Life in West Virginia: A March to Remember

I had been waiting for spring quite excitedly.

My activity of choice, whitewater paddling, is obviously dependent on a decent amount of water in the rivers, which is dependent on a significant amount of precipitation in the river's watershed. In this corner of the globe, early spring is the rainiest season, and if there's snow to be melted, then the rivers go up even more. They did, and I have been capitalizing. It's the American way, right?

It is Sunday night and I have been wearing the same pants since Thursday. Yeah, I know that it may seem gross, but it's really because I only brought one pair for the weekend because I knew I’d only wear them in the morning and in the late evening. The rest of the time, I was in my boating gear.

On Friday morning (it's still spring break), despite having a few numbers to call and a few vaguely planned trips, I decided to just get up and get breakfast. I chose Little Sandy's in Bruceton Mills for a single reason: boaters meet there on their way to run rivers. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't recommend hanging out at an Interstate truck stop to pick up guys, but this is Little Sandy's. The Cheat and Youghiogheny Rivers, and Little and Big Sandy Creeks are all within minutes, and anybody going to any boating destination in the Cheat, New, Gauley, or other watershed to the South, and who is coming from DC, Baltimore, or Philly, usually stops at this particular truck stop.

I finished breakfast and walked outside to find two paddlers from Baltimore. A few weeks before that, I had joined some of the Greater Baltimore Canoe Club (GBCC) members for a trip down the Stony River, so after introducing myself, we played a short round of the name game. I kind-of, sort-of vaguely (maybe) recognized one of them from the Potomac, I think.

An instantaneous connection exists between two paddlers who decide to run a river together, and because of the endless whitewater paddling opportunities in WV, it happens here more than anywhere else. It has nothing to do with whether or not the people know each other. I had met John and Barb, two GBCC paddlers, a few weeks ago, and I saw them at the Big Sandy Creek put-in Friday morning. Along with Henry and Steve, my Little Sandy's pick-ups, I latched onto John and Barb and notified them all that I'd be with them through the run. I got an affirmative nod from John. In any other situation, this would not be as heavy a contract as it was. I didn't know any of the four of these people, but was essentially telling them to make sure that I don't drown, and that I'd be watching to make sure that they don't drown. It's morbid when it's reduced to this level, but it provides for a connection unlike anything I've ever experienced between relative strangers, and in many cases, I don't even get to know the person who is standing on a rock with a rescue line at the ready in their hand. After all, it’s hard to hold conversations over roaring whitewater.

Steve and Henry, though, ended up sharing a weekend with me at the Webster Wildwater Festival, so we got to know a bit about each other. Thanks to the buzz created by the festival, we ran the lower section of Big Sandy Creek on Friday, in one case launching an 18-foot waterfall. On Saturday, we ran the upper section of the Meadow River, and on Sunday, we ran the Back Fork of the Elk River.

There is unprecedented excitement in new water. Whether it's a riffled class one stream or something much bigger, seeing a waterway for the first time is unparalled. The lower section of Big Sandy Creek had been escaping me, and with two waterfalls, it was an intimidating leap. I'd seen one, "Wonderfalls," before, and wrote about that in January after driving my car through the woods to get there. "Splat," however, was a new sight, and I can confidently say that unless my sanity is compromised later in life, I will always walk around this waterfall. The beauty of the gorge through which the Sandy travels is breathtaking. There are no cabins or roads. A few hike-in campsites can be seen if you're looking hard. The hand of man, as it appears, is not visible. (Forgetting, of course, about the fact that the forest is probably only 50 years old thanks to clear-cutting). And this is all secondary to the thrill experienced by paddling the rapids.

Three days of class 4/5 rivers completely wiped me out, and for some reason, I just told my roommate, Rob, that I'd paddle our local water, the Cheat Narrows, with him tomorrow. Crack? Meth? In comparison to whitewater, they're like a chocolate craving.

My recap of March personal firsts: