Arbitrarily Close to Heaven, Part n + 2

Spring Break arrived at 5 pm on Friday. I hadn't much of an agenda for the next nine days, only a list of work-related things that (still) need to be accomplished, and a longer list of potential outside fun. I walked into the apartment and notified Rob of the gauge situation on my favorite scenic paddling run: Hopeville Canyon. The situation to which I refer was a gauge well above the minimum for boats and slowly falling. There would be at least three more days of water in the canyon.

It was decided then to start packing. Boating gear took priority as we loaded the car, followed distantly by all other gear. Rob's buddy, Andy, stepped up to the plate and agreed to drop us off at the put-in for canyon runs and then sit at the take-out, attempting to catch dinner. He made a great shuttle driver, and we enjoyed lots of beans each night for dinner. The plans were very loose. We'd hit the road Saturday morning, paddle the canyon twice, and crash at Mark and Margot's cabin (see "Arbitrarily Close to Heaven, Parts n and n + 1). From there, we'd do whatever the water levels, weather, or interests made most exciting. In anticipation of other interests, we tossed in our climbing gear, and in went my trail runners. Clearly headed for funner pastures, we fueled up at Little Sandy's truckstop early on Saturday morning.

More than 72 hours later, we were packing up to head back to the world. In that time, we had logged three runs down Hopeville Canyon (one with Jeremy . . . nice job, buddy); a failed attempt at top-roping a pitch at Seneca Rocks (we couldn't find a reliable anchor where we had hiked and didn't have enough daylight to find another place); an evening trail run along a closed Forest Road 75 in hopes of a bear sighting (another failure); a 9-mile, 5-hour long run of the Smokehole Canyon section of the South Branch on a 75-degree sunny afternoon; an "only in WV"-style pickup bed ride in full boating gear; several classic bonfires under a clear and starry night sky with live guitar; a bit of a scary rescue of a boater (whose name I will not reveal) who was washed into "The Cave of Death"; a divebomb attempt by a kamikaze woodpecker; and the usual run-in with our rodent friends. All of this while crashing each night at my favorite crashpad in the lower 48.

Git 'R Dun

A Legendary Run

There are a few different local river sections that I've really been looking forward to running. The Cheat Canyon, Upper Yough, Dry Fork of the Cheat, and Big Sandy consistently sit at the top of my list. As the river levels increased over the past 10 days, I saw the chances of knocking a few of these rivers off of my list. But, I didn't anticipate another milestone. Little Sandy Creek and the upper section of Big Sandy Creek are a great ride. 4-foot drops into giant eddies, creeky slot moves, and long wave trains.

The milestone to which I refer was paddling with Charlie Walbridge. He wrote the book on whitewater safety, and seeing him in an eddy below a rapid adds a tremendous level of comfort to what might otherwise be a scary moment. He's the giant in the photo holding the canoe paddle. From the left, we are Me, Jon, Josh, Chrissy, Charlie, Steve, and Matt.

Photos.

Git 'r Dun.

Increasing Without Bound

WV just keeps on giving. I am still awestruck at the experience that I was fortunate to have yesterday. I have to write this one in full detail, because I honestly feel like this may have been a once-in-a-lifetime thing.

One of the blessings of there being a relatively small whitewater paddling community is that there are only a handful of people from whom I can get the current buzz. I did exactly this on Friday, calling Mark Cooper, a Baltimore paddler who I barely know, but who I'm certain is paddling something challenging most every weekend. His response was that he and his crew had the Stony River in its sights.

Twelve hours later, I was the only patron of Twila's, a "family restaurant" in Bruceton Mills that will always take second fiddle to Little Sandy's. By the time I'd finished breakfast, 'Coop' and a portion of the crew had arrived, and I knew I was in good hands. Seasoned boaters, they introduced themselves and then got onto discussing some of the upcoming swiftwater rescue courses they'd be facilitating. My comfort level increased dramatically.

The night before, up to 8 inches of snow had fallen in the area, and just traveling to Twila's on the Interstate was a chore. The chore continued when our group, now around 9 strong, tipped the waitress and moved on to the rendezvous, Friendsville, MD. I-68 was atrocious. Our caravan of five vehicles slipped and slided the 20-or-so miles to Friendsville. We met more paddlers there, consolidated into fewer vehicles, leaving those with 2wd behind, and moved on again. There were now 13 in our group.

