for commercial rafting. The releases attract 60,000 rafters and pour $15 million into the local economy. They also set off a scene like no other on earth: Gauley Season.

"We got thirty thousand gallons o’ water pumping down this river every second!"

I’m watching the proceedings of a typical Gauley Season Saturday morning as Shad Knupp, a long-time Gauley River video kayaker, teases, on camera, a rafting customer standing at the base of Summersville Dam. "Now ask me again if you’re gonna’ have a good time today!" The hapless rafter’s buddies burst into laughter at their friend’s expense. Gas-fueled generators and high-powered electric blowers drone in the background as guides inflate the some 400 rafts that will travel down the river today. Brightly colored buses deposit waves of 40, 50, 60 customers in the large gravel parking lot, turn around, and head back for more. Across the lot, a young woman dressed in a stylish PFD, faded river shorts and sandals, stands tiptoe atop an inflated raft.

"ACE six-thirty guests meeting here!" she bellows over the chaos. "EVERYBODY from ACE six-thirty trip, come on over and meet your guides!" Customers clad in blue and yellow shuffle towards the guide. Newer guides dart to the outhouses to settle pre put-in butterflies.

I first saw the Upper Gauley put-in as a guide trainee in 1996. Having rafted, guided, videoed and kayaked the Gauley more than a hundred times since that fateful day, the highly orchestrated chaos at the put-in is familiar. Even so, my river trainer’s advice comes to mind as I consider the commotion. "The dam is an event like none other," Rick Bayes had warned my training class that first morning on the Gauley. "Your best bet is to help out all you can and figure out quick when to stay out of the damn way!" Heeding his advice today, I hover at the edge of ACE’s bustling staging area. Guides hurriedly give their customers paddling lessons, throw-bag seminars and high-side drills before ordering them to pick up the boats and carry them down the hill. Like ants on a raid, the clients march their rafts down a gravel trail to their destiny–2,800 cfs of West Virginia whitewater. Filing behind ACE’s blue boats is a multi-hued stream: purple rafts labeled "APPALACHIAN WILDWATER," red ones stenciled "USARAFT," yellow rafts marked "EXTREME," white boats branded "CLASS VI," and gray rafts that read "PASSAGES TO ADVENTURE." The parade continues for hours. Carrying each boat are four to nine wide-eyed customers dressed in identical farmer john wetsuits, bulky PFDs, and colorful plastic helmets. Behind each boat stroll the exalted kings and queens of the Gauley, the River Guides.

Upstream of Sweet’s Falls Kelly Corbin perches on the stern of a yellow raft labeled "THE RIVERMEN." Her long blond hair and slight Appalachian drawl command the attention of the eight middle-aged men in her raft. She leans into their huddle. "…So when I say, ‘Get down,’ everybody get to the bottom of the boat and hold on. We’ll drop the falls, and then I’ll be yelling something–I might say paddle back, I might say paddle forward, I might be telling you which way to swim. Just be ready for anything. Got it?" They nod. "Are we ready?" "YEAHHHH!" They smack their blades together in a paddle high-five. Kelly joins in with a huge smile, and then peers downstream. "Okay guys, here we go…"

Two hundred people–customers and guides from other trips–watch from shore as Kelly and her crew drift above a frighteningly distinct horizon line. The clients see only the river dropping away, and a lonely tendril of mist, a sinister testament to the power of the hidden falls.

Kelly peers downstream. "All FORWARD!" she commands. "STOP!" She pauses. "All forward TWO! Okay, GET DOWN!" The men drop as the raft plummets eleven feet into the roiling water at the base of the falls. The massive hydraulic tilts the boat on edge, and then suddenly releases its grasp. "Get UP!" Kelly shouts. "All BACK!" The rafters scramble for their seats, and flail their paddles. "ALL BACK! ALL BACK! ALL BACK! Okay…STOP! NICE JOB GUYS!" The boat reels into an eddy on the river-left, just upstream of Box Canyon, a mazelike pile of gigantic rocks downstream of the falls. Kelly offers her paddle to the sky, receiving a victorious cheer and a second high-five in return.

