Life in West Virginia

Ebbs

2010-06-23T08:35:00.000-05:00

I find myself more inspired to post entries lately, but I often hold back, restricted by the title of this memoir. I don't know why I'm such a stickler to my own rules, but I've come up with a loophole: a new blog.

So, here goes. My new blog is Lugs, Chains, and Paddle Blades

I will post there when motivated to do so, and if the subject happens to involve The Great State, then I'll repost here.

Got r dun.

Cheatin' with the Family

2010-05-03T21:26:00.005-05:00

On Friday I raced in the Cheat Downriver Race after missing the 2009 event. After crossing the finish, I got off the water, said a few hellos to some fellow competitors and spectators, lifted my kayak to my shoulder, and walked up to the parking lot at Jenkinsburg. There were several hundred frolickers and racers around me in the remote West Virginia river canyon. I located my friend Jen's Jeep, pulled out some tie-down straps that I'd stashed in my kayak earlier, and secured my boat to the roof. I then stuffed my gear in the boat, turned around and stopped the first car that came my way and asked them for a ride.

Not even half of the racers had finished, the kegs had barely been touched, and I was already sitting in the back of some stranger's Cherokee on my way up the long, rough road out of Jenkinsburg.

The entire trip, which consisted of two successful hitchhikes, took 3.5 hours. This is how my river trips go now; I wear a watch and I move efficiently. Navy S.E.A.L.s, eat your hearts out.

Despite the dramatic changes that have taken place for me and Molly in the past few years, the primary motivator for both of us remains unchanged: we're just trying to have fun. In fact, we try to eek out every last drop of it.

Everybody has to work. Everybody has to maintain their home, buy groceries, and pay bills. So, while it may not be any fun to do some of the things we all have to do, decisions to do things in my life are made with a fun:work ratio consideration. How will task x facilitate fun event y? If I decide against p, then how will that affect the fun q I've been planning? Life is a fun game to play, and winning the game means having the most fun. This isn't to say that I don't change diapers, and grad school really sucked, but a bit of foresight goes a long way in this game.

When Molly told me she wanted to go back to CheatFest after taking a year vacation from it (Indie was less than 4 months old for the 2009 event), I jumped at the opportunity. If I could do the race, then I would spend all day Saturday being a husband and father, no matter how many of my friends invited me to tag along on a river trip. We'd camp, we'd hike, and we'd enjoy the music at the festival.

By Saturday night we'd accomplished all of this and then some and getting home after the long weekend in the sun would have felt great if I didn't have yard work to do.

Git r Dun

Mother's Day at Rockville

2009-12-07T21:33:00.008-05:00

There's no mystery; I know what's gotten into me, preventing me from (a) finding time to write in this memoir, and (b) having experiences worth sharing. Somehow I've found myself with a life full of grown-up responsibilities. There's a beautiful little red-headed girl named Indie tugging at my ankles. The tenure review process is heating up. All of a sudden, the important people in my life can be found in their houses and not their tents or pickup beds. And so, when I decide how to spend time away from my office, the creaks in the floorboards of our new home get more of my attention than the creeks of West Virginia .

I have not given it up, though.

Molly insisted that we spend her first Mother's Day playing. Just like we used to. With decent water abound and generally mild weather, I was happy to secure a loaner raft to show her the Upper Big Sandy from Bruceton Mills to Rockville. Indie was less than 4 months old and still preferred to sleep in her carseat, so it was an easy first time in a tent. We spent the weekend camping at Rockville, arriving Friday night and sharing the over-used riverbank campsites with a couple of friendly guys who were nice enough to invite us to their campfire. For Saturday, we'd arranged the company of a few friends to hang out with Indie while we rafted.

After a beautiful day on the water that included two runs of the Upper Sandy by some and a kayak run of the Lower by others, we enjoyed dinner at the fabulous Riverside Hotel in Friendsville. The cozy, quiet sophistocation of the mountains would end there. After saying goodbye to friends as they went their way, we headed back to Rockville. Things then went downhill fast.

We pulled into the campsite after dark and Indie was clearly ready to be nestled in for the night. Interruptions wouldn't typically be expected in situations such as these; we were driving into an uninhabited former mining depot reached only by rough backroads. It was too early in the season for the crowds who like to come and swim in the creek, and so we only expected to see a few of the campers we'd seen the night before. And, the night before was quiet. Based on what I saw as I pulled into our site, I was worried even before I turned the headlights off .

A small Chevy S-10 pickup sat marooned on a 2-foot high stump and two men stood next to it, drinking and pondering mechanical advantage. The rear tires were on the ground, but the front tires hovered 3 inches in the air. They were excited to see us. We were not excited to see them. Attempting diplomacy, I got out of the car, pulled the baby seat out in full view of our neighbors, and nodded with a serious brow, as if to say, "See this? It's a baby. I'm too busy with family matters to help you dumb asses get out of the situation you were stupid enough to get into." But, they didn't bite. They waddled over to me, looked at me, looked at my car, and said, "Dude, is this a Subaru? We need your help!" I wasn't biting either. For one thing, a Subaru is no tow truck. For another, I was busy and had to help Molly get Indie to bed.

To the non-parent, it may sound simple, as it did for me only a few months prior. Put the kid to bed. Plop. Done. No, no . . . the task starts with the warm-up activity of removing clothes from the baby's body. That's the easy part. Change diaper. Put new clothes on the baby. Feed baby. Wrap baby in swaddling blanket. All of these are difficult, and it gets cold at night in Rockville. Getting Indie ready for bed was a two-person, four-handed activity. So, when they asked me this question, I politely said, "okay; I'll be happy to help you guys figure out a solution, but first I have to help get my family ready for bed." "Oh, I toooootally understand, man; my little girl is turning 14 this year!"

For a second, I thought, well if this guy has kids, then he must have some sense about him. But I quickly remembered that procreation requires no sense and promised that I'd be back shortly.

Once Indie was asleep, I told Molly that it would be best for all of us if I helped these guys as much as possible. If they decided they didn't like us, I explained, then they definitely wouldn't be very respectful neighbors. I tried to make it sound as if the worst case was them not being courteous with their flashlights. When I arrived back at the scene of the treed S-10, I quickly made friends with the two men by looking around and taking a strong interest in their project. "We been tryin' ta git 'er unstuck, but that tree's right in the middle of it," I was told. I could see that the chassis of the pickup was resting on the tree stump. We tried a few different strategies, all of which consisted of trying to lift one corner of the truck while one of the increasingly drunk hillbillies sat in the cab and gave it gas. None of them worked. We got a better idea of the physics of the situation when I tried pushing the truck to the side from the rear fender. The truck spun like a lazy Susan.

I somehow successfully convinced the two men that it was time to call it a night. Their campsite was set up, it was nighttime, and the beer was still cold. "Maybe we'll have better luck in the morning," I suggested, trying to emphasize the we as if I had some intention of sticking around in the morning while these guys slept off hangovers.

I thought it ended there.

I went back to our campfire where Molly sat in a camp chair and drank with our more friendly campsite neighbors and laughed with them about the situation. A short time later, the unmistakable sound of an unmuffled engine roared in the distance and grew louder. I knew what was coming and didn't expect it to pass quickly.

In many rural areas, it is a fairly common hobby to take an old truck or jeep, remove its muffler and all other power-depleting mechanisms, and modify the suspension to accommodate for giant wheels. As if we were all of a sudden at the county truck & tractor pull, several of these beasts came creeping down the rough roads, intentionally taking every bit of boulder, earth, or small tree as a direct hit. Then came the sound of one of these beasts struggling as the others made their way out of the canyon. Revving and revving, we could tell that the truck was bouncing and jerking by the motion of the spot lights mounted to its roof. For a minute or two, we heard nothing but the earth-trembling roar of what turned out to be a 1980's vintage Ford F150 smashing back and forth against something. We had no idea what it was, but the truck could not overcome this obstacle. Then, silence. A creaky door. A slam. Unintelligible language. More silence.

I waited just a bit before I decided to try to get all of my new friends together. It was serendipity. Two drunk hillbilles with a truck stuck on a tree meet a third hillbilly with more horsepower than he can control in the middle of nowhere. I dashed over, exclaiming, "Guys! You need that guy's truck! He can get you off the tree!" Without proper explanation, this would make no sense at all, but on that night it was poetry. By the time I got back to the treed S-10, the new truckster had already joined the marooned party. So, I came upon the three of them, once again drinking and pondering mechanical advantage. You ain't so clever, they seemed to indicate as they looked at me, and said "Yeah; we found the guy, but his truck is dead now, too."

By now I could end this story because it doesn't go much further. The truckster had been "tryin' out my new truck; I traded it for my 4-wheeler today; and I was tryin' to plow some dirt around," when it just died on him. Good thing the two hillbillies he stumbled upon had extra gear and cold beer, because his other truckster friends never came back. But, before I walked away, our conversation went on to families.

One of the guys with the treed S-10 is a father and remarked at how fast the years pass. The other treed S-10'er agreed, "I remember when she was this big." All three gentlemen live nearby. When the father asked his buddy for confirmation on how big his little girl has gotten to be, the two got uncomfortably close to the creepy, incestuous line, crossed it, and kept going. Disgusted, I walked away, joined Molly and the others at our campfire, and told them about the conversation between the treed S-10'ers and the truckster. "Fuckin' rednecks," one of our neighbors said, "I'm glad I bought this," and pulled his jacket away from his chest revealing a pistol harnessed under his armpit. Molly didn't notice, and I ushered her to the tent.

I waited a few weeks to tell her about that.

The next morning, eager to avoid all of the sleeping creepers, we packed up and drove off to the trailhead to Wonderfalls. I asked Molly to marry me here and consider it to be an extremely special place. We were bringing Indie to see it for her first time.

Git r Dun.

First Time Cheatin'

2009-04-20T21:30:00.002-05:00

My first ever shot at leading a club trip came this past Sunday, when 16 boaters agreed to put their faith in my guiding them from Albright, WV down the long and hearty Cheat River. To spoil the end of my report, this story ends well; the same 16 boaters cheerfully hoisted their crafts to their shoulders at the take out about 5 hours later while Steve Wang sheepishly admitted that he once was young and foolish enough to have jumped off the Jenkinsburg Bridge. I gasped and reminded him that it was “plumb crazy” for him to intentionally put himself into danger’s way (hint, foreshadowing).

Promptly at 9 am, we congregated at Little Sandy’s truck stop to perform the essential cognitive activity of the day: the shuttle. A mild headache later, five vehicles pulled out of the lot on their way to the take out while the remaining vehicles, their passengers, and 17 boats scattered about among the eternal revolving door of tractor trailers and pick up trucks.

A long shuttle drive later, we slipped into the orange waters of Muddy Creek and scraped down about 100 yards to the slightly less orange Cheat River. The group corralled at the confluence, and I told Jen “Stern Squirt” Raber that that a level of 3.7 feet was juicy, To be clear, I told her, the Cheat was not high. but it was most definitely not low. Overhearing me, Dave Greenwald rolled his eyes and chuckled while first time cheat boater, Martin Wittmann, took a big gulp and peeled out in his itty bitty Jackson playboat.

I forgot most of the lines. Actually, to be precise, I never really knew them. But, really, who other than a veteran Cheat raft guide knows the lines through the dozens of unnamed Cheat rapids? Feeling a bit silly, I announced to the group that if I don’t announce a line or if the line doesn’t become entirely obvious as they approached rapids, then it was on the left. John Brady chuckled, though I believe he knew I was right.

And on went our crew. They bopped through countless nameless class 2 and 3 rapids, putting their confidence in me. For some strange reason, this confidence remained strong even after my little spat with Big Nasty.

Which, for the record, was Grease Fire’s fault.

After scouting and successfully navigating Big Nasty, our group congregated in the eddies on both sides of the run out of the notorious hole. Rob “Grease Fire” Mitchell and I have a history of getting each other into trouble, and this was exactly what I was up to when I first attempted a surf of the big hydraulic. “Worst case is you swim out of it” was part of my advice to the newbies above Big Nasty, and what I reiterated to myself upon pulling my boat into the surge. Quickly it spit me out with a strong denial, and – just as I expected – Rob was eager to make his attempt. His surf was similarly a non-surf. After getting similarly denied, he looked back at me and nodded, as if to say, “go for it.” And so I upped the ante and really dove into the hole.

Jason Hilton tells me my bow went deep into the hole and then swung hard into the foam pile for a few bow-to-stern cartwheels.

On my end, it was utter chaos. I had about 0.5 seconds of sense and began to set up a roll, but from there it was nothing but mayhem. Giving up relatively quickly, letting go of the paddle, and pulling the skirt typically ends with a big breath of air, but in this case the next thing that happened was an aquatic gaze up through several feet of pearly green water followed by more tumbling. It would be an uncomfortably long time before that gulp of air came. And, when I did come to the surface swimming aggressively, I opened my eyes only to find myself swimming upstream in the recirculating boil. I was at the top of the foampile staring down about 12 feet into the meat.

After I hacked up more Cheat River water than I wish to admit, I received a round of applause. It was then that I looked down to discover that the two Snickers bars I’d stashed in my PFD were gone. That damn hole literally ate my lunch.

I like to think of the Cheat as a very long chain of flatwater pools connected by about 30 rapids. Those pools make the collection of gear much more convenient when playboaters get stuck in holes and swim. It happens to lots of playboater all the time, and it happened to us on Sunday.

But, the real event came to life just above Pete Morgan’s rapid.

After scouting Coliseum, we set up safety with a rope on either side of the outflow and boaters in eddies. We did not want a swim out of Coliseum to turn into a swim through Pete Morgan. Moments later (okay, more like a half hour), after a successful run through the big rapid by all, we began to hop eddies to get a good look at Pete Morgan. Halfway there, I glanced back to see, for a split second, a rare triple side surf in three distinct adjacent holes. All three accidental sidesurfers looked calm, but they were all working hard to become unstuck. By the time I had jumped to shore with a rope, Jen had flipped in her hole only to right herself with a blown skirt. As water rushed into her boat it favored the stern cavity and by the time she was in the meat of Pete Morgan, Jen was paddling a swamped boat in an eternal stern squirt. Remarkably, her line was clean. She jumped out and began to swim while the rest of the group rounded up her gear.

With confidence high, the group chatted and laughed, telling tall tales through the final miles of runout below Pete Morgan. We returned to the put in soggy and tired and redistributed bodies and boats while Ralph Teter prepared his campground for CheatFest. Judging by the size of the fire he set to burn the rubble that accumulated over the winter, it appears that he’ll be ready.

The 2009 TRPC First Time Cheatin’ Trip included John Brady, Paul Eisner, Rick Gates, Dave Greenwald, Jason Hilton, Alan & Andre Kumonkowski, Jeff Lorimer, Ed McGuiness, Rob Mitchell, Jen Raber, Phil Raber, John Rudland, Steve Wang, Martin Wittman, and Matt Zeleznik.

A day of firsts

2008-09-16T08:52:00.023-05:00

Despite my personal policy, it is worth noting that on Friday the 12th, Matt Z and I attempted a run of the upper reaches of Thompson Run in Penn Hills. It had rained all day and so we were happy to find the little micro-creek gushing with water. Devoid of any beta on this gutter of the Eastern suburb of Pittsburgh, we assumed incorrectly that the take-out was at Hank's Auto Body off Thompson Run Rd. The friendly (aka, drunk) patrons of the Universal Joint then directed us to a drainage ditch that was running and which we assumed was our put in for Upper Thompson Run. After a handful of portages, a lot of bushwhacking, and at least two chest-deep episodes in the disgusting sludge water, we "successfully" paddled about 500 yards of a drainage ditch that was no wider than our kayaks are long -- betcha can guess how we found that out -- before all of the water on which we were floating disappeared into a big pipe. Tails between our legs, we decided we need to do more research and have since deduced that Hank's is the put in, and that this could be a nice gem to ride all the way to Turtle Creek, or perhaps even further to the Mon after our next big downpour. A bit more daylight would be helpful, too.

But, that's too far north to be discussing at length in this archive.

So, on the following day and after disinfecting our gear, I was happy to lead three first-timers down the now familiar Lower Big Sandy (LBS). Those of us in the know for this run were not concerned about the skill levels of the three, especially given the beginner-friendly level at the bridge.

The three first known firsts of the day could be seen in the anticipation of our three newbies -- actually, just in Mike -- and the fourth was the level, 5.3 feet at the Rockville bridge, the lowest any of us had run it. Then, the ratio of beginners to experienced boaters (3:4) would be considered inadvisable and high and the highest any of us had experienced on the LBS. A 6th first was attempted and successfully carried out when we strapped a total of 8 boats to the roof of my car, a precipitous act considering that the drive to the put included Rockville Road.

A bit of mangled knuckle skin and some trauma discovered by two head-on piton at full speed later, the group arrived at the mouth of the Sandy as its sediment-laden waters dirtied the clear water of the Cheat.

Here are a few more photos from Saturday.

Git 'r Dun.

It's a mad, mad, mad, mad race

2008-08-18T16:23:00.018-05:00

I was so sad on Saturday; so very, very sad.