It took more than 1.5 hours of driving the snow-covered MD and WV roads to the put-in. When we pulled onto the shoulder, the outside temperature, according to my dashboard, was 17 degrees. I stepped out of the car into violent gusts, and the snow was coming down hard. I thought to myself, 'this is completely ridiculous.' At times like this, it introduces a bit of comfort if we're paddling something with a road, or even a trail alongside, and so I started to inquire about that, thinking that if I swim, then I'm not going to want to get back in my boat. No such luck, though; nobody knew about any sort of access out of the run other than paddling the river. Gulp.

Three would-be-paddlers decided at this point that they wanted no part of the Stony today. At the time, I couldn't blame them, but even though they made opting out more of a possibility, I still kept my hand in the game, and I think that it was probably because of the caliber of the crew with which I was paddling. Even though I only had met all of these folks a few hours before, I felt very safe with them. We put on all the cold gear we could squeeze into and dropped all of the vehicles off at the take out. Arriving back at the put in in the back of somebody else's van, I was committed.

The first "drop" of a Stony River run is on a different type of whitewater. This river is fed from the bottom of the dam at Mt. Storm Lake, and we had suited up at the top of the dam. So, we all got into our kayaks and rode the fresh powder to the river bank. For about a quarter-mile, we dragged the boats a few hundred yards to the top of a steep section, climbed in, and let gravity take over until the gradient was too flat. Drag some more, and repeat. It was a simply incredible way to start the trip.

The next two-plus hours were absolutely incredible. As I've talked about it all day today, I've been likening it to paddling a warm stream through the snowy shake-it-up globe that your grandmother puts on her mantle at Christmas time. A little research the night before told me that the Mt. Storm Power Plant is cooled by water from the Mt. Storm lake, which is then discharged into the Stony River. On a day like yesterday, that spells 50-degree water that is so much warmer than the air that it actually steams. Though it was thick, the cloud of steam kept all of us wishing that we'd dressed very differently. Nobody's feet or hands got cold, and some paddlers even went swimming during a few of the breaks.

I can hardly describe what this excursion was like. I kept thinking to myself that this is exactly why I took up paddling in the first place, and now, 36 hours later, I'm dying to get back to the Stony.

The photos on my Picasa site were hijacked from Mark Cooper. Thanks, Coop!

Git 'r Dun.

March rolls in . . .

We had a very interesting week here in WV. Last weekend saw temps go into the 50s and a cold snap began to roll in on Monday. By Tuesday, there was a little talk about snow, and by noon on Wednesday, nearly a foot had fallen. The primary problem, however, was that the area's snowplows were nowhere to be seen, and so Wednesday was a mess. Cars wrecked, ditched and abandoned. Buses spinning out.

Of course I hit the woods for some late-season XC skiing that day. I mean, everything was canceled! The powder was so deep and soft that I couldn't even see the skis in front of me.

Today I walked into Cheat Canyon after the snowmelt that I'd intended to ride down the Big and Little Sandy Creeks failed to arrive. I had heard of something called the Allegheny Trail, and was aware that it now crosses private land owned by Allegheny Wood Products, and that the trail has been overcome by logging roads in many places, but it is the only non-boat access to scout some of the Canyon's rapids, so I figured it would be worth the risk. It was crystal clear upon finding the trailhead that I was not welcome. Beyond the sign you see here, the forest was blanketed in POSTED signs and an equally large sign reading, "NO TRESPASSING WITHOUT WRITTEN PERMISSION." Despite all this, I only had to duck into the brush once as a logging truck barreled out of the forest.

Most of the walking thus entailed rock-hopping along the banks of the Cheat, a delightful way to travel, as slow as it may have been. I believe that I made it roughly a mile-and-a-half into the canyon before the thought of being arrested for trespassing inspired me to turn back. It was a successful jaunt nonetheless; I'd scouted what I believe to be three significant rapids (all class III), and got a feel for what kind of water Cheat Canyon serves up to paddlers.

On the way back upstream, I decided to try my hand at some clever photography.

And, now I'm even more anxious to get in my kayak and run the canyon.

Git 'r Dun.