I’m watching the action from atop Video Rock, which forms the left side of the Box. "Whaddya think guys?" I call down into Kelly’s raft. "This girl has the size of a toothpick and the authority of a chainsaw!" shouts one of her guests. They all laugh. "All I can think about is all that crazy whitewater we just went through!" adds another. "Kelly RULES!" "YEAHHHH!" They join rowdily in a third paddle high-five. Kelly, too, throws her paddle up, but maintains her attention on the other rafts from her trip as they drop the falls. I sense the crowd behind me growing frenzied.

A bright green raft has wrapped on the triangle rock in the Box. Eight kayakers holding digital video cameras vie for position to get the best footage. Two rafters disappear into the current; five others claw onto the high side of the partially submerged inflatable. Their guide–hanging high on the skyward side of the boat–shouts instructions as another rafter slides away. The videographers’ clamorous commentary elevates the hysteria–"THIS IS IT, FOLKS…" "YESSSS INDEEDY…" "ANOTHER BOXING AT THE BOX…" "AND AND AND…HE’S GONE!" "LOW SIDE LOW SIDE LOW SIDE!" Their cameras waver no more than ten feet from the action. Suddenly the raft pitches, and two more tumble out. Slowly, hesitantly, the boat lifts out of the water. The remaining customers peer wide-eyed and helplessly into the videographers’ lenses as they peel one-by-one into the river; the guide scrambles calculatingly. With timed precision, he leaps, clutches, and lands on the bottom of the raft just as it flips. Two hundred spectators explode into exuberant applause as the videographers elevate their volume, never missing a beat.

"He might not like it, but I’ll take ’eem agin’!" laughs Robert Seay, Gauley River local and longtime raft guide, nudging his customer from the day’s trip down the Upper Gauley.

"My ass will be glued to the boat next time, I promise!" Bill, grinning ear to ear, slips Robert a wad of cash and heartily shakes the guide’s hand. "Thanks again, Robert, and we’ll definitely see you next year!"

"Did he fall out today?" I inquire, as Bill disappears into a rowdy crowd of cheering river-video viewers.

"Let’s just say we had us a couple incidents today!" Robert grins, and glances toward one of the many televisions placed around the open-air bar and deck at The Rivermen base camp. The scene is the same every Gauley Season afternoon: videos of the day’s trips play all around, surrounded by throngs of thrilled customers, smiling at seeing their friends on screen, laughing when they go overboard, and roaring when the rafts go upside down. Roving guides share in the banter, hoping for the bonus payoff: a big tip.

Gauley Season spawns a conglomeration of raft guides from across the globe. Bud Frantz, a 30-year veteran at Class VI, explains, "This time of year, there’s no place anywhere you’re gonna’ see such an amount of great water." Bud moved to Gauley country from Ohio in 1975. "Guiding couples well with ski-patrolling in the winter," he says. "You’ll never get wealthy doing this stuff, but I can’t imagine a better way to spend the fall."

Bud’s co-worker Khalil agrees. "I started rafting in Uzbekistan in 1979," he says with mild Turkic accent. Khalil now lives in Florida, and travels to West Virginia every autumn to guide rafts down the Gauley. "Right now, there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be." Tracy Cutliff guides rafts and shoots video for Mountain River Tours. Originally from Mississippi, she explains her move to the Gauley. "I’d been guiding on the Chattooga for awhile, and finally made it up here four years ago."

"What brought you back?" I ask.

"The surf!" she exclaims, laughing, "But really, I found me a mountain man and got married!" Mike Neff drives an ice cream truck in a New Jersey neighborhood for most of the year, and arrives at Songer Whitewater every autumn just in time for Gauley Season. "For the water," he says, "and–even more–for the people." His words echo. Guides from the more than 20 Gauley outfitters repeat Mike’s sentiment–"We’re family here."

I’m following Ellis through the dank West Virginia forest along a narrow system of roads and trails. "This here’s the community quarters," he explains as we come upon a large teepee, terraced with elaborate stone walls and stairways.

"What’s this thing made of?" I ask, peeping into a 12-foot high structure.

"I think it’s another old billboard remnant," Ellis replies. "Let me introduce you to some of the guides."

We make our way to an ancient school bus parked in the forest, a large tarp porching the hard-packed earth to its side. Seven guides—three women and four guys in their twenties and thirties—lounge in lawn chairs nearby. After introductions and a round of beers, Mike Kukara tells me about the guide camp. "Did you see the sludge pond down there?" he asks, nodding through the trees. "We always wanna put up a fountain with some flashy lights in the middle of the pond to add to the character of the place. But no one’s gotten around to it yet. Anyway, the guide camp here’s called Hollywood. Before the four-wheel drive road went in here it had a different name, but the drainage is way better now. There’s still a rock over there that has the engraving of the old name—Trenchtown."

Guides throughout the region live in camps like North American River Runner’s Hollywood. I chuckle to myself, remembering the season I lived in a two-story wooden shack with three buddies and a dingo on Guide Hill.

"This is the greatest six-week party on earth!" claims Tom Clawson, Oregon resident and veteran guide at Mountain River Tours. "We can make it through the season on less than a thousand bucks, and we make about twice that. That’s enough to get you out here, live it up, and get you home with change to spare. Our only worry is getting those people down the river every day, and that’s a pretty fun worry to have."

"What a lot of people don’t realize is that we train and train and train so that we are ready for anything that goes down out there." I’m sitting in the office of Dave Arnold, co-owner of Class VI River Runners. Photos from his 29 years guiding the Gauley cover the walls. Men and women move leisurely about the office, carrying paperwork, scanning computer screens and taking phone calls. Dave’s relaxed, kindly demeanor and youthful appearance are proof that he loves what he does. "It’s funny," he says. "Every time I read something about the Gauley, it’s always carnage, carnage, carnage; and that is a part of it, sure, but it’s not at all what we’re about."

Brian Campbell, veteran guide and co-owner of The Rivermen, agrees. "I’d bet that nowhere in the country do the guides have so many WFRs, EMTs, swiftwater certifications or days on the river dealing with real-life situations," he says. I nod in agreement. "So why," he continues, "is all you ever hear about is the carnage?" A snickering group of eavesdropping guides has congregated at the bar. "Why can’t you keep a raft right side up then, Brian?" one of them calls out. They cackle at the joke and Brian blushes.

As I slip out of the Rivermen Lodge I try to remember if I’ve ever seen–or even heard of–Brian flipping a raft, and I can’t. Nor can I remember much about the 47 smooth runs that I made guiding the Gauley. The few that weren’t smooth, however, I’ll never forget. I remember feeling the force of the river. I remember the faces of my friends as they helped on the scene, as they cajoled me at base camp, and as we roared at the video.

Gauley River guides undergo some of the most intensive training and follow some of the strictest safety protocols in the industry. But carnage, debauchery, banter, and most of all, friendship, are perpetual elements of Gauley season.

It’s the last day of Gauley Season; October 18, 1998. I’m giving my customers a pep talk in the pool above Pillow Rock Rapid, when Joel Rice drifts by. "You runnin’ left today, Deem?" I pause. "I dunno; are you?" He laughs. "Hell no, but you should!" My customers stare at me. "What’s left?" they ask. "Well…"

The first hole on the left line at Pillow Rock stops us, cranking the boat sideways and catapulting us even further left. "Oh %**&!" I yell, "BACK Right! ALL Forward! GET LEFT!" We flip. It’s quiet under water. This is the ‘Room of Doom,’ I think to myself. Just hold on; hang out; you’ll come out…Come on… please come out…there it is, Toilet Bowl. This is fun. A gentle bump; there’s Volkswagen Rock, and…I’m about to see daylight.

The tranquility of the rapid ends the moment I surface. Whistles are blaring. Throw bags tracer the sky. Paddlers heave rhythmically, thrusting giant yellow rafts across the surface of the river. I spring onto my capsized boat and look around. The other guides—Dave, Joel, Frank, Rhett, and Eddi—have collected my crew. "DO WE HAVE EIGHT?" I yell. Fingers, nods, OKs. We have eight. Thank God. "WOOOOOOO!" I scream, throwing a victorious fist into the air. From the looks on the faces of my guests, I know that they’re not sure whether to join me or plea for evacuation; I’ll remedy them with a fiery congrats and a pep talk. And the other guides—my friends—they’ll be with me forever.

—Dedicated to the memory of Joel Rice.