You see, I had spent months running and pedaling my mountain bike up the gnarliest climbs I could find in my nearby woods and paddling up and down the rapids in the rivers all around my new home in Pittsburgh. It was all in anticipation of this year's Captain Thurmond's Challenge triathlon and it would be my third year competing. Everything looked to be perfect. My legs were fresh and strong and my fitness right where I thought it should be in order to perform well. I'd been in my new racing kayak for a few races and dozens of workouts, and at this point I really felt at home paddling it.

The race began well. The biking section would have a new course in 2008 so that the race could start and finish in Fayetteville, WV. After about a half mile of riding through the town's quiet streets, the racers entered the woods. We weren't quite spread out enough at that point, so some ritualistic bumping and passing was necessary. After a few descents and climbs on the singletrack course, I sat comfortably in position somewhere in the top 15 riders as the passing diminished. It was looking to be a good race!

Then, just as the race director had described in the pre-race meeting, the trail opened up to a graveled forest road. Down into the gorge I raced and once in awhile I was able to see a racer or two ahead of me when the road opened up for a straightaway in between switchbacks. Screaming down the mountain we went. At a rightward turning hairpin, a volunteer stood there, presumably for safety, encouraging us to keep going. A quarter mile further down the steep road in next hairpin turn to the left, the road opened again to a long, straight descent. I clicked my shifter into its highest gear and picked up speed.

I though it seemed odd that we were going so far away from Cunard.

Cunard is the place where we were to ditch our bikes for our boats and paddle to the end of the New River Gorge at Fayette Station. But, we were getting closer to Fayette Station on our bikes, not Cunard. Oh well, I thought, I haven't seen any course markers and there are still fresh tire tracks in the muddy sections. There must be riders ahead of me.

Slight panic began to sink in with my first glimpse of the New River Gorge Bridge, high above Fayette Station. This was a long way from Cunard. But there are still tire tracks! A group of hikers then encouraged me that there were eight riders ahead of me. Allright! I'm in 9th position! This is really my year!!

My slight panic became more intense when I reached the paved road and found one of my competitors, dejected, standing next to his bike.

"We're going the wrong way!", he shouted.

"Are you sure?", I protested.

"We're at the take out!", he said with eyes of disappointing solidarity.

A few bystanders disagreed. "The other racers went down that road!", they said. We shrugged to each other and off we went down the road. This road is one way, I thought, as we cranked our bikes as fast as we could down the steep, paved hill. But no cars approached us. Instead, we came upon those other racers that the bystanders had told us about.

"There's nobody down there!", one of them shouted, clearly infuriated. I was now in a group of about ten riders, two of whom won the race in previous years. This group was not happy. Kill the Monster lynch mob visions danced in my head.

Later, when I came upon a National Park Service Ranger's Jeep driving through the woods, saw the expression on his face, and heard the words he had to say, all hopes of seeing my results among the better ones in this year's vanished.

I had stopped racing. But, something inside me wouldn't allow it to be over until I heard it from an official. And, with the ranger's brown NPS uniform and white and green jeep, it doesn't get much more official than that in the New River Gorge National Recreation Area. I was just so sad.

And so, from Fayette Station, two riders decided to ride along the railroad to Cunard, disqualifying themselves from the race by doing so, but it was the most direct way to get to their boats so that their team could proceed. The rest of us began to backtrack. For miles (and miles!) we all had descended into the New River Gorge at breakneck speeds. Now we slowly ascended back out, feeling cheated. At the point where asphalt gave way to dirt, the two previous year's winners accepted a ride from a pickup, leaving about 6 of us to continue into the forest. We rode together, licking our wounds, bitching about how in the world a race director could possibly fail to mark a turn off a screaming fire road descent!

And that's when we ran into the ranger. His words should have reinforced what we already knew, but for some reason (denial) it was hard to hear that the entire race was now ahead of us because we'd missed a turn off that fire road.

Several hours later, after transcending the remaining grief steps (actually I was still stuck somewhere between depression and acceptance), I found myself back in Fayetteville. In the meantime, I had decided to stop racing after completing the remainder of the bike course and then paddling to a point where I found my friends from Three Rivers Paddling Club on the river. Telling race officials that "122 is pulling out of the race", as much as it pained me to say it, came at Fayette Station. I've felt this emotion before, but it's been due to injury, not personal protest and exhaustion. When I found the race director, things changed. I had clearly not been the only one ready to tell him exactly how badly he'd screwed up (er, how angry we were that he did). Shaking his head while holding it in his hands, he was courteously apologizing to each of the racers who stood in front of him. He knew that the mistake was on his watch whether or not he'd carefully instructed his volunteers. I imagined myself in his shoes.

And so I began to walk away after leaving him with my name for my refund check. As he maturely took his next tongue lashing from the line of tongue lashers, I looked up at the Fayette County Courthouse and the big, bright blue sky illuminating its stone facade and the dozens of townspeople who had come out to support the race. I stopped in my tracks and turned back. "Hey, Adam!", I shouted. The race director looked up like a victim. "I'll be back next year."

Git 'r Dun

Here's the Beckley, WV Register-Herald story on the race.

Whiting's Neck Cave

2008-06-10T08:17:00.029-05:00

This one is a throwback and -- once again -- it was Jeremy's idea. I recently came across a photograph that reminded me of this one and decided it was worth writing up.

While I was living in the DC area, the Eastern Panhandle was about 70 miles from my home. In anticipation of a mild 2003 January weekend, the two of us spent far too many hours researching caves in the Harper's Ferry area on the Internet. I had heard of their existence, but as the code of grotto explorers the world over goes, their locations are not to be disclosed. I recently found my notes from the Internet sleuthing and resulting adventure.

It's called Whiting's Neck Cave, named after a nearby bend in the Potomac River, and somehow we found it. It required a day-long adventure because much of it was spent bushwhacking through fields and the woods. When we'd find a hole in the ground that looked like it might lead to a cavern, Jeremy would don his helmet and headlamp and get down and dirty attempting to squeeze himself in. If we'd have been spotted by a local landowner, I can only imagine the reaction upon one guy (me) standing guard with the other (Jeremy) only visible from the waist down, sometimes with legs spidering while he wrestled himself into an inverted vertical position.

After many hours of this despite being entirely convinced that we were walking on top of a cave, we finally stumbled upon a power line trail into the woods from a farmer's field that was mentioned in a vague online description of the directions to the cave. Along the trail, we found a few more holes that proved to only allow Jeremy to go subterranean to his ankles. Then, we finally stepped around a boulder garden that revealed a hole tall enough to walk into. About five feet in, the ground dropped into blackness and the top of a wooden ladder invited visitors to see what's down there.

It was just as we'd hoped. Crawling on the smooth, slimy, off-camber rocky cave floor, we dutifully became a muddy mess from head to toe as we shimmied through holes and squirmed around stalactites and stalagmites. A few interestingly large rooms enabled us to straighten our backs for a moment and get oriented before entering the next small tunnel. Jeremy broke out the Pep-o-Mint Life Savers, as expected.

Despite claims that the cave was linear (different exit and entrance), we each carefully kept a mental map for our way back out of the cave as we came to each bifurcation in the cave's passageways. Our Internet notes told us of a 50-foot rappel into a lower, terminal section of the cave and upon reaching a drop into utter blackness accompanied by a few rock bolts at the top for attaching a rope, we knew that we were there. And, we came prepared.

With a big heave after tying it off, the coiled rope was sent flying. We had tied a "stopper" knot into the lower end of the rope in case it wasn't long enough, but that didn't drive away the butterflies from swarming as I clipped in and started lowering myself over the precipice. There was nothing to see below me but painfully silent darkness. Slipping around on the slimy wall, I stumbled my way down the face and was soon standing safely at the bottom in a few inches of water. A short time after signaling up to Jeremy with a flicker of my headlamp, he was by my side at the foot of the big wall while the rope dangled for us to return.

After a bit more exploring in the lower section, we reached our turn around. Friends back home were instructed to notify help if they hadn't heard from us by a specific time, and in order to be sure to beat that time while allowing wiggle room for what may be a difficult climb back up what we'd rappelled down, it was time to go.

Retracing our steps back to the rappel was easy, and in a short time we were back at the foot of it staring at the dangling rope. This time, however, the darkness loomed over our heads as we looked up at a boot camp style 50-foot hand-over-hand climb up a slimy wall. With mud covered hands, we were a bit unnerved.

After a few attempts, we stood at the top and we were exceedingly glad to have worn helmets. And, climbing that rope was definitely not a solo job.

With the big hurdle behind us, we were light on our toes on the return trip. The task now was making effective use of our mental maps and at one junction we found that they were not the same. We reached a large cavern and were looking at two tunnels. While my instinct told me that the left tunnel was the way to go, Jeremy's indicated right. As the butterflies returned, sweat began to accompany an elevated heart rate. I'd freaked in a cave once before when I was in high school, and I began to feel the sensation again. Trying to stay cool, I suggested that we each take our own suggested route for exactly 5 minutes and returning. With luck, one of us would reach a point of recognition, confirming that route as the correct one.

When I freak, I tend to move quickly, perhaps to find comfort as soon as possible. I was happy to find that comfort in the form of a monster rock formation known as the Wedding Cake that we'd passed earlier in the day and of which we'd seen photos earlier in the week on a website. We met back at the freak out spot a few minutes later and Jeremy told me that his tunnel was a dead end.

With some of the remnants of anxiety staying with me, we quickly moved through the tunnels until we saw the light of day at the top of the ladder. When we got back to the car and into cell phone range, we made our phone call several hours before the dreaded, prearranged rescue time. Mission accomplished.

Unfortunately, I have no electronic photos from the day, but I do have the notes from the trip including detailed directions to the cave entrance. I don't consider myself a spelunker, but I respect the social mores of those who are. So, I'm not just giving them to any old Joe. You know how to contact me if you want them.

Git 'r dun.

The Thrill of Gravity

2008-04-14T12:12:00.024-05:00

I didn't mean for it to happen, but somehow gravity played a significant role in the activities of the first warm weekend of 2008. And, I (somehow) got it off to a good start with a dinner that inspired Molly to articulate some ways in which West Virginia is "just like" Paris. Those particulars include riverside dining (in this case, the Monongahela River is like the Siene) and the well-placed, colorful flowers in common areas, but my interjections sealed the metaphor: the people are generally dirty and they eat rabbits; they smoke a lot and despite a lousy reputation among outsiders, pride in their homeland rules with intense fervor; not to mention, they talk funny and experiment with strange arrangements of facial hair.

After our special dinner in a centuries old grain warehouse overlooking the Monongahela, Molly and I headed for Nelson Rocks for an experience unlike any other. We met our friend, Kent, and his son, Zachary, for a vertical traverse of the via Ferrata -- a network of steel rungs, cables, and 100 foot long wood and cable bridge spanning 200 feet over a canyon -- to spots hundreds of feet above the forest.

The via starts difficult and crescendos to asinine by the time climbers get to the swinging bridge. We were graced with warm temperatures in the high 60's, but gale force winds made our experience gripping. Looking down at the small small planks of wood suspending your body on the cable bridge, all one has to do to look down at the forest below is to focus between the planks. "Don't look down" takes on a very different tone when it must be rephrased to "don't focus on the ground." Yeah right!

With each reach, stability is questioned as you climb the via Ferrata. What might normally be a perfectly stable position on a 12-inch wide step becomes precarious when the drop beneath the step would be a deadly fall. Yet, as more and more of the via was behind me, the cumulative experience left me more comfortable and trusting in the harness system anchoring me to the rock. However, when our guide pointed to the optional "bonus" loop that scaled a vertical and overhanging spire of rock that is 6 feet wide at the top with 500 foot drops on either side, comfort was diminished. Kent took the bait and started up. Molly was next, but only because I was right on her heels.

As the wall became an overhanging precipice, Molly spidered her way up. I did not. In fact, I am not even ashamed to say that it was never my intention to collect my "bonus." Rather, Molly continued under the presumption that I was right behind, got to the summit of the knife-edge of rock, belly crawled 10 feet across to the down-climb while the wind attempted to pluck her and Kent to the mercy of their harnesses, and slowly spidered her way back down to relatively safety. I got a couple jabs to the shoulder and she admitted that she was glad to have done it. It was a classic move, but I've been up on that "bonus" summit before and vividly remember saying I'd never do it again. That I could never do any real rock climbing is reinforced again and again.

The trip came to a solemn, pivotal crux when our guide, Brian, explained the dangers of releasing the safety harness from the via's security with his first-hand experience. It was less than two years ago when his then girlfriend fell to her death from the via. The story from the September 25, 2006 Pittsburgh Post-Gazette details Nelson Rocks' only fatality. Listening to Brian explain how the fall happened was ample reinforcement to never release both lanyards from the via Ferrata.

With visions of death, we ended our upward adventure by returning to solid ground where gravity isn't so lethal. We joined some of our paddling friends for dinner and then our group returned to the cabin at Dolly Sods to get our boating gear ready for Sunday's downward adventure.

Sunday morning, we woke to snow flurries. However, this group is braver than most. The thought of a day on whitewater in these conditions only inserted a small taste of hesitation among the group, but after a few layers of neoprene (er . . a few dozen layers), we were ready to go. We joined the Three Rivers Paddling Club Jim Blackham Memorial Trip by meeting them at the put in for one of West Virginia's most scenic runs, the North Fork of the South Branch of the Potomac's beautiful Hopeville Canyon. It was my first time in a Shredder -- a 2-man rubber catamaran raft -- and Molly's first time in the canyon. The gear worked and we both emerged at the bottom of the canyon dry, warm, and smiling.

Here are some more photos from Nelson Rocks, and here are some more from Hopeville Canyon.

Git r Dun

Webster '08

2008-04-09T14:16:00.019-05:00

It's not just a bad sitcom featuring a really short guy being raised by an ex-NFL lineman.

Mother Nature played a mean trick on us before the 2008 Webster Springs Wildwater Festival by indicating to the professional forecasters that she'd be dumping more than 2 inches of rain from the WV skies in the 48 hours prior to the festival. Plans went from running rivers to creeks to drainage ditches. Message boards buzzed with proposals to make first descents of every ravine in the state.

But, it didn't ruin the weekend when less than a half inch landed in Webster County, WV.

I spent Thursday evening with Grease Fire, Doug and the Steves looking at online river gauges and guidebooks. Bandwidth spent, gear packed and courage steeped, we abandoned the Cheat River watershed and drove south on Friday to where her promise diverted. We were graced with minimal rain, though it was just enough to fill the banks of the Cranberry River in the Cranberry Wilderness of Webster and Pocahontas Counties. The pigeonhole effect brought several other groups to the only river with water that Friday, though the timing kept our group intact and isolated.

The dynamic was perfect and I reiterate my personal thrill in paddling a river as though it is the solution to a problem. Two boaters in our group had paddled the Cranberry once and both pleaded no recollection of the rapids. That put an intensity to the trip that provoked each boater's "A-game" to make an appearance. A-games abound, we shoved into the current. Scouting the unknown bends and half-blind drops in the Cranberry was done from our boats and not a single member of our group ran into trouble.

Friday night of the festival was mild as more and more vehicles rolled into Camp Caesar. Piled high on the vehicles, boats of every color brightened the dark, damp evening. Drinks were plentiful as the buzz escalated: What will run tomorrow? What are you paddling tomorrow?

Perhaps it was the success of our descent of the Cranberry or perhaps it was embedded in our desire to drive an extra few hours on soggy backroads, but John, Grease Fire, and I decided to head back north for Saturday's run to paddle the Tygart River from Arden, WV. That put us in bad position to come back to the festival, but as it turns out the rain never came on Saturday night and so our gamble paid off.

The minimum level for the Tygart River is 400 cubic feet per second. We found it at 1800, a high level, but (we'd decide after the fact) still safe. We drove along it first and declared the rapids to be Gauley-esque though a couple big hydraulics looked intimidating. None of us had run this river before and after paddling the Cranberry River the day before, the Tygart was a serious step up. Moat's Falls, a 15 or 20 foot waterfall, loomed downstream. Just above it were at least two ugly hydraulics.

It would be another success. This time we got out of our boats to take close looks at three sections, one of which was Moat's Falls, and decided to "sneak" a river-wide hydraulic next to an underwater rock cave by scraping down a nearly dry ledge of bedrock. Nonetheless, we all paddled over the lip of Moat's Falls and slammed into countless big waves and ugly hydraulics on our way down the Tygart.

Planning as we did, I even was able to make it to Pittsburgh with plenty of time to take Molly out for sushi, which was an interesting way of ending a day that began with greasy bacon, soupy eggs, and sausage gravy over biscuits being served by a local Webster County boy scout.

Check out more photos here.

Git 'r dun.

Wonderfalls

2008-03-03T21:32:00.004-05:00

Finally, proof emerges of the marvelous Wonderfalls.

Git 'r Dun.

Dolly Sods Winter(less) Trip

2008-02-24T11:53:00.025-05:00

I spent about 5 hours traveling back and forth from Pittsburgh to Friendsville, MD yesterday to solve a problem. I didn't realize that this was the reason, but in spending that time with my friend, Jason, articulating precisely how each of us feels about the activities that we share led us both to the same conclusion. We like to create and then solve problems.

And so, wearing this all-encompassing cloak, the activities that occupy both my professional and personal time fall into a comfortable category.

Last week I hosted a group of friends on a problem solving expedition to a cabin at Dolly Sods.In planning the trip, the problem to be solved had several constraints. The road to the cabin is impassible when covered in snow. The cabin has no electricity or plumbing and the cabin is heated by a woodburning stove. Food must be packed in. And, most importantly, it must be fun to endure all of these constraints. For months I badgered friends with tales of deep snow, high winds, and bitter temperatures. Email after email encouraged hearty participants to pack "layers, layers, layers" to stay warm and snowshoes or skis for efficient travel on the impassible forest road. I had loaded the cabin with three carloads of firewood in anticipation of the trip. Set aside weekends in February, I encouraged them; the snow will be there.

As it happens, the most limiting of that list would be voided by Mother Nature because there was no snow on the road and so we drove right up to the front door and unloaded our gear. In a trickle-down effect, other problems were subsequently voided and so we might as well drive in a few cases of beer, right?

With the initial problem solved, the group of 8 of us then began creating more problems to solve. The gas grill in the cabin ran out of propane and so we cooked on the woodburner. The trail we wanted to hike would end on a forest road, miles from both the car and cabin. We chose to hike it nonetheless, hoping the drivers could successfully hitch-hike back to the cars (they did). I don't doubt that the course of the weekend was dictated by the group's initial quest to come out of the trip feeling a sense of accomplishment.

I like to organize another annual trip that involves summiting a 3800 foot steep and rocky mountain in Shenandoah National Park at nighttime. Held in the late fall when there are no leaves on the trees to block the moon's full brightness, we solve problem after problem and then celebrate back at our rented cabin.

To get to the cabin at Dolly Sods, we drove up Forest Road 19 from the Eastern side of the plateau prepared to stop at the first steep section of road that was iced over. Encountering no such sections, we continued to the cabin and began a hot fire in the woodburner and began to discuss where we'd hike. The Red Creek trail won us over and the rest of the day was spent in the woods navigating our way on the approximately 7 mile hike along pristine Red Creek to the Rorbaugh Plains rock outcroppings. In doing so, we forded countless small brooks, some which were sheets of fragile ice, each one a small, independent problem to solve. We even spent about an hour solving the very difficult problem of crossing Red Creek, where the powerful water was ice cold and most exposed rocks were coated with a sheet of ice. Once that problem was solved by a few members of the group, we all decided that the existence of a solution was satisfying enough and we proceeded up the creek without crossing.

Back at the cabin, Saturday night became legendary as everybody disclosed the foods that they'd brought for the group. Because no coolers were needed, the group had packed in a feast. Grease Fire even showed up, driving his RC car all the way up to mountain and across the meadow. But, we had fireproof gloves with us and so nobody got burned. Even the dogs will never forget that evening at the cabin.

On Sunday we hiked the most popular trail in the region to the summit of Seneca Rocks and saw only two other people there. The benefits of winter adventuring reveal themselves over and over. Because there was no paparazzi, we were able to shoot an episode of the Michael Burke Show, which continued at the Purple Fiddle in Thomas.

Check out more photos here and here and here and here.

Git r' Dun.

Bloodline

2008-01-31T11:32:00.003-05:00

At the request of somebody very dear to me, I am publicly admitting that after a year and a half, I now have WV running through my veins. In case anybody reading this is not convinced, here is some support of this admission:

I drive the state's other official vehicle (not a pickup). It's a Subaru and it's very dirty. Always.
My bookmark is a twig.
The beard, which stores my bookmark while reading.
Local parlance such as the following sometimes finds its way into my vocabulary: reckon (v.), holler (n.), yeller (adj.), and git 'r dun (v.).
I just bought a dehydrator so that I can make my own jerky.
I frequently describe things as being wild or wonderful.
One of my current projects is a quilt.

Am I missing anything?

While hiking recently, my friend Andrew commented that nobody his age (early-mid-20's) does anything like this (this being a very soggy hike down Big Sandy Creek after a big rain) and it got me thinking that either Andrew is somehow avoiding the people in WV who actually get out, or he is right.

Git 'r Dun.

Close Call on the Sandy

2008-01-02T10:27:00.000-05:00

"GET ME A ROPE UP THERE!"

When it became clear that a swift and effective rescue was necessary, veteran Big Sandy Boater Max Harbert took the reigns of the rescue of his friend, Joe (name changed for protective measures), who had found himself in a potentially deadly bind at the notorious Splat rapid, a sequence of two difficult drops. The first drop cascades while losing about 8-feet of elevation as it crescendos through sticky and complicated holes and had reeled Joe into its G-spot. Squirting his boat into a short vertical dance, Joe landed upside down in the rapid's fast current headed for the second drop of Splat, a 15-foot waterfall that lands on a trailer-sized boulder. Separated by about 30 feet (seen in the photo to the right), the duo presents paddlers brave enough to attempt a run with little margin for error. Descending the waterfall safely requires a swift and strong trajectory to the left. Boaters swimming the bottom drop or running it in any other fashion are generally likely to be subjected to consequences ranging from serious injury to drowning.

Big Sandy Creek was running at an enjoyable level of 5.85 feet on the Rockville gauge for the final Saturday of 2007. When my kayaking partner for the day, Jason, and I got to the put in and began to suit up, I expressed surprise at the fact that there were no other cars parked there, giving us the false promise of a quiet and unobstructed run down my favorite local river. The fallacy of it was exposed within a few minutes when a caravan of six more vehicles arrived. Safety comes in numbers, so part of me was relieved and ultimately, the cliche proved itself true on this day.

The mile or so to the first waterfall, Wonderfalls, is an exciting warm up for the big rapids below and a good time for the paddlers in a group to become acquainted with each other. In this case, there were several first-time Sandy paddlers in two groups making up about 15 boaters. The first timers had all successfully run much more dangerous rivers like the Green (NC) and Blackwater, so we all proceeded with no concern and ran the approach and Wonderfalls. Waiting at the bottom of the 18-foot drop, the group saw no issues whatsoever and so we all peeled out into the current and moved on.

It was only a week ago at Wonderfalls where I had witnessed both the most fearful and astonishing moments of my whitewater experiences. After beaching himself onto the ledge at the top of a swollen Wonderfalls, a member of the group in which I was paddling spun sideways to a position parallel with the ledge, and toppled over, landing on his side. To our concern, he disappeared completely for an exceedingly uncomfortable period of time and we saw no equipment, boat or swimmer emerge from the violent hole at the bottom of the falls. After a minute or two, we astonishingly discovered that he'd executed a roll only to find himself behind the waterfall in the large space under the overhanging rocks.

A paddler swam at Little Splat. I was told that he hadn't met his annual quota, so there was little anything could do about it. There's no sense in fighting the River Gods.

The near tragedy then occurred at Splat, and the intensity of the rescue that ensued in the relatively small distance between Splat's two drops was bone-chilling. When the day's first Splat runner, Jason Hilton, indicated his intentions, I proceeded to the best rope-throwing position at the foot of the first drop. From this position, a rope can reach across the river far enough above the big waterfall to pull a swimmer to an eddy before an unthinkable swim onto Splat rock can occur. Jason, who runs Splat regularly, paddled through both drops without incident, perhaps giving Joe a poor impression of the precision required in running the rapid.

And so, equipped with the best wishes of all of the members of both group, Joe proceeded. His run was ugly from the beginning. With a near-flip at the top of the first drop, Joe was moving sideways while bracing hard on his right side as he entered the mayhem of the hole at the bottom of the cascade. Within a few seconds, he was attempting his roll while being pushed against the cliff on the right side of the river, where the current is at its strongest. But, his attempts failed as he scraped his paddle against the rocks over and over. Finally coming to rest underneath an overhanging section of the rocks, he quickly exited his capsized boat and found himself in a grotto behind a small waterfall. We were all relieved to see him give the "a-ok" sign by tapping his head with his hand. Joe even was hanging onto his paddle and boat!

Because I was on the left side of the river and Joe was inside a narrow space, I was unable to do more than to be ready to throw a rope to him if he came out into the current. I started walking back to where the group was all standing, but was quickly and smartly sent back to my position by Max. Several paddlers jumped into their boats, splashed into the water below the waterfall, and paddled across to the other side. Jumping to their feet with ropes in hand, they then quickly scaled the cliff and moved their way to a point directly above Joe.

The rescue from there went smoothly. Ropes and hands were offered to Joe, which he gratefully accepted and he, along with his boat and paddle, was raised to safety. Joe and Max hugged each other there on the rocks, and a small celebration erupted among the rest of us. I have been witness to such celebrations before, and it is difficult to adequately describe the feeling associated with seeing a life saved by the actions of others. It was a great way to end an unforgettable year of paddling.

More photos can be found here.

Git r' dun.

Adventures North of the Border

2007-12-17T19:10:00.002-05:00

This weekend I spent the days on PA rivers. My trip report from Got Boof from a dramatic Sunday on Indian Creek is reprinted here:

The elation associated with seeing my friend Mike ashore, grinning and arms waving, was significant enough to allow me – for a moment – to forget about my physical discomforts. The soreness in my back from paddling as swiftly as possible for five miles and the numbness in my fingers, the stinging on my face, and the shivering in my core from doing so in sub-freezing temperatures into a strong headwind were overtaken by relief. Mike was literally and figuratively out of the woods and this meant that we would not be faced with the prospect of beginning a search for him there in these conditions.

We started the day with a plethora of prospects, but needed to be on the safe side. It had rained enough overnight to bring up some of the gauges and because Mike is a beginning paddler, the options were a bit more limited. After toying around with the idea of the Casselman River (too high), Laurel Hill Creek (probably our safest bet), and Indian Creek (just a bit of a challenge for Mike), we opted for the latter because it came with the addition of our friend Jason, who would add 33.3% more safety on the water. That seemed to make Laurel Hill Creek a less desirable option, and as we found out later, that was actually a 50% increase because our friend Art came along as well. Indian Creek it was. Grease Fire did his best Indian impression, though I'm not certain that any American Indian actually ever repeatedly hit his or her mouth with their hand while making a loud "O" sound.

Indian Creek at the level we found it yesterday is a lot like the Lower Yough with the addition of two 6-foot ledge drops that excited the experienced paddlers in the group (Art, Jason, "Grease Fire" Rob, and me) and challenged Mike to experiment with a boof stroke. His first experiment failed, and after a short sideways ride in a curtain, Mike swam out of his boat. Strike one. In general, few holes on Indian Creek were not punch-worthy, but Mike found one of these a short time after his first swim. Strike two. In fact, after swimming out of this hole, his boat found itself abandoned for the first time that day on a mid-river ledge. No fear; Indiana Jones brought his whip. Cue in the theme music.

With Mike's third swim came his third strike. All agreed it was time to walk. Because we were more than halfway down the Indian, he would walk downstream. When he reached the confluence with the Yough, we would all paddle the flatwater five miles to the take out. The wrench in the plan came about 30 minutes later when Jason and I realized that there are two un-crossable tributaries before that, Rasler and Richter Run. It was at that moment that I became unnerved with the situation, and so when we got to Rasler Run, I insisted on hiking up to find Mike. Also at that moment, Mother Nature chimed in with her interesting twist: a snowstorm.

And so I spent the next 90 minutes (wild guess here; no watches in the group) hiking up and down Rasler on both sides trying to locate Mike. Blowing my whistle and shouting was unsuccessful as I crawled on all fours against the cold ground through thick rhododendron. Grease Fire waited at the confluence and eventually huddled under a thick patch of rhododendron to stay warm. Art and Jason hiked up Rasler with their boats for about ¾ of a mile and paddled the class 5 creek back down. When we reunited at the small creek's end, we decided that the situation was now urgent enough to make our main priority getting to Mike. And, he had to be somewhere between Rasler and the put in, an area we were now unable to adequately search because we were downstream of it.

The beauty of shoving our kayaks back into Indian Creek with big, heavy flakes dropping was barely noticed as we all pushed on. As we approached AW-rated class 5 Terminator rapid, I bowed to the River Gods and asked for kindness. We scouted, and all ran the big Upper Gauley-esque wavetrain with no issues. In a rapid below that, Rob was surfed sideways into a big hole. As we all reacted by turning around to help, Jason was closest to him. Rob wrestled with the hydraulic for a 20-second ride, was flipped, and then surfed himself out the side of the ugly hole. Upon reaching Jason, he sternly said, "We don't have time for a swimmer." Cue up that theme music one more time.
The day was clearly getting late when we reach the mighty Yough. Looking more like the Ohio, the river was more than 100 yards wide and the wind was whipping whitecaps into showers of spray. A plan was initiated, though I think that it was probably slightly different in each of our heads. In mine, it was as follows. I would paddle hard with keys to one of the take out vehicles, warm it up and get changed into dry clothes. That would allow me to load boats onto the roofs while the others changed and warmed up. Once we were ready to move, one car would go straight to the put in vehicle, hoping to find Mike there. The other car, equipped with a Gazetteer, would take a detour and explore the back roads on the upstream side of Rasler Run, hoping to find Mike there. We'd meet at the put-in car, where there was food, and if we didn't have Mike with us by then, one car would stay there and wait while the other drove to the Fire Department in Ohiopyle (about 5 miles away) to get help. It was very cold out and the snow was piling up. Mike would not make it through the night if he was in the woods in all of his wet paddling gear. I was concerned to the point that I'd accepted the necessity of spending whatever money was necessary to get the four of us geared up to hike into the woods for many hours in these conditions at night. I was putting together a mental list of gear for each of the four of us: headlamp, extra batteries, sturdy boots, outerwear, thermos with hot tea, food, blankets, etc.

It was only a week ago that a few acquaintances had been lost in the woods of the Otter Creek Wilderness in West Virginia after an unsuccessful attempted first "complete" descent of Moore Run. There were only two of them and one spent the night in the woods after suffering a broken nose and serious lacerations on his face, both of which occurred during a bad swim after the two men had separated from each other on the river. It all turned out well, but the night was in the low 40's and it was dry. With the weather into which I was now paddling, the situation that I was now envisioning was potentially deadly for Mike.

Mike's solo landborne experience was not psychologically dissimilar from ours, and he made all the right decisions. Upon reaching Rasler Run, he discounted getting in his boat or attempting to wade across. Rather, he remembered us showing him a secondary road that goes to its put in. So, he quickly and smartly diverted his downstream journey along Indian Creek into an upstream journey along Rasler Run. Ducking the thick rhododendron underbrush on all fours in the snow, Mike dragged his heavy kayak behind him for what mush have seemed like an eternity. We could have been separated by only a few hundred yards at that time and wouldn't have known it. The heavy load undoubtedly kept Mike working hard enough that he was warm, but that also meant that he was expending a lot of energy he would need if he was stuck overnight. But, he didn't need it, because there was NO WAY he was getting stuck overnight; it would be fatal. Mike soldiered on to a backroad, and in his own words, knew that he would be fine. He picked up his boat and followed the road uphill out of the creek's drainage region. Miles later, exhausted, he got to the main road, Rt. 381, dropped his boat in a ditch, and earned his new nickname: Hitch. His approximation of the time spent hitch hiking is 90 minutes. It was now in the 20's, approaching darkness, and the snow was creating near whiteout conditions. Mike must have been equally as afraid of a car sliding into him as he was of one never stopping for him. When he was finally picked up, he had no idea where to go. As a new paddler who lives 4 hours from this area, he is not familiar with the region. After he and the driver quizzed each other on nearby towns and waterways, the conclusion was drawn that he would find us at out take out near the Rod & Gun Club in Connellsville. The man drove him out of his way for more than ten miles through the big storm. Insert divine intervention reference here.

And so another epic day on the river came to a shivering end, with the five of us screaming and hugging, celebrating there on the side of the Yough just upstream of Connellsvile. Ice coated all of our skirts, helmets, and life jackets. Mike was now cold enough to be going into high frequency vibration. Cars were started, warmth returned, and the long, slippery drive home began. Ironically, the question "Got Boof?", had it been posed to Mike before launching into Indian Creek and pondered seriously, would have radically changed the course of the day.

XXX in MMVII

2007-12-10T09:58:00.000-05:00

On Sunday, December 9th I paddled to the confluence of class 4 Teter's Creek and the flooding Tygart River in Barbour County. I waited for the crew with whom I had been boating to assemble, slogged through marshy grass while carrying my kayak from the creek bed past the piers of an abandoned railroad bridge and up a steep embankment strewn with bottles, television sets, and appliances, and dropped the heavy boat at my car. It was cold and soggy and the puddles around my car were deep and muddy, but I had just paddled two amazing and intense creeks, the second of which was a milestone. Despite the muggy day, I was even happier than I typically am in this scenario because I had completed a goal that I had set when I realized that I was pacing rapidly through new runs at some time around the Webster Spring Wildwater Festival in March. My goal of paddling 30 new runs in 2007 had been realized.

Like every other exploratory goal, my little, adventurous goal provokes controversy.

First, paddling Little Sandy Creek into Upper Big Sandy Creek counts for two according to AW. But, I'll need to get in one more new run before the end of the month to simply satisfy my own self-skepticism. Two runs, Rasler Run and the Rapidan River, are seldom run and so they are not official AW reaches. Rasler definitely makes the list (see www.got-boof.com for trip reports from both Rasler and Laurel/Teter's) but the Rapidan was a very small flooded stream with little gradient. So, if I want to be a snob about it, I need to replace the Middle Yough and the Rapidan with some more bona fide whitewater. The goal will hopefully be solidified in the next few weeks with two more good runs.

And, it just rained a lot.

Here they are, organized by state.

2007-1	MD	Savage	Merrill - Lake (Upper)
2007-2	MD	Savage	Lower
2007-3	MD	Yough	Upper
2007-4	MD	Yough	Top
2007-5	NY	Hudson	Gorge
2007-6	PA	Casselman	Markleton - Fort Hill
2007-7	PA	Laurel Hill Creek	Whipkey Dam - Footbridge
2007-8	PA	Rasler Run	To Indian Creek
2007-9	PA	Shade Creek	To Stonycreek River
2007-10	PA	Slippery Rock Creek	Eckert - Harris (Lower gorge)
2007-11	PA	Stonycreek	Canyon
2007-12	PA	Stonycreek	Upper Gorge
2007-13	PA	Stonycreek	Lower
2007-14	PA	Yough	Middle
2007-15	PA	Meadow Run	Dinnerbell Rd - Ohiopyle
2007-16	VA	Rapidan	Rt. 231 - Rt. 29
2007-17	WV	Big Sandy	Little Sandy - Rockville (Upper)
2007-18	WV	Potomac, South Branch	Smokehole section
2007-19	WV	Gauley	Upper
2007-20	WV	Gauley	Middle
2007-21	WV	Gauley	Lower
2007-22	WV	Big Sandy	Lower
2007-23	WV	Cheat	Canyon
2007-24	WV	Elk, Back Fork	from Sugar Creek
2007-25	WV	Little Sandy	Rt. 26 - Big Sandy
2007-26	WV	Meadow	Upper
2007-27	WV	Stony	Dam - Rt. 50
2007-28	WV	Potomac, North Branch	Bloomingon
2007-29	WV	Laurel Creek	into Tygart
2007-30	WV	Teter's Creek	into Tygart

Note: Since writing the non-italicized text of this post, I have paddled two new rivers, Fike Run (PA) and Indian Creek (PA). So, I figure I've got that going for me, and I definitely hit the big three-oh.

Having a prolific year like this under my belt, I begin to feel like I'm actually worth my salt as a whitewater boater and that Life in West Virginia is good. This may or may not be the case, but if most definitely feels that way when I'm on my way to the river and the skies are dousing the watersheds.

Git 'r Dun.

Winter's Arrival

2007-12-04T16:59:00.001-05:00

There are few things as pleasant as paddling whitewater in a snow storm. Uniquely pleasant, that is, in its simultaneous purity and complexity. At a glance from a calm eddy below the notorious Big Splat rapid, I stopped to witness the slow, downward drift of a million big, fat snowflakes, the thunderous waters of the Big Sandy chew away rock at a geologic pace, and a hundred mile wide cloud mass expose the sun to me through a tiny hole. I admit that I chuckled aloud in amazement.

And only two other people were there witnessing it all with me.

But I couldn't hear them.

Because the roar of whitewater is too loud.

And that damn rubber hat I have to wear was sealed over my ears.

I nearly missed this opportunity to experience the first day that Mother Nature showed us her cold side. With a big rain on Sunday night and steady snow throughout the day Monday, Tuesday shaped up to have a lot to offer. Thankfully, two paddlers from the DC area, Tyler and Matt, responded to message board posts. Neither had run this section of Big Sandy Creek before, and it is on every class 4 boater's list. If I had to rank the best types of experiences on whitewater, introducing a boater to a new river to run is just below being introduced to a new run. But, if the river is one of my own favorites, we can call it even.

According to the ultra-precise thermometer on my dashboard, it was 24 degrees when we parked the car at the put in. This was after more than an hour of driving to drop the shuttle vehicle at the take out thanks to the snowy, rough roads of Preston County, WV. I was told by Charlie Walbridge last week that the quickest way from Masontown to Bruceton Mills is through Jenkinsburg. This may sound perfectly normal to most, but Jenkinsburg is not a town and the road through it is more than 8 miles of rocky, muddy (and snowy today) switchbacks. We made it without a single slip.

Just as modern vehicles can be designed to tackle these roads, modern paddling apparel has been designed to keep out the cold. Never mind the fact that it takes a full 30 minutes to buckle, strap, and zip it on; it works. And so, Matt, Tyler and I put onto the river just under the bridge at Rockville (also not a town). And, I was responsible for getting them the appropriate information to successfully navigate the river. I am proud to say that I am apparently good at transferring this information, because when the information was given, all the right moves were executed. Strangely, both of them styled the line at Zoom Flume rapid, a line I have yet to style myself. All theory, no practice

One swim occurred and it was not in one of the major rapids. And, like I said, the gear works.

Reaching the take out point where the wild waters of the Big Sandy are injected into the wonderful Cheat River, a breath of relief accompanied each of our sighs of awe. This place is awesome.

Check out the photos.

Git r Dun.

Rockville to Jenkinsburg

2007-11-14T13:44:00.000-05:00

It was Jeremy's idea.

On Monday, after he was characteristically late arriving to start an already rushed adventure, Molly and I joined him for a late night drive to drop a vehicle off in Jenkinsburg, where Big Sandy Creek meets the Cheat River. After that, we drove in a second vehicle to Rockville. It was past 11 pm when we finally got the the beginning of our trip, which would last only about 13 hours. And, it was was a seriously concentrated 13 hours.

To whitewater paddlers, Jenkinsburg is a familiar place because it is the take out point for these two classic runs and Rockville is a popular put in. And, though Rockville and Jenkinsburg may have the sound of established towns on some main road, perhaps with a few residents or businesses, they are not. As is the case with many places in Appalachia where the coal industry temporarily created a small community, the only evidence of civilization in both of these "towns" are old dirt and gravel covered mountain roads, a bridge, and a few misleading specs on the dated USGS map of the area. If you ask Google Maps for either town, you get rubbish for Jenkinsburg and a random point about five miles away for Rockville. Given the nature of our journey, this is poetry.

They were calling for rain. That's why we felt a bit rushed as we left the car to start the walk to Wonderfalls. We packed light for one night in the woods and only one substantial meal, so it didn't take us long to hit the trail. That is, it wouldn't have taken us long. However, Allegheny Wood Products, the owner of the forest (aka, timber) that is currently holding the ground together, has taken the first 3/4 of our trail and widened it into a road for its heavy machinery. We begrudgingly began to walk down this road in the trail's stead.

As if slogging down a 30 foot wide road of gravel-laced mud several inches thick wasn't miserable enough, the sight of large earth-moving, tree-digging vehicles brought our initial spirits to a minimum.

But, Jeremy got to drive the bulldozer (lemonade!).

With the road-making equipment behind us, our unseasonably warm night hike into Wonderfalls became much more enjoyable. We mindfully scoped out a place to pitch our tent that would hopefully be void of runoff from the predicted showers, eventually settling for a tree-covered spot about 50 feet above the falls and just off the riverbank. We were very glad to find that the tent held out all of the water because the showers most definitely materialized. A quick breakfast and coffee in the morning mountain fog got us rearing to move. So, we did.

Given that we were technically trespassing on our adventure, there were no trails. Navigation would instead be guided by a network of overgrown, long forgotten logging roads, the creek's deep canyon, and, ultimately, the far off sight of Cheat Canyon's steep walls that were blue with mountain haze.

We pushed through waist-high underbrush, wrestled our way through complicated ruins of downed trees, and scaled up and down loose, rocky sections of the canyon, all the while knowing that the car at the end of our journey was across the creek and there was no bridge. At some point, we'd be faced with finding a crossing. Secretly, I think that it was precisely this prospect that initially attracted both me and Jeremy to this trip.

After a few hours of travel, from a point high above the creek, we came to the decision that it was time to cross. As if we actually knew what we were doing, after descending into the canyon we arrived at the creek exactly where we'd hope we would. A bridge once crossed Big Sandy Creek here and three of the concrete supports are still there. This meant that had we crossed any further down the canyon, we'd have to ascend the steep walls to get to an old road bed and had we crossed further up the canyon, we'd have had to boulder-hop on the other side of the creek until we came to this point. It could not have been planned more effectively, with strong sarcasm underlying plan.

Crossing the creek was the trip's major obstacle. After over an hour of effort, our party of three adults and our three heavy packs had made it across, our lower extremities spending minimal time in the water. It was a game of Twister played in the roar of mild whitewater, shouting commands and encouragement to each other the entire time. The creek is about 25 feet wide where we crossed, and the boulders and shallow sections required about 5 or 6 moves and two or three of them were really tricky.

Allright. Put your right knee here on this rock and let your right foot dangle into the water until you find the rock to stand on. It's about 8 inches down. Okay, can you take your left arm and reach way out to grab that far rock? Nice! Now, reach across the deep part with your left leg and stand up on the rock that's just beneath the surface of the water. Watch it; that rock's slippery! Take your time! Nice work. Now, grab that first pack and toss it to me. Ready? Okay, on three; one, two, THREE! Good throw! Okay. I'm going to jump to that rock. Will you be able to grab me if I lose my balance?

I consider that creek crossing to be what made our trip down the Big Sandy epic. I've had one other truly epic hike in my life and it occurred in Shenandoah National Park, but that's not in West Virginia.

Once across the creek, it was about a mile and a half down the well-worn old road. Downed trees and evidence of landslides got in our way at a few times, but the elation of completing the journey was realized as soon as we were safely looking back nostalgically at our hairy crossing. Continuing, we knew we were near the car and in the vicinity of a swimming hole of overwhelming local popularity when we passed a very peculiar sign .

We got to the car reeking heavily of accomplishment. A man and woman sat on the tailgate of their pickup in Jenkinsburg drinking Natural Light. He asked us if we'd seen any wildlife. No, we told him, unfortunately it was an uneventful hike from Rockville. He asked us why in the world we walked that far through the woods, and I didn't tell him that it was because people like him don't. He told us to stick around and he'd show us some of the wildlife we failed to encounter. But, I had to get to work.

Enjoy the photos.

Git 'r dun.

Gauley

2007-11-04T18:31:00.001-05:00

I sat at the foot of a 400 foot man-made wall of rock and gravel, over which vehicle after vehicle crossed carrying paddlers and their crafts to the legendary Gauley River. On a typical day, the dam holds back billions of gallons of water, but on this day, the dam was releasing 2800 cubic feet of it every second into the Gauley River, creating a playground and rendezvous of whitewater boaters for the Mid-Atlantic. I sealed myself into my plastic boat, took a big gulp to relieve the butterflies, and pushed off the boulder on which I had been sitting, splashing into the current. I was on my way.

In the Gauley River, West Virginia has one of the world’s most sought after adrenaline rushes. Whitewater rafting enthusiasts know it as the big one; the Everest of big water east of the Rockies. In 2000, my brother-in-law recruited some of my closest friends to accompany me in a raft down the Upper section of the Gauley during a dam release weekend. So, aside from my own memory deficiencies, I knew what I was getting into when I decided that I'd run it this September in my kayak.
On that raft trip, our arrival took place in the days when water came rushing horizontally out of two 20-foot diameter tubes that are about 30 feet above the river level. The Summersville Lake Dam engineers have since reconfigured the releases to bubble up from a place deep beneath the Gauley River at the base of the dam. It’s too bad, because seeing the violent rush of water just above the put-in for the Upper Gauley was poetic. Imagine the rush of an opened fire hydrant from the perspective of an insect.

Several people drown on the Gauley River every year during the 6-week season of dam releases, creating a sense of danger at the put-in. Some are rafters and many are kayakers, a stark difference between the Gauley and other commercially rafted sections of whitewater, where disproportionately few “hardboaters” pay the ultimate price. I found out for myself why the Gauley is very much an anomaly of whitewater this year by taking the thrill ride once again, this time under my own power as a hardboater. I made a last minute switch of guides from my good friend, Buck (sorry, Buck!), who was gallantly leading 6 new Gauley paddlers, to Chrissy and Chara (thanks, ladies!), who were not leading any new Gauley paddlers. Not to mention, Chara has navigated the Gauely for decades in every type of craft as high as flood stage. I knew I was in good hands.

The scene at the put-in is an interesting mix of anticipation, butterfly-provoking intimidation, solemn preparation, and celebration. The location is within driving distance of the Southeast, Northeast, and points in the Midwest. The release schedule is well-publicized. There are hundreds of options for camping. Add beautiful, unseasonably warm fall weather, and the convergence of rafters and kayakers is astounding. Everybody is there.

Personally, I was aware of the dangers. Don’t surf the wave on the right at the top of Initiation; there is a deadly sieve below it that has killed. Avoid the eddy dubbed the Room of Doom at Pillow Rock rapid. It won’t kill you, but it will hold you and violently toss you about through ten-foot swells in a 4 x 6 rock-walled space for a long time, sometimes necessitating extraction by throw rope. Avoid swimming through Lost Paddle or Iron Ring. Don’t go too far left at Sweet’s Falls or you might hit Dildo Rock at about 35 mph. If you do, you are certain to break something when you hit. And then, there are the rafts. I was privy to an event involving my friend Joshua at Pillow Rock, whereupon he entered the Room of Doom, was tossed for a generous five seconds, and exited the room just as 2500 pounds of rubber and helmeted, neoprened bodies approached. In a flash, he was under the raft and from below the rapid in the calm water, I was able to watch as the raft reared up after hitting holes to expose him and his boat for a quick second before crashing down on him again. It was like watching a monster chew its food. I will admit I laughed.

As much as I knew the dangers associated with these rapids along with memorized photos and videos of them (thank God for the Internet), nerves are on constant alert because until one really learns the river well, it is not clear when one of these rapids are around the next bend in the river and there are dozens of class 2 – 4 rapids and hydraulics separating them.

It is what lies outside the main current that makes this river so dangerous yet so nonchalantly boated by so many. With around 3000 cfs of water coming down the canyon, the main channel of navigation is often a stretch of beefy, chaotic whitewater consisting of large hydraulics. But, aside from lots of bouncing around, perhaps an uncomfortable five-second ride in a hole, and house-sized boulders that can be seen from a dozen yards away, running the river requires a bit less control than most. There is just so much water pushing you downstream, that unless something outside of the proximal realm of possibility happens, you'll end up downstream. And, there are long, flat pools of slowly moving water peppered between the rapids. What makes it dangerous is beside the main channel of water. On the sides of the river are urban house-sized boulders with urban neighborhood-sized slots between them. And, under many of them are urban porch-sized spaces. Deep within the Gauley River National Recreation Area, it's as if you're paddling through a city of rock. And, many paddlers like to go into the city to make things interesting. Sometimes, as in the case with this year's drowning on the Upper Gauley, they don't come out until the dam holds back the water once again, making recovery possible.

I did it. I braved and survived the Gauley. I paddled 78 river miles (a hat trick Gauley Marathon!) over roughly 20 hours in three days, flipping only a few times in those typical first-timer places; a sticky eddy line at the Iron Curtain, halfway through Iron Ring in Woodstock Hole. I even got cocky enough to blast through Hell Hole, a monster hydraulic in a rapid called Pure Screaming Hell. The overall weekend was a huge personal success and provided me with three new feathers for my whitewater cap.

Once again, the anxiety and intensity prevented me from thinking of using my camera, but I have found a crazy video that puts into perspective the power of the Gauley River. If you're thinking of rafting the Gauley, I'd say don't click here, and definitely don't look for "Four Seasons on the Gauley."

Git 'r dun.

Legendary

2007-10-31T10:32:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I got to run Cheat Canyon with a crew that included Charlie Walbridge.

This is kind of like a visit to Monticello with Thomas Jefferson or attending a game at Yankee Stadium with Babe Ruth.

Aren't you jealous?

Here are more photos.

Git 'r Dun.

North Fork Mountain Trail

2007-10-21T19:01:00.000-05:00

The past weekend's plans: drop a vehicle at the southern trailhead of the North Fork Mountain Trail on Friday evening, drive to the northern trailhead, and then walk the 23.8 miles back along the ridge of North Mountain.

On Friday, I arrived at Seneca Rocks at about 3:30 pm after a quick stop to Mark and Margot's cabin to drop off a load of firewood and a handful of photo stops, the latter activity necessitating itself as soon as I saw the foliage upon descending from Canaan Valley.

I sat on a bench at Seneca waiting for Matt and Julie while minutes passed in that slow and calm way that minutes pass in West Virginia. As I sat there reading the Monongahela National Forest Hiking Guide, a round man sat on an adjacent bench, smoking cigarette after cigarette while greeting other tourists. I began to become worried after Matt and Julie were more than an hour late. Out of cell phone range, I began to fire quarters into the pay phone (yes, they still exist here in WV) to call around to family members. Each call was unsuccessful, though, and so by 5 pm when Matt and Julie were 90 minutes overdue, I nervously struck up conversation with the smoker. He was indeed a local, and had recently moved to Seneca Rocks from Upper Tract. As the crow flies, that's only about 5 miles over several ridges. By road, however, the distance between the two villages is 35 miles. When asked why he decided upon the move, he responded, "s'a whole lot more ta do here." I looked around and reflected on how he had spent the last hour and a half.

Within a few minutes, the Groves had arrived telling tales of hydroplaning and closed roads. To ease nerves, we decided on pizza and beer first and then made our way south, accepting the fact that we'd have to search for a campsite in the dark. It would end up being timing perfection.

On the way up the pass to drop off the car, we were granted a fantastic double rainbow over the autumn mountains. After a day of rain, it was as if Mother Nature was pushing aside the drapes of foul weather for us. Not another drop of rain fell for the remainder of the weekend.

Several hours later, bounching headlamps approached the campfire we'd built about 100 yards into the trail from the northern end. The DC contingency - Seth, Mark, and Helene - had found their way to us and the group was complete. Tents pitched, we sat around to enjoy the evening when, BAM!, the fire popped. Everybody did their own personal version of stop, drop, and roll, and we decided that there must have been a lighter or something similarly small and pressurized in the firepit. Perhaps foolishly, we recollected our wits and sat back down, staring into the flames. About 15 minutes later, another explosion sent softball-sized burning pieces of logs shooting off into several directions, one of which was straight for Matt Grove's head. Good thing Seth is a doctor. We decided it was time to put the fire out and then we all climbed into our tents.

That was Day 0.

Day 1 began just before sunrise and ended in utter exhaustion. We hiked an astonishing distance of 15.6 miles through the day, starting with a 2.5 mile switchbacked ascent from our campsite to a point at the top of North Mountain. We were atop a 50-foot sheer cliff and about 1000 feet of steep, thickly forested hillside. The North Fork Mountain Trail was only a few hours old to us and we were already starting to count the number of ridges to the West. We spent the remainder of the day plodding along a mild trail through the forest, ascending to rock outcroppings and descending to lower-lying saddles. Vistas were so plentiful that we passed many of them without deviating from our strides, simply twisting our heads to the side to gather a quick glimpse.

The 'zone' came for each of us at times. I ate peanut butter, honey, and granola burritos. Helene has cool capri convertible pants and tender feet. Matt had burn marks on his head. Mark motors up the hills. Seth had a cool bear box that is hard for humans to open, too. Hanging food from bears is much more difficult than you'd think. Pitching tents just below the windward ridge makes for howling wind with no effect on the tents, which is cool. Julie packs light.

The woods were strangely busy on Saturday night. After I hit the sack (hard!), I was awoken at least 4 times by nighttime trailgoers. The first was a speedwalker, one of the groups was on mountain bikes, and another had two dogs per person. (I am having a hard time convincing myself that they were not hallucinations.) Aside from that, I can confidently say that all 6 of us slept like rocks.

With most of the elevation gained on Saturday, we hit the trail later in the morning on Sunday. It was 9 am and most of the remaining 8.2 miles we had to do were downhill, with a few ascents reminding us that we'd still have to earn the day's worth of hiking. Soon enough, the engine roar of trucks struggling up the mountain pass welcomed us to the parking lot on US 33. We'd made it.

The colors of autumn were in full effect through the weekend. Coupling the foliage with bold blue skies, Cumulus clouds, bright sun, distant mountaintops, and strong winds to blur them all together in a dynamic system of natural wonder, West Virginia delivered another explosive weekend.

Enjoy the Photos.

Git 'r dun.

The Fiddler's Roost

2007-10-01T19:29:00.000-05:00

Stewed Mulligan, a local WV bluegrass jam band, was playing the Purple Fiddle. I'd discovered the band at CheatFest (see May post) in a hippie-esque evening under the stars. Their signature song, Tam Lin, had been resonating in my head ever since and while perusing the music schedule at my favorite joint, I came across the show just in time. I quickly called Molly to inform her that she would be subjected to a real good ole West Virgin'yin time and that she could get packing; the Fiddler's Roost had vacancy.

The Fiddler's Roost is the low-grade "B" that sits next to and is part of the Purple Fiddle, which represents most of the economy in lovely Thomas, WV. Actually it's called a B&B, but I subtract the second B because there's really no breakfast, but somehow they get away with calling it one anyway. In fact, now that I think of it, that wasn't the only shoddily representative initial we'd encounter there (the "H" on the hot water spigot to name another).

This band is fantastic. If you ever get the chance to see them, go for it. Never mind the cover; even though they aren't known to charge more than a $10 fee, they're worth far more. The lead fiddler does his thing while working his way through the crowd, creating a paradox to those of us who associate this type of music with a low-tech performance, ala washtub bass. Really, a wireless amp on a fiddle??! The bassist bellows with a scratchy voice that seemingly comes out of nowhere. The yeehaws of the frontman are incredibly authentic. Does that guy rustle cattle when he's not enteretaining?

We woke to what we thought might have been an annoying radio alarm going off at about 7:30 am. But, it wasn't annoying. I was pleased to hear more bluegrass, and it was mild enough to wake me up very softly. I mosyed-on-down to the front porch of the B to find half of the band wide awake plucking. (Wow! What joy there is in mosying down to a front porch to find a band wide awake plucking!) Nobody else had stayed at the Fiddler's Roost that night; it was Stewed Mulligan and us, their new groupies. They even offered to share with us their . . . uh, attitude.

I was happy to show off the Purple Fiddle at one of its finest moments, and Stewed Mulligan pulled off a fantastic introduction.

Git 'r dun.

A Furr Piece Down a' Holl'r

2007-08-15T17:06:00.000-05:00

Friday was a big day. The local paddling club had scheduled a first-timers' run down the Upper Yough, and I just happened to arrive at about 3 am that morning after a hiatus in the Adirondacks (aahhhhh . . . ). As soon as I cleared the cell tower-less woods of upstate New York, I ran through about a half dozen voicemails from the previous 48 hours. They all carried the same message: it was raining hard in West Virginia.

As I drove southwest into the evening, I began to place calls in order to capitalize on the precipitation. The rain was threatening to make the Three Rivers Paddling Club First Timers' Upper Yough trip into a First Timers' Lower Big Sandy trip. Plan B all of a sudden became more exciting than Plan A.

About a half day later, I was sitting in the fabled eddy atop Wonderfalls with my heart thumping. A quick Hail Mary on the way to the lip got me exactly the projection I needed and before long, the "world had dropped out from under me; yeaaahhh" (Coop, 2007). Rob, who had successfully run the waterfall for his second time after his skills took a very quick escalation from a Class 3 to Class 4, was waiting in the pool below, beaming. Days like this just don't come frequently enough.

The end of the day may have been more monumental than the beginning. After driving back to the put-in, some of our friends had decided to do a second run and so we offered to drop their cars off at the take-out, a 30 minute drive over backroads not exactly fit for your everyday sedan, but not necessarily all that much out of our way. We quickly (uh, foreshadowing) roped the boats to my roof, and Molly, Rob, and I headed out in three cars. Up and out of the Sandy canyon and down and into the Cheat Canyon we went, moving more swiftly than we probably should have (uh, more foreshadowing) on the rocky dirt roads. It was simply a matter of time.

Driving down a steep narrow, rough road through the woods is becoming a common experience to me, but when a couple of big, yellow, plastic boats come crashing off the roof, onto the windshield, and then slide across the hood, I became a bit shaken. It all typically ends, though, when the boats come to a rest on the road in front of the car. However, on this road, that didn't happen. Rather, the heavy boats bounced off the road and picked up more and more speed as they made their way down the steep canyon wall toward the Cheat River. I stopped the car, jumped out, and watched as the two boats continued to bounce off rocks and trees without losing much speed. They both finally came to rest about 100 feet down the hillside.

Good thing I had my throw rope with me . . .

Git 'r Dun.

Cheatin'

2007-07-18T21:30:00.000-05:00

We have been blessed with water. For several weeks, West Virginia has been wallowing in a dry spell and those of us who rely on the rivers for quality of life purposes have been sad. Very sad. Well, thanks to Deep Creek Hydro and their releases on the Upper Yough River in MD, we've been able to stay sane. But, recently, a wave of water has fallen from the skies above the mountain state, and Rob and I capitalized by spending two days floating down the long Cheat Canyon.

The Cheat, as we both agreed, is becoming less of an intimidating piece of whitewater and more of a well-respected novelty. The named rapids (Big Nasty, Fist, High Falls, Teardrop, Coliseum, and Pete Morgan) get the respect they deserve, but this 10-mile stretch of river packs in more than thirty classifiable rapids that hold countless navigation options. We explore as many of them as we can.

Yesterday proved to be a challenging day on the river for Rob. Just after we had agreed that we are no longer scared of paddling the canyon, he flipped over while trying to find a "tricky" route through one of the lesser rapids. At his skill level, this is barely worth my paying any attention, as his roll is typically initiated immediately and he is righted. However, this time, I watched as his boat bumped around upside down. This is fairly typical as well, and I presumed that he was banging around on rocks in a self-protective tuck position, waiting for the bouncing to stop so he could roll safely. He did. But, where were once two paddle blades only appeared one. Rob had broken his paddle.

For a minute, we watched the smaller portion of the paddle float around in an eddy, and I was very close to picking it up before it sank to the bottom. Rob carefully navigated the rest of the rapid and waited for me at the bottom while I continued to search for half of his paddle.

Cheat Canyon is very remote and very long. Faced with the prospect of a handicapped paddler managing the more than 75% of the run that remained, we considered taking out and walking out. But, Rob's done that before, and he made clear that he didn't necessarily expect that to be much better. After taking out and sitting on a rock on the right bank, we decided to wait for the two rafts we'd passed a mile or so back and stick with them for safety. In the meantime, I found a small piece of driftwood and used medical tape to turn what was Rob's double-bladed kayak paddle only a minute before into a T-handled canoe paddle. It would work. It had to work.

The rafts showed up, and instantly the raft paddlers, who were all guides since they had no "guests" on this particular Wednesday, along with two kayakers, began to reinforce the arrogant and insensitive repuation that raft guides have. They laughed at Rob's predicament (which, granted, was a little funny) and harshly suggested that he'd be eaten alive by the hydraulics at Coliseum. That sealed the deal for Rob, and I'm not at all surprised that nobody wanted to hire these a-holes to guide them down the river.

With the pompous raft guide crew behind us, we set off for Rob's first C-1 experience. (In the paddling world, K-1 refers to a single kayak, K-2 a tandem, OC-1 an open canoe with one paddler, and OC-2 your good old aluminum Grumman. C-1 and C-2 are closed decked canoes with skirts, and the definition of a canoe is a single-bladed craft. Kayaks are double bladed. Rob's boat was instantly redefined to be a canoe.). The water was warm and not too pushy, the sun was beating down on us, and barring any extremely rare circumstances, we figured the worst that could happen would be a swim out of one of the bigger rapids. On a day like this, it might even be a more fun outcome than staying in one's boat.

Rob nailed it. I don't know that I would have done it, but he just kept on keepin' on through each one of the rapids. I crept up on each one looking for the straightest route or the one that only had left turns (turning left was no problem, but Rob couldn't turn right very well) and pointed them out to him. We played Follow the Leader for the most part through the entire canyon, and Rob didn't swim. In fact, Rob didn't even have to roll in any of the major rapids. His single-bladed descents of some of the rapids were even more graceful than my double-bladed descents.

We have a C-1 athlete in the making.

At the bottom of the canyon, we came upon a very unique fallen tree wedged between two boulders. The enormous tree provoked a rare appearance of the Monkey Boys. Enjoy the photos.

Optimization

2007-06-17T20:34:00.001-05:00

My gut tells me that it's a coincidence, but I really hope that I am earning a reputation. The trip with Kevin that yielded a bear sighting and a bagged peak certainly was a success, and now it was Mike's turn. He told me earlier in the week -- just as Kevin had -- that he had some business to take care of in the Pittsburgh area. He'd be here on Friday night and we had all day Saturday to play. I think that Mike left a satisfied customer.

With only one day to play, we had to fire up a double feature. I informed him that we'd be getting up early to squeeze in as much as possible, and because ATV riders who tear up the trails tend to sleep in. Wonderfalls would be ours and only ours provided we got there early. So, according to plan, we parked the car after the rocky drive down to Rockville at about 9 am and walked the mile down the jeep trail to the waterfall.

It was a chilly 58 degrees when we left the car, but the sun soon grew hot enough that we felt the urge to jump. This place is truly a blast. We spent a few hours jumping and attempting to get the shot, which is the photograph that would in one single glance give the viewer the impression of beauty, nature, and fun, fun, fun that this place possesses. In my opinion, this one comes close.

After we'd jumped to our hearts content, we hiked the mile to the next waterfall, known as Big Splat to paddlers. This one is not good for jumping, but the hike to get there is fun and the scenery and solitude is well worth it.

On the hike out, we passed the ATV riders on their way to ruin our prized spot. Perfect timing!

Lunch was spent at Little Sandy's, where Mike spent a whopping $1.83 on his. He tipped a dollar, which I pointed out was well over a 50% tip, so that waitress must have done something spectacular.

We rushed back to my apartment to retrieve the boating gear. Michael would paddle the Cheat Narrows in the afternoon. It just keeps getting better around here. A little logistical hiccup in the plans threw in a three-and-a-half mile jog for the shuttle, but it was all worth it in the end. Mike swam a half-dozen or so times, ran the big rapid well ("Calamity"), and spent the drive back to Morgantown letting me know that this was the best day of the year so far. It felt great to hear that.

We finished off the day at the Black Bear where some pony-tailed guitarist covered James Taylor, the Beatles, and other 60s soft rock tunes. Mike thought it was great; I was annoyed there was neither a banjo nor a fiddle. A few Oatmeal Stouts and glasses of red later and Mike was drunk dialing our friend Min in Los Angeles telling him tall tales of West Virginia waterfalls and whitewater.

Enjoy the photos!

Git 'r dun.

"Mommy, I Want to Live in the Woods!"

2007-06-12T14:15:00.000-05:00

My nephew, Xavier, was being a bit of a baby as we packed up on Monday morning. We'd been camping and enjoying the New River Gorge for a few days and it was time to go home. To a 4-year old, living in the woods probably sounds like a fantastic way of life. There'd be no showering, the weather would always be perfect, and s'mores would follow each meal.

I will admit that I've had the fantasy; it's come to me at various times while on extended trips or hearing stories of those who have indeed lived in the woods. I became fascinated enough about it a few years ago to read a copy of The Last American Man, an account of the life of Eustace Conway, a living mountain man who has spent years living off the land in western North Carolina.

However, I do not intend to ever move to the woods. But, Xavier's words -- even though they came between tears -- reminded me of this constant fantasy. I've even been to a few places that I felt might be ideal for it (outside of Taos, NM, and Santa Cruz, CA to name a couple) because of the resources available. Alas, I've decided that the turmoil of full-time employment is worth it, especially since the things I like doing in the woods aren't free.

The crew arrived at various times on Saturday; me, Marc, and the Groves coming via Morgantown, and Mark Burns, Chrissy, and others coming from DC, Fairmont, and beyond. The agenda, for a change, was centered around a specific event, and all of the other time spent there was keenly directed at the event. Of course, the event to which I refer would be my second Captain Thurmond's Triathlon, and I survived once again after a long day on the river Saturday, a bit too much drinking that night, and two enormous burritos haunting me for hours before the race. Mark, Chrissy, and Jeff survived as well, despite a puncture in the Irishman's tire about halfway into the bike section. Congrats, Chrissy and Jeff, on podium finishes in your respective classes. I was happy to avoid a crash on my bike, breaking my new fast fiberglass boat, or falling backwards while attempting to run straight up a cliff side, as the run course tends to go.

Returning to my original point, living in the woods is great at the New. The woods in which we lived for the weekend had picnic tables, fire pits, and a guy named Ray even delivered ice and firewood! Friendly people from Baltimore, Louisiana, and Ohio also live in these woods, and we were lucky enough to all be hungry at the same time. How perfect it is in West Virginia!

Git 'r dun.

Three Days in WV (Arbitrarily Close to Heaven, part n + 3)

2007-06-08T10:43:00.000-05:00

Kevin wanted to see West Virginia. Or, at least that's the way I heard it when he called me to let me know that he'd be in the Pittsburgh area for a few days of filming (he's a sound guy). He had a few days off after that, and wanted to have some fun outside.

I reassured him that I could find some.

So we spent three days exploring the Potomac Highlands by day and pontificating by night. It was a memorable experience. The highlights follow.

We arrived at Mark and Margot's cabin at Dolly Sods on Monday afternoon as our home base. We unloaded and spent the remaining daylight hours exploring the North Fork and running the Forest Road (Captain Thurmond's is two days away!!). Anticipating a big day on Tuesday, we didn't want to do too much. When you're camping or spending time at a cabin with no electricity, bedtime and sunset become closer to one another, especially when you introduce a bottle of Shiraz. This often translates to an early rise, making the days even more intense.

We logged a total of ten trail miles on Tuesday, first with the required to the summit of Seneca Rocks. Of course I was skittish up there, but I'm getting more comfortable each time.

A half-pound of turkey and a block of sharp cheddar later, our stomachs were full and we were on our way up Red Creek in the Dolly Sods Wilderness. The plan was loose, but ended up consisting of a trail loop (Red Creek - Big Stonecoal - Dunkenbarger - Little Stone Coal - Red Creek). It's about 7 miles in total. The rush of the hike came about a mile and a half in, when we came across the first black bear I've ever seen in this area, despite its reputation for bear sightings. We spent the remainder of the hike like we were on some aboriginal drum march, tapping twigs or rocks together, whistling, and musing about what weapons we wished we'd brought. Some great information came out of this hike: there are two incredible campsites on this loop for future backpacking. The first is just after taking a left onto Dunkenbarger. It's a very remote site along a meandering creek. The second is where Little Stonecoal crosses Red Creek, which has a nice sandy beach and a deep swimming hole.

We had dinner at the Purple Fiddle and crashed early. That's a productive day in the mountains.

Wednesday was one of those days when things just seem to go your way. After a failed attempt to find a hike from Blackwater Falls (beautiful falls; too bad there's a boardwalk to get there and you can't jump in), we decided to try our luck at finding a good trail. So, we headed toward Morgantown through the Monongahela National Forest north of Thomas. A few well thought out decisions led us to an old gated forest road off US 219. It didn't look very well-traveled, but it was well-defined, so we decided to give it a shot. At each turn, we constructed a rock cairn and felt comfortable with our chances of making it back to the car.

After about 1 - 2 miles of hiking through thick, grassy woods, we came to a jeep road. Turning onto this, we started to see "HP" blazed on trees and figured we were following some access road for Highland Power or Hippie Produce or Hilda's Pasture. After a few more turns (and a few more cairns), we followed the trail to an obelisk-shaped monument that marked the MD/WV border. Okay, that's pretty cool, but I started to remember that the Highest Point in MD is on the WV border, and figured the HP blazes must stand for High Point! A few hundred yards further, and we came upon the summit of Backbone Mountain, complete with a plaque, a picnic table, and little certifications you can fill out yourself to confirm that you'd stood on the highest point in Maryland.

May the peakbagging commence. I have been to the highest point in DC, but that's the entrance to the Wisconsin Ave. Whole Foods. Now, I've got a real highest point under my belt.

Here are the photos I took, but only from the summit hike. I forgot my camera the other times (dumbass!).

49 to go!!

Git 'r dun.

CheatFest 2007

2007-05-06T18:39:00.000-05:00

What may sound like a carnival of infidelity ("What happens at CheatFest stays at CheatFest") is actually an event held at the put-in spot for Cheat Canyon each year to raise awareness for various Cheat River watershed conservation advocacy issues, and to bring hundreds of paddlers together for a lot of fun. This second agenda was spot on this year, starting with a downriver race through the class 3/4 whitewater on Friday evening. I arrived on Wednesday and commuted from Morgantown while working through the day and paddling the race course in the evenings. I camped with an acquaintance from DC who seemed like a relatively normal guy until the party on Saturday night, when he arrived under-dressed.

Friday came, the race went on without a hitch (I placed somewhere around 25th of 150), and the crowd grew to capacity by Saturday evening as live bands like Stewed Mulligan kept us dancing all night. On Saturday afternoon, I was lucky enough to have some friends show me down the Upper Yough (Yes!! New Run!!) , but that's in Maryland (eeewwwww), so I won't say anything more about it, other than I did it again on Monday and swam!

On Saturday night, perhaps in a state of inebriation, a friend suggested to me that I give my credit card to one of the kayak vendors in return for a tandem whitewater kayak. The credit card part was only collateral because we were just using it for the day. Oh my was it ever worth it.

Safety issues aside, my decision to "borrow" the boat was one of my better ones. At least a half dozen of us ended up paddling some part of the canyon in it, and some even surfed it at two favorite playspots called Typewriter and Cue Ball. If you were REALLY unlucky, you got to swim out of the thing after flipping, like I did twice.

Addendum: The aforementioned swim was declared a HALF of a swim, so my Upper Yough record is 1/2 swim for two runs, for a 25% record. That's not so bad, but I intend to decrease that number. The reason it was declared to be a half swim is because my friend Dan was stuck in a hole when I came upon him. So, it's Dan's fault, and he gets 1.5 swims for the day. My momentum knocked him out, which left me in the hole. I held on for a while and side-surfed on both sides before my only option was to flip to see what happened. What happened was that I swam.

Gittin' 'r Dun.

When All Else Fails

2007-04-22T21:22:00.000-05:00

The weekend was spent at the Stonycreek Rendezvous near Johnstown, PA. Four new paddling runs, but that's not allowed to be discussed on a WV blog. But, as an archive to supplement my lousy memory, those four runs were: Shade Creek (lower section) and the Stonycreek River (Upper Gorge, Canyon, and Lower sections).

Seeing as all of the runnable waterways easily accessed from the festival had been knocked off by Saturday afternoon, it was decided to head south into WV for Sunday's paddle. Three of my Intermediate/Advanced paddling friends and I joined two exceptional kayakers on a run down the lower section of Big Sandy Creek today. This was my third time down, so my anxiety over Wonderfalls was less severe this time, but my heart still raced through the first mile before we got to the drop. All went well as all 6 members of our crew successfully ran the waterfall.

In fact, aside from your usual carnage (flips, swims, and minor pins), all was well for the entire team until the last rapid of significance, First Island. As the name indicates, we come to the rapid at the first point that the creek diverges around a rocky island. The left side is shallow and strewn with lots of rocks, which makes it far less fun. The right channel is flat at the top, but quickly becomes exciting as paddlers drop over a 4 foot falls and quickly through a cascade of about 20 yards of rocky whitewater. GO RIGHT THROUGH THE CASCADE is the general rule, but I managed to break this rule and discovered the consequences the hard way.

When you're in the middle of running a rapid in a kayak, there is a surprisingly significant amount of control and a lot of time to react to rocks, waves, hydraulics, and other obstacles. I had run First Island twice before successfully, and both times, I followed the rule. This time, being the lazy one in the group, I decided to remain in my boat and make an example of myself as the rest of the group scouted the rapid. This typically goes well, but this time I exhibited what NOT to do. Taking one last hard power stroke at the lip of the top falls, I launched into the whitewater below. In the short amount of time I had to react then (I wasn't able see over the falls from above), went right around a large boulder. Then, in a moment of unclarity, I looked to the left side of the next boulder for my next move.

When you make a wrong move, the wrongness of it often rears its ugly head immediately. In this case, I dropped over several large rocks with a series of thuds, and don't remember how, but was quickly capsized. This is usually not a problem, and so I waited upside-down for the commotion to end as I typically do. But, when it ended, I was resting upside-down on the rocky river bottom and could feel and hear the water still rushing past me very quickly. There are two options in this situation, the most attractive of which is a forced set up for an eskimo roll, and the other pulling the skirt cord and swimming out of the boat. I went for the former, and forcefully shifted both of my hands to my side. However, it may have been a bit too forcefully, and my two hands were no longer connected via a rigid shaft. I'd snapped my paddle on one of the rocks that was holding me in place.

It was inevitable that this would happen. I'd been paddling for nearly four years on a half-decent paddle, and even the best paddles don't last for all that many runs. This paddle had paid itself off many times over.

I pulled the cord, and stood up on the rocks. I threw my boat to shore and stepped out of the river. For a second, I watched half of my paddle float away before I couldn't see it anymore.

It was near the end of the run, but we still had several class 3 sections to run. Fortunately, I was paddling with an extremely skilled and well-equipped pair of paddlers, one of whom quickly tossed me his paddle and revealed a pair of hand paddles. And, this is why I continue to take every opportunity to paddle with experts.

In other news, Big Sandy Creek continues to amaze me. The clarity of the water through the untouched canyon is nothing short of Godly on a warm, sunny day like today. At one point, as I was sitting in a calm pool waiting for others in the group to shoot one of the rapids, I looked back upstream. From that vantage point at the bottom of several rapids, the high-gradient streambed could be better appreciated. For about a quarter mile, the Sandy sparkled and frothed through the rocky terrain while the vegetation surrounding it soaked it up. It won't be long before the canyon is green with life while the creek loses most of its water to the plants. Visiting that exact spot would be extremely difficult at that point, but I hope to get the chance to try.

It's really almost heaven when you stop and look around.

Git 'r Dun.

Nelson Rocks

2007-04-18T13:47:00.000-05:00

Somebody decided that it would be a good idea to build a via Ferrata in West Virginia.

Think back to your childhood, and you'll no doubt have many memories of participating in activities that you'd have serious reservations allowing your own children to do today. Take this collection of activities, all of which are probably attached to vivid memories, and remove those that would now be impossible because of liability issues. Next, remove the ones that are simply impossible because the only reason you were able to do them was your youth (ask me, Marc, or Max about our acrobatics aspirations). Lastly, drop those that are too are far too dangerous for your adult sensibilities. What remains?

These are the things that the active adult enjoys doing.

There may be a gray area, though, when it comes to what is sensible and what is not. Regardless, there is a continuum between the perfectly sane (think hiking in a well-marked park) and the questionable. The via Ferrata is questionable.

I'm afraid of heights. I wouldn't call my phobia diagnosable, but the fear that I have is significant enough to take my breath away when I find myself looking down. Yet, rational thought tells me that if I'm tied to a rock via a harness system that is strong enough to suspend my car, then I am not off the continuum. My fear tells me otherwise. The via Ferrata is a constant struggle for a person like myself.

Traveling through the Potomac Highlands of central WV, folks drive through Judy Gap with substantial regularity because it is at the crossroads of several important travel routes. I'd wager that less than a tenth of a percent of them are aware that they are within minutes of one the most spectacular grown-up jungle gyms ever created on a pair of quasi-parallel rock spines called Nelson Rocks. The spines are about 1000 feet high, with a separation that tapers from about 500 yards to 150 feet.

The via Ferrata (Italian for Iron Way) starts with a series of extremely strong rungs bolted into the Nelson Rocks strata (think of a towel bar capable of suspending a small truck). The rungs form a route that goes up the outermost face of the first spine, through a notch to the inside of the first spine, up the inside of that spine, across a cable bridge 200 feet above the ground to the other spine, continues ascending the inside face of the second spine, through a second notch, and that then scales the back face of the second spine, ending where it meets the summit of a 3500+ foot mountain. Independent of the rungs, a cable is stretched along the route and fixed to the rock at 5 - 20 foot intervals. Strap on a climbing harness outfitted with two sections of rope that end with locking carabiners, clip into the cable system, and the mountain is yours to explore. If you dare.

The Fourth of July weekend 2006 was spent with my family at Margot and Mark's cabin (again?! Yes, again). On Sunday of the weekend, a crew composed of me, Kirsten, Matt, Donald, and Katie strapped on the aforementioned harness systems, bid Julie and the kids adieu, and walked into the woods toward the terminus of the via Ferrata, and promptly came to a wall. The way from there was up. Straight up.

It took several of us a good while to scrape together the nerve to step onto the via Ferrata. The first section is purely vertical, and the fear wears off after awhile, aside from the optional loop that is encountered after the second notch following the bridge. Climbing the steel rungs was very simple, other than the sweaty palm problem that comes from being very scared on a hot Sunday in July. In only a few places was any sort of 'move' required, perhaps around a small tree that had a deathgrip on the rock or around a corner of rock that was insufficiently positioned for leaning. Leaning on the rock feels great when you are 500 feet above the ground.

The optional loop is a different story. I don't know that I'd ever do this part again, though it comes to a climax at the very tip-top of the rock, which happens to be about 20 inches wide. Yes, that said "inches." What's more is that climbers ascend a vertical pitch to the top and must shimmy across the 20-inch wide rock with each foot dangling above a different 1000 foot drop for about ten feet in order to access the down-climb. If I could describe the terror, I would. So, I won't.

We all completed the via Ferrata, and all but one of us took on the optional loop. The trip took several hours, but when the struggle associated with extreme heights and the brink of sanity are thrown into the mix, you're looking at an exhausting day.

Check out the photos.

Git 'r Dun.

Another Feather in the Cap

2007-04-09T14:20:00.000-05:00

Cheat Canyon, as mentioned in early posts, has been eluding me. This stretch of river is known for it's scenery and remoteness, but that's not the real reason that I've been so anxious. In November of 2005, an advanced whitewater canoeist from DC named RC Forney, who I did not know, drowned in one of Cheat Canyon's class IV rapids after missing his line, flipping out of his canoe, and becoming entrapped on a submerged dead tree. The original post on the message board of the Monocacy Canoe Club came on the evening of the tragic incident, and is reproduced here.

It is my sad duty to report that RC Forney died yesterday at Pete Morgan rapid on the Cheat River. RC was paddling an open boat. The level was 3 feet.
RC was having a very good day. He had just declined an opportunity to sneak Upper Coliseum and had run a perfect line through the meat of that difficult rapid. As he approached the entrance to Pete Morgan, he was off-line to the right. He hit the hole above the large rock on the right side of the entrance and then was swept sideways into that rock. He flipped and came out of the right side of his boat into the violent rectangle of water created by the four boulders that are just to the right of the standard line. His boat came down the rapid quickly, but we never saw RC after he came out of his boat at the top right of the rapid. We chased and flipped his boat upright in the hope that he was under it, but he was not. We went up the rocks on the left side and searched for him from every spot we could reach.
When we started to look for him, we realized for the first time that there was a large tree parallel to the standard line and about 2 feet to the right. The tree is wedged into the severely undercut left side of the large rock on the right side of the entrance and into the other large rock at the bottom right of the rapid. We also searched by boat from the bottom of the rapid and from the top of the cliff on the right side of the river. Two local paddlers came down the river and joined the search, to no avail.
The West Virginia state police sent an infrared-equipped helicopter to the scene last night, and the state police and local rescue squad are conducting a thorough search today.
The other participants in this tragic trip were Lee Thonus, Cahil Converse, Terry Irani, and Gisela Zarcusky. Lee is assisting with the body recovery effort today. RC left behind his wife, Dana, and 2 children, aged 4 years and 10 months. I will miss RC a lot. He was a wonderful person.

When a paddler dies, the tight-knit community rallies. The post above generated a record number of responses. The reaction is almost always the same. Condolences are followed by analysis. The event is reiterated by all present parties and rescue personnel. Potential to learn from the accident is emphasized, and any contributing factors that are reasonable enough to address are removed. In this case, the submerged tree was removed from the boulder below which it was stuck, and I was told that within a few days it was on the shore near the rapid and a small flag was tied to it, honoring its significance.

I've run two rivers before that had claimed lives. This was different, however, because the others (Lower Yough and New) had never taken the life of a private boater with an advanced set of skills. On the Lower Yough, all deaths have been rafters. On the New, those who have died who were not rafters were in above their head and were either unable to make the necessary maneuvers or perform an eskimo roll. From what I've read and been told, RC was quite capable for the Cheat Canyon.

Aside from the mental block that was RC's tragic accident on the Cheat, the canyon is a very long run (9.5 miles with a significant portion of flatwater) and it was quite cold last Friday. However, the day before, I'd met a group of two Baltimorons (that title keeps getting better) to run the Lower Big Sandy for my second time, and with the small group and a water level equal to last week's run, we were all comfortable just running the rapids without getting out of the boats and scouting in most cases. That meant that the run was much quicker and I came out of it much more confident. In fact, it was my idea to run Cheat Canyon the next day. I got back to the apartment and told Rob that -- if he was up for it -- he should come along. Rob had a mental block of his own in that he'd walked off the Cheat a year ago after making the decision that he was not sufficiently skilled to paddle past the first rapid. Since that time, he's gotten considerably better.

We ended up with a crew of five. The river is indeed beautiful, and there is indeed a great deal of whitewater. There were two swims, though the first was into a pool of flatwater. The second, however, was concerning. The last two rapids are called Coliseum and Pete Morgan. I don't know the origin of the name of this latter drop, but I had studied it intimately because it is where RC Forney died. The rapids have names due to the fact that there is a well accepted best way to run it. If all rapids in the canyon had this property, then there would be far more named rapids; in short, most rapids are "point and shoot." Coliseum has two hydraulics in it that should not be entered by kayaks (rafts would be okay, just as a sports car shouldn't be in many places a Jeep would be required). The first is on the right, and the second on the left. So, what most boaters should do is to start way over on the left to avoid the top hole, paddle into an eddy on the side (where there is little current behind a boulder), and then cross the current from there (called "ferrying") to get to the other side of the river and avoid the bottom hole. The paddler who swam here was able to catch the eddy (the hard part over), but failed to ferry hard enough to get to the opposite side of the river. This meant that he was washed into the bottom hole, which sucked him in for a bit. He attempted a few rolls, but when one is upside down in a big hydraulic, it is often very disorienting and difficult to properly set up to roll. After his failed attempts, he decided to pull his skirt and swim out of it. As in most cases, this meant that the boat and paddler both began drifting downstream because the physical properties (bouyancy and shape) of the boat/paddler system was disrupted, and the physical properties of the two apart from each other was significantly different enough and they both washed out. The paddler was not shaken and started to swim for shore.

So far, so good. But, I was aware that Coliseum had a lower section and that Pete Morgan was not far downstream. Swimming through the lower section was not a problem, and I paddled straight for him so that he could hold onto my boat. He did this with a few of us, progressively getting closer to shore each time. At one point, somebody found his paddle and threw it ashore. By the time he was on land, we'd come through Lower Coliseum and he gave us the "A-Okay" sign. The boat was now the issue, and two of the paddlers were in pursuit. Rescues such as this are common enough that they become more routine, and while the safety of the swimmer takes priority, in a remote canyon on a cold day such as this, the swimmer's safety is also dependent on recovering the boat and paddle.

The other paddler who I'd been staying with up until this point said to me, "Dude, that's Pete Morgan!!" and my heart skipped. I was confident in my ability to navigate rapids unscouted, but this was the one from which my anxiety had stemmed that day. I quickly paddled into an eddy. Looking up to see the now former swimmer starting to walk downstream along a sheer cliff by bouldering, I clearly found myself in a relatively safe position to appreciate how the day must have been when RC Forney died. The two paddlers who had chased the empty boat were below the rapid and out of sight and the only other paddler in his boat was now with me in the eddy. We agreed to get out and scouted Pete Morgan despite my fixation with this rapid. With one look, I felt confident with it and took a moment to silently honor its victim. We leapt into our boats and ran Pete Morgan without incident. The two others were calmly waiting in the eddy below the rapid with the boat we'd all been chasing. This was the last rapid, and by the time we emptied the water-logged boat, its paddler had reached us. The rest was what we call "Boogie Water," and so I knew that Cheat Canyon was another feather in my cap. As mountaineers say, we knocked the bastard off.

In all, the river was a fantastic and fun run. I am happy to have it under my belt and look forward to more trips down it. Next time I'll bring my camera. Because of my concerns about this river, I decided not to bring it along. If I'm ever feeling anxious about an activity, I tend to keep the activity the focus. Something about being on my "A-game."

Git 'r Dun.

A March to Remember

2007-04-01T18:38:00.000-05:00

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:

Upper Savage River, MD
Casselman River, PA
Big Sandy Creek (upper), WV
Big Sandy Creek (lower), WV
Little Sandy Creek, WV
Laurel Hill Creek, PA
Meadow River (Upper), WV
Back Fork of the Elk River (Middle), WV
Stony River, WV

Gittin' 'r Dun.

Arbitrarily Close to Heaven, Part n + 2

2007-03-27T20:45:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-22T19:12:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-18T19:03:00.000-05:00

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 . . .

2007-03-09T21:53:00.000-05:00

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.

Layers upon Layers at Coopers

2007-02-15T16:50:00.000-05:00

I just got back from a 2 hour ski through Coopers Rock State Forest. The WVU rental facility is turning out to be my saving grace, though I broke a basket off of one of their poles (d'oh!).

Apparently, the top of the layer of snow that was at Coopers began to melt, then froze, creating a crispy crust, and then about three inches of powder arrived. It's a very intersting layered combination, that makes poling difficult, but the skis move well over it since my weight isn't enough to break the crust.

I'm getting addicted to XC skiing. I didn't see anybody, and was blazing the trails when I wasn't on the road. It's pretty remarkable. Check out photos.

Git 'r Dun.

Arbitrarily Close to Heaven, Part n + 1

2007-02-11T09:03:00.000-05:00

After deciding to stay west for the weekend, I pieced together a list of things that I might do for fun. Things that made the list were ice hockey on one of the many frozen bodies of water in the area, a trip back to the Purple Fiddle, a long road trip south to where rivers are flowing in liquid form, and a ski or snowshoe excursion to Dolly Sods. The last item on this list prevailed, thanks in part to a website I found called HikeSite. Last minute calls to potential partners-in-crime produced a handful of excuses not worth mentioning. (I know, Trevor and Max, you both had very good excuses).

I discovered that WVU has a rental facility for outdoor gear, and after visiting the folks there, I was set to "knock the bastard off." That's what Edmund Hillary said after coming down from the first ascent of Mt. Everest. This was arguably a far less severe bastard, but it ended up feeling like real, honest-to-goodness mountaineering (I think).

The plan I set Friday evening was to get up at 5:30 am, drive the three hours to the first hairpin in FS 19, ditch the car, and start skiing. It was approximately 3 miles to Mark and Margot's cabin from there, and I'd pack in gear to stay the night. Get the woodstove going, eat something, and take a small pack 2 more miles to the summit, beyond where no vehicles were permitted to proceed. A few hours along the ridgeline, double back, and back down to the cabin. I'd stay the night if possible, and ski down to the car in the morning. This last bit was contingent of the amount of wood that remained in the cabin from the last time it was used because that's the only way the cabin is heated.

I parked the car at about 9:30 am, hoisted on the pack, and began the uphill climb, which was a mix of hiking and skiing thanks to the high winds that this mountain receives. On exposed parts of the mountain, there was only bare sand and rocks. Otherwise, the snow was somewhere between a packed surface left by brave 4x4'ers and deep drifts.

The cabin was clean and lifeless. I'm often a bit anxious as I approach the cabin, imagining that either somebody has recently broken a window to get in or critters have taken up residence. The former would have meant there was no way to heat the cabin, so I was doubly anxious. Two of the traps I set last time had dead mice in them, but otherwise there was little evidence of critter activity. I fired up the crematorium (aka, woodstove) to get the place heated up. There was only one small heap of wood in the cabin, and I was not able to find any dry wood around the cabin, as most of it was buried under drifts. I didn't decide it at this time, but it would not be possible to stay the night. The most tragic part of this was that I'd hucked a full-size pack up the mountain and I'm not one to pack light. I would be lying if I said that the weight of the thing combined with a raised center of balance didn't leave me squirming like an upside-down turtle in the middle of the forest road at least a few times.

After a snack, I headed out again. It was refreshing to get on skis with no added weight. I schlussed along out to the forest road, and started ascending. In the two miles to the summit, I'd pass at least four spots on the road where a 4x4'er got stuck and turned back, creating a dense maze of tire tracks. Otherwise, I was able to stay in the tracks of some apparently well-equipped vehicle. However, even this vehicle was stopped by a 6-foot drift just before reaching the summit, and was parked. It turned out to be a Hummer H1 (talk about being well-equipped!), and I skied on past the mess made by its attempts to get through.

The adventure really began at this point. I wasn't the only one out here, but the only others were obviously wearing snowshoes. The sun was bright and there were no clouds. The wind was whipping violently from the west (my left as I started north). If I had to imagine what it would be like to visit Pluto, this would be it. The sound of strong wind coupled with the stinging cold made it feel devoid of life, and even the trees seemed to be having a rough go at it. They have no branches on one side; all of them, the same side. I bumped into a trio of snowshoers who are WVU students, and afterward thought that any of the three could have been my students, and neither of us would have recognized it. We looked like astronauts with very little exposed to the elements.

After about 90 minutes, I turned around and headed back south along the ridgeline, stopping more often this time to take photos and video. I was surprised to find that a vehicle had blasted through the big drift that had stopped the Hummer, and the owner (drinking Milwaukee's Best) and I pointed out the fact this his 70's vintage purple Chevy pickup with some serious lfts to make room for (I'm guessing) 45-inch wheels and some tire chains probably cost about a thirtieth of the cost of the Hummer. He didn't really laugh, which made me wonder if he understood, or just didn't like tree-hugging skiers.

Skiing to the cabin was fast and incredile, aside from the lack of edges on the skis. I only went down once, but it was enough to make me want backcountry skis. My decision to leave was reinforced when I saw that the fire I'd created about four hours earlier hadn't even heated the place enough to melt my original snowy footprints, and I'd used all the wood. I made myself some food, cooled off a bit (ok, a lot in a short amount of time), huffed on the big pack, and headed for the car.

I got back to the car at 5:30, just about eight hours after leaving it, and right as the sun was going down. What a fantastic shift. Check out the photos and video.

Git 'r Dun.

Life in a College Town

2007-02-07T20:03:00.000-05:00

From time to time, I'll have to post some memorable emails from students; ones that are particular to the atmosphere created in a place such as Morgantown, WV. Take 25,000 undergraduates and put them in a town of 25,000 surrouned by harsh wooded mountain terrain, build dozens of bars, and -- voila!! -- you get some great WV moments of the "coming of age" style. Enjoy!!
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
> Hi, My name is *********** I am enrolled in your Math 128 course. I
> was not able to finish the first HW by the due date and I would like a
> chance to make it up in order to start on the right foot in this class.
> My excuse is kind of unbeliveable but true for not turning in the HW on
> time. My new room mate of whom I hardly know stumbled in to my apartment
> on Friday night around 3:30am and proceeded to enter into my room and
> urinate all over my brandnew apartment floor, computer chair, bookbag, &
> paperwork. I made him throw away all of the urine covered papers. All of
> my Syllabus' and HW that i had in my notebook had to be thrown away so i
> have been playing catchup all week. I also tried to find the website all
> weekend but I could not find it to do the HW. If there is not any way
> that i can make this up please let me know so that i know how this is
> going to affect my grade. In all honesty I am not one to leave things
> until last minute and I am always on time and I am always a
> t class. I truely hope that I can make this assignment up but if not
> I understand. Thanks for your time. Sincerely, ***************
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Triathlon, WV Style

2007-02-05T16:19:00.000-05:00

I just remembered today to check the date on Captain Thurmond's Triathlon, an annual event in Fayetteville that combines mountain biking, whitewater paddling, and trail running. It's on Sunday, June 10th this year, in case you're interested.

I don't remember how I ran across this event last year (my blog replaces the need for a memory), but when I did, there was no question about it. I hadn't paddled the section of the New River where the race would take place, and the one thing I always hated about triathlons was the pavement. I figured entering would give me a good reason to train for a fun event, but most compelling was the goal of running some new water.

I'm not one to take an event like this and just show up, race, and go home. For some reason (my guess is to blame my parents), I emailed everybody I know who might be interested in doing the race solo or as part of a team, reserved a group campsite for a group of twenty, and even booked a rafting trip the day after the race. So, it had something for everyone, and we filled that campsite.

A couple of good antecdotal stories were generated by the weekend, including . . .

(1) My posts to several whitewater paddling community message boards went generally unnoticed, aside from one particular paddler, who responded and committed right away. His name is Geoff Calhoun, and at the time he was an internationally ranked wildwater paddler (I'm not sure if he's still ranked, but if he's not it's because he has been out with an injury since summer). This is kind of like organizing a pick-up game of football, opening it to general invitation, and Payton Manning showing up. I immediately contacted the fastest runner I know (James Gordish) and the fastest mountain bikers I know (Marty McKeon, Justin Leidy, Max Kellogg). James and Max took the bait, and with Geoff, they swept the event by miles.

Follow-up to (1): As a math guy, I didn't appreciate that the winning team got $200 cash. I mean, doesn't everybody know that 200 is not divisible by 3???

(2) This format is fantastic, but it's a peculiar race for another reason. I'd give the bike section a grade of B. Twelve miles is kind of short, especially since there are no memorable climbs, and only a few good descents. No tough, technical sections. Lots of double (or more) track means lots of jockeying for position. There's not much one can do in the design of the kayak section other than where you put in and take out, so the boating section receives a well deserved A, thanks to a couple hundred thousand years of hydrology.

The run, however, is a different story. I can understand the desire to have the running section end in Fayetteville so that they can set up a grandstand, local businesses will benefit, etc. And, I can understand that a trail network may present some constraints, but this was by far the toughest running I've ever done. At one point, I looked over to my left, and there was a ladder -- A LADDER!!! -- in place for assistance. Running seldom requires hands, but my palms were dirty after this race. Water stops? Not in West Virginia! (ok, so they had two, one after 1/2 mile, and one at mile 7).

Naturally, I give the run section an A+.

(3) Burch fell out of the raft and landed on a rock. Good thing Burch could probably shrug off close-range buck shot.

(4) We camped at a place called Chestnut Creek campground, which would be a super-fantastic place if it weren't for the most anal retentive man in six states running the joint. His name is Brian and he actually has a policy whereby if your firepit is not cold to the touch at daybreak, you lose your campfire privileges. How absurd!! The guy actually gets up at 5 am to drive around in his golf cart, stopping at each campsite, crouching over, and feeling the coals from last night's fire. My brother Marc thought it would be funny to pee on the fire, but I told him that was cruel (sike; it was the other way around).

I later found out that Brian has his rules posted in the stalls in the women's bathroom, presumably for bathroom reading, and that he actually goes into the women's bathroom to check how clean it is without knocking first. Someday, Brian is going to get a right hook when he walks in.

(5) Mark Burns is apparently a Clydesdale, which is not something that anybody would like publicized. (Sorry, Mark, but there are only two people who read this, anyway, so it's not like it's out there).

(6) As mentioned before, logistics are a nightmare with this race. You have to go to the pre-race meeting in Fayetteville to get your number, get your boat to Cunard (way, way back on small mountain roads), get your running stuff to Fayette Station (way, way back on small one-way country roads), and get you and your bike to Thurmond (way, way, way back on country roads). This is easily two hours of driving, and the pre-race meeting is 2 hours before the start of the race. This is a race where it pays to have spectators (aka, running shoe holders).

Git 'r Dun.

24 Hours of Complete Misery

2007-01-31T20:22:00.000-05:00

I'm not much of a glutton for agony, and certainly don't function well on little sleep. I get cranky when I'm hungry and unable to immediately find food, and I don't deal well with cold temperatures unless I'm overly dressed. So, how I managed to find myself climbing up "The Wall," the steepest slope Snowshoe Mountain resort has to offer, on my mountain bike at 2:50 AM in a slight drizzle on an unseasonably cold June night in the high 30's, wearing only a short sleeved jersey and cycling shorts, hungry to the degree that I felt malnourished, is completely baffling. But, there I was, and the two reasons I didn't fall over and surrender to the mountain are named Marty McKeon and Justin Leidy.

Marty and Justin were my teammates in the 2004 24 Hours of Snowshoe, a relay-style mountain bike race held at WV's most notorious mountain resort deep within the peaks of Pocahontas County. We called ourselves the Fighting Toads. In a previous life, Marty and Justin were subjected to the arguably harsh training regimen that I designed for them as their rowing coach, a thankless job that, perhaps due to its thanklessness, often becomes as much a competition between coaches as it does between oarsmen ("Oh yeah? My rowers work so hard that . . . "). Because of the historical dynamic of this trio, I simply had to continue. Then, of course, there was that survival instinct telling me that surrenduring may provoke an early demise.

Our 4th team member had dropped out of the race just before sundown after taking two laps through the mud-choked course. That was about eight hours after Marty started the race in our pole position, and about sixteen hours before it would end at noon the following day. This meant that each of us had about 3 or 4 hours of rest between consecutive excruciating laps, but it also meant that my dropping from the race would be devastating to my teammates.

The next series of events represents a time I consider to be my life's most trauma-inducing, and it happened after completing that ridiculously late night lap. Upon stumbling into our pit, a campsite among a sea of campsites, I began firing up my post-lap routine, this being the fourth time I'd done it. Drop the bike. Grunt greetings to the half-passed-out racers and their next of kin. Open the hatch of the Escape Pod (photo, left) to reveal the mobile kitchen. Jam the ski pole into place to hold the hatch up. Take anything edible, place into blender. Switch the switch to on. Add soymilk as needed to thin. Chug.

You'd think that an entire Cuisinart carafe full of oatmeal, soymilk, bananas, Gu, chocolate, and probably dirt, chain grease, and grass would be difficult to drink. I must admit that it goes down surprisingly fast after about 1.5 hours of pushing, carrying, and (sometimes) riding a mountain bike through bogs of knee-deep mud, down screaming descents, through fields of basketball-sized boulders, and up gravity-defying steeps. That's about 1.5 liters of quasi-solid food, and I chased it with about a liter of water. I didn't feel hungry after that, but was as aware as one can be in this situation that I needed more. I grabbed a loaf of sandwich bread and another bottle of water and slid into my tent.

Getting into a tent while covered in mud, wearing a bike helmet, cycling shoes, and hydration pack, is not an ideal situation. But, I did it anyway, shaking head to toe. I covered myself with everthing in the tent, including all of the gear Justin had left behind when he vacated the tent to receive the baton from me at the transition area. I saw in his eyes that, as much as he'd appreciated my completion of the lap, he'd have been perfectly fine if I hadn't showed up for another hour.

I put a piece of bread in my mouth and it immediately absorbed all of the moisture in my mouth, coagulating into a big ball of sticky mush that I was unable to chew. Dashing out of the tent for the Heimlich to remove that ball of mush would have been far more than I could handle at this point. I squirted water over it in an attempt to break it up, which was successful. I continued this a few times while drifting off to sleep, but I first took a moment to ponder the possibility that I would not wake up, which actually didn't sound too bad since waking would have to happen in a short three hours with the knowledge that I'd have get up to ride another lap. At least it might be light out at that time.

I did that next lap, and it was light. It was a surprisingly fast lap, the early morning sun simultaneouly warming me and the mountain. We were both steaming.

To this day, the desolate, desparate, and disoriented feeling I felt that night on "The Wall" returns to my gut every time I hear the song that the race promoters pumped over the sound system at the start of the race. It was the Black Eyed Peas, "Let's Get It Started," and it smacks of a WV moment I'll never forget, as much as I'd love to.

Git 'r Dun.

Hopeville Canyon

2007-01-28T08:31:00.000-05:00

It's not often that you get to soak up the sun while surfing a 6 foot river wave at the base of a 1000 foot cliff in a remote canyon that you can only get to by kayak.

My friends Mark and Liam joined me for another trip to the Dolly Sods area in the spring of 2006. Liam's girlfriend , Lauren, came along as well for a relatively spontaneous trip out that way. The rain had been coming down for days, and I had been watching the online USGS river gauge for the local waterway, the North Fork of the South Branch of the Potomac (NFSB). Must be some old Indian name.

More specifically, we were interested in the section of river that flows through Hopeville Canyon, about a 4 mile long ride through a deep gorge. It's a short run by most river's standards, and the put in and take out are right alongside Rt. 55 between Petersburg and Seneca Rocks, but once you're on the water and around the first bend, there's no walking out. Both sides of the river are thickly forested when trees are able to take root in the steep hillside. Otherwise, the rocky canyon walls stretch vertically and you have to lay back on the stern deck of your kayak just to get the full effect.

We'd started on a Saturday morning, leaving from DC. By the time we got about 45 minutes east of our destination, concern began to set in. The river was in the trees, and running brown. To a boater, this spells high water, which in many cases is the best time, but if too high, you can expect to see dead trees floating down the river, which are prone to getting stuck on rocks, creating what boaters refer to as strainers. Strainers are one of our worst case scenarios. In addition, high water tends to make eddies, the small pools of calmer water behind rocks that boaters use to slow down, stop, or regroup, far and few between, and much less calm. American Whitewater rates this section of the NFSB as Class II-III, so weren't too concerned, but that rating is based on a river depth between 5 and 7 feet at the gauge, about 2 miles below the canyon.

We drove to the point on the river where the USGS collects its data and found the gauge. However, in many cases, gauges are no longer metersticks on the sides of a bridge pier or simply poking out of the river. The stick gauge has been replaced by the gauging station, which are solar-powered electronic gauges that uplink data to a server at USGS so that readers looking at a website can get necessary information about the river. Here's the one I had been checking. This is a fantastic resource, because one can now get accurate, realtime readings of depth, flow, and sometimes even temperature. However, the convenience stops when you get to the location, because unless you're holding a computer that is linked to the Internet, you have no idea what the current level is. Ain't technology great?

We were suspicious that the river was too high for our skills, which was quite possible given said skills, the remoteness of this run, and the amount of rain that had come down in the past couple of days. I had run the canyon once before, so I had a general idea of what we were getting into, and wasn't willing to go for it until we got some "beta" (aka, current information) on the river. We decided that Pizza Hut was our answer.

Ten miles back in Petersburg, we called Mark's wife, Yasmeen, and walked her through to the USGS gauge website for the NFSB while throwing down some Original Pan. Unfortunately, the USGS site for the NFSB only updates every 4 hours, and at the time, we were looking at beta from 3.5 hours before. It was a safe level. However, when we checked a gauge publicized as an alternate gauge for the canyon that was current, it was too high. We decided that we'd try to handle it anyway, and just be extra cautious. This a commonly made decision, and many times is inappropriately influenced by the fact that you've driven your boat and all your gear several hours to run a great river, and you don't want to turn back after all that. Case in point.

A couple of hours later, we were at the location described in the first paragraph. Surfing a river wave can be tiring when there are only three of us (i.e., only one guy in front of you in line), and when you have to cross a significant current to get into the wave from the eddy. So, we spent a gorgeous afternoon alternating between surfing and resting in the secluded canyon. I can't wait to get back to Hopeville Canyon when the river's running, and preferably at about 7.5 feet on the Cabins gauge.

We crashed at the cabin that night and woke up early to get back out to our outstanding wave before heading back to DC.

Git 'r Dun.

Arbitrarily Close to Heaven, Part n

2007-01-27T11:11:00.000-05:00

It's about time I write about my favorite spot in the state, located at roughly 38°59′45″N, 79°22′05″W. It is the location of the Dolly Sods Wilderness, a part of the Monongahela National forest. Not surprisingly, Wikipedia is a better reference for information about the area than even the state's website. Here is that link.

I've visited the area nearly a dozen times in two years, thanks in majority to our good friends and neighbors, Mark and Margot, who own a cabin just below the ridgeline on an island of private property. Being a primitive cabin, its impact on the forest is minimal, as it should be. The Wilderness, really a high elevation plateau (East Coast high, that is, at about 4000 ft.), has a history of public use starting with WWI training grounds. The 101st Mountain Division was located a few ridges over at Sececa Rocks at that time, and Dolly Sods became a bomb testing ground. Before that, farming and seasonal livestock grazing were the only use of this land. I only point this out to emphasize the fact that this region has been isolated from civilization for a long, long time, and is still a very remote area.

In January of 2005, I finally was able to take Mark and Margot up on their offer to visit the cabin. It had been a mild winter, and it was in the 40's in DC at the time, so it seemed like it wouldn't be too much of a problem to go. I was told by Mark, however, that getting there at night isn't a good idea for my first time, if I was able to get up the forest road to begin with. No problem, I told him, we'd arrive during the day, and we'd recruited Jeremy (there he is again . . . ) to drive in his Wrangler. (Note to self: it sounds like I might want a Wrangler).

With detailed directions in hand, we took off for the cabin on a Friday. Kirsten would drive up the following morning, making this recon. It's a pretty good feeling to be doing recon. It would take about 3 hours to get there, and the last five miles were more orienteering than they were following a road map. "After the second hairpin, look for the gate," "When you think the driveway turns left, go straight through the brush."

Well, the directions were fine, and we only had to turn around once. This however, was not your ordinary U-turn. While still in the valley, just as we turned off the paved road, it was raining lightly with no snow to speak of. We had stopped at the riverbank and filled the Wrangler (in and on) with a ton of dry driftwood for the night. To our surprise, in under 3 miles up the forest road, we progressively found ourselves driving through about 8 inches of powder, following a set of tracks that couldn't have been older than a day. The Jeep handled famously after Jeremy dropped into 4WD, and I called out landmarks as they came. Just as we came upon a neighboring cabin that we were told indicated that we'd past the gate, the tracks we were following stopped. "We went too far," I said, and Jeremy stopped the Jeep. "Good, I liked following those tracks."

Making a 3-point turn, or even a U-turn in a Wrangler is easy, right? Well, little did we know that there were deep ditches on both sides of the narrow forest road, but their existence was masked because they were filled with snow. We were looking at a white road with a nice shoulder perfectly level with the road surface, or so we thought. Down into the ditch went the passenger side of the Jeep, jarring both of us, and revealing a precarious situation. After dozens of off-road experiences with Jeremy behind the wheel of a Wranger, he finally found his Jeep stuck.

I let him come up with a plan for the Jeep while I walked back down the road to see if we were actually where I thought we were. We were. I opened the gate, and shouted, "We're here!" All we had to do now was to get the Jeep unstuck and travel the half-mile long driveway, which hadn't seen a vehicle since before the snow.

Getting the Jeep unstuck eventually required shovels, roof tiles (all retrieved by walking to the cabin), and lots of umph, but we got it out. Driving to the cabin was relatively easy, and behold, we were in the right place.

In dozens of camping and cabin trips, I've never had to use a fire to keep the crew warm through an extremely cold night, and neither had Jeremy. Needless to say, I woke up several times soaking in sweat, only to wake up two hours after that freezing cold. I'd groan something across the cabin, like, "Dude . . your turn," and Jeremy would go fill up the stove with wood, but only after trying to convince me that it was my turn. I finally figured it out recently, but it's not nearly as easy as, load the woodstove, flame on, rub hands gently to warm. This method eats firewood at an alarming rate, especially if you took it from a heap of driftwood that has the feel of Balsa.

When the two of us woke up at dawn, the Jeep had about 6 inches of fresh snow on its roof and hood. This place gets an incredible amount of snow, and the wind likes to blow it into enormous drifts. Mark told me about a time some years ago when he got his Cherokee stuck, threw the tire chains, and started walking. At each headwall in the road, the drifts were above his head, and so he had to resort to his Army training technique of first throwing his pack over the drift, and then rolling himself over it in order to maximize his surface area and distribute his weight.

Based on Mark's warnings about these snowdrifts, fight lost to flight in our case, and Jeremy and I packed up the Jeep and headed down the mountain. The treat of the weekend was the drive down the forest road through a complete winter wonderland. The tracks we were following yesterday, as well as our own tracks, were not even visible under the blanket of fresh snow. Despite the frigid air, we rolled down the windows for the accoustic effect anybody who's been in a snow-covered forest knows well. We drove about 4 miles per hour, and only partially to be safe.

Five road-miles away and 2000 feet below in the valley, it was still raining, not a flake to be seen. I have many more memories of this place coming in future posts.

Git 'r Dun.

Coopers

2007-01-25T16:18:00.000-05:00

I forgot how difficult it is to ride a mountain bike in the snow. Regardless, Coopers Rock State Forest is pretty incredible right now. The main park road is closed to all vehicles (even park vehicles), making it perfect for mountain biking. Forget about trying to ride the trails. As you can see, it's hard to go straight, but the solitude is worth it.

Git 'r Dun.

The Allure of Prop's

2007-01-24T17:01:00.000-05:00

This one's a real throwback, and includes the tales of at least three adventures to the Slatyfork area back in the 90's, a region that took a front row seat in my frontal lobe as soon as I read about a mountain bike trail called, "Prop's Run," in a mountain bike magazine. It was listed as the 5th best trail in the country at the time. My best guess is that the first trip to the area was around 1993. A four hour drive made this a perfect roadtrip.

The grand attraction, within which lied the Holy Grail of moutain bike trails, was a remote section of the Monongahela National Forest. We camped anywhere we wanted, which eventually became a well-worn site just off the forest road and near the Elk River. We only really saw humans when we wanted to. Sounds nice, doesn't it?

The trail: I've recently read that this trail has fallen into bad times from a combination of logging and erosion. In the roughly half-dozen times I rode it over a decade ago, I had a difficult time morphing my face out of the smile position after the run. It's that fun. To be totally honest, in all but one case we took the "yak route" by driving to the top of Sharp Knob (I could have that name wrong) in Pocahontas County via Forest Road off Rt. 219. Parking at the top, it's a short ride into vehicle-restricted timber country before a pink ribbon flaps at you, tied to a branch over a small passage between two deciduous trees, welcoming you to the ride of your life. A bit of single track gives way to Prop's Run, which is a proper seasonal tributary of the Elk River that, given the amount of recent precipiation, typically has a small amount of water that consantly kept our tire lugs clear of mud. Descending on a mountain bike for about 40 minutes at high speeds through babyhead sized rocks is no longer my choice ride, but in my late adolescence, it was like a drug.

The "accomodations" of the area, aside from the fantastic mountain biking, were perfect for a college student who was passionate enough to spend all his money on gas getting to a place and leaving the rest to the mountain. The Elk River Touring Center, a full service Inn that even had a small bike shop, kept us well-equipped. We were there for cables, tubes, and their hose pretty frequently in a weekend trip and, I'm ashamed to say, never really patronized the business to a degree that they may have made any money off of us. Someday, I'll make up for it.

Our first trip to the area included Jeremy, who is somehow becoming one of the lead characters in my posts, and Ben Robertaccio. Ben, who apparently didn't camp in bear country as a kid, became notorious for suggesting that we bring our food into the tents with us to keep it safe. We laid into him pretty hard for that one. This was the one and only opportunity that we had to stay at Sambo's Mt. Bike Campground because Sambo closed up shop shortly after we discovered the place. What made Sambo's a "Mt. Bike" campground? Aside from the location, this campground had the top of a bike work stand bolted into a tree stump, creating the choice outdoor bike mechanic's shop. What Sambo's didn't have were the only other reasons one might stay at a campground: picnic tables, bathrooms, water, electricity, etc. I wonder why Sambo's didn't make it . . .

In another trip to Prop's, I was unable to find any mountain bikers to join me, so I was all set to go alone, a pretty bad idea when you consider how remote the forest is down there. Alas, my friend Heather decided at the last minute to join me, though she was only going to camp, so my worst case scenario went from being injured in the woods with nobody knowing where I was or when I ought to return to being injured in the woods with Heather miles away expecting me at some prearranged time. An improvement, but I didn't worry about the worst case back then, anyway. This trip produced an innovation that I still talk about today: the two-ply tent. When the mercury dropped below 30, and we were expecting warm weather, we took Heather's small, free-standing tent, and pitched it inside my larger tent, creating a buffer of a few feet between the two tents. A handful of blankets on top of the sleeping bags, and we were ready for the night. It worked famously.

In a summertime trip to the area, again with Jeremy, but that also included my ex-wife, Kirsten, and a guy I was rowing with named Chicken Little (ok, his name is Eric Kluth, but he seemed to like the moniker, so it stuck . . . ok, he didn't really like it, but we did, so it stuck). Kirsten had a WV moment getting to the area, as she had left a day or two after us for some reason. This was before cell phones were so widespread, though I doubt they are reliable in Slatyfork today, so the plan was something like this: we'll keep a car parked at the trailhead for the campsite. Park there, blow your horm a few times, and start walking into the woods. We'll come get you. If you're not there by Sunday night, we'll start worrying. We eventually found out that starting to worry isn't a plan; it's a reaction. What do we do when she doesn't show? Worry. Brilliant!!

After calls to friends, family, and even the WV State Police, all from the pay phone at the Inn, Kirsten finally came rolling along in her Oldsmobile pretty late on Sunday night. I'll admit I was a mess. She explained that she nearly passed out when smoke started coming in the car on the backroads, was scared for her life while some "mechanic" inspected her car (nothing's open in these parts on a Sunday), and feared she'd never make it when the guy started fabricating parts to fix her car out of old hardware. She made it, and to this day, nobody knows what was wrong with the car or how he fixed it. It just worked from that day on.

That trip was the best of all of the times I've been there, despite our very successful plan to worry about Kirsten and her wipeout the next day. We discovered off-roading in Jeremy's first Wrangler (this one was white, I think) and even buried it about 4 feet of mud, killing the engine. It started back up (whew!). We probably biked more of the trail network than in all of the other trips combined. We found out that hunting camps can take the most outrageous forms, like a school bus and a 40 foot high pile of coal with a 3-walled, 8 foot high shack built next to it. "No need to go outside to get more fuel for the fire! Just stick a shovel in that wall over there and throw it in the stove!" Eric and I made a "rescue" by rushing back to the campsite to get a car after a long ride, leaving Kirsten and Jeremy at a campground we stumbled upon and returning with the car well after dark. We returned to find the two of them huddled around a fire, drinking beers with some campers.

Git 'r Dun.

Welcome to West Virginia . . . DUCK!

2007-01-23T15:43:00.000-05:00

I'm starting to see a trend here -- that either my memory tends to serve me better for the WV moments for which most WV'inz might not be so proud, or that they're just more interesting to write about.

My first night in WV after taking the position at WVU was in August. I arrived in Mo'town on a Sunday evening only to find out that I couldn't get in to the apartment that I had rented. Fortunately, Jeremy (see Git 'r Dun, below) was staying at his place of employment, Emma Kaufmann Camp, just down the road, so I was able to slip in and out and stay there (no kids at camp makes this an easy task). The following day, I got in to the apartment, moved most of my stuff in, and got to work.

That evening, Jeremy showed up to see the place, and he brought a few friends of his from camp. They stayed for a few beers, oohh'ed and aahhh'ed a couple of times, and out the door they went (is George Thorogood popping into your head? Then you're a classic rocker!), only to come back, sans Jeremy, to let us know that Jeremy's Wrangler (again, see "Git r' Dun") was already up on the lifts and the tow truck was about to pull away. I decided to pretend it wasn't happening (denial is just fine when it's not my car).

I even went as far as to get back to work unpacking my stuff while the others went out onto our patio to watch Jeremy negotiate with the tow-truck driver, who was determined to be about 6'4", 250. Hot headed tempers began to clash while I organized the ties that I never wear. After a few minutes, I gave in and went outside to watch.

I shouldn't have been surprised that most of our neighbors, generalizable as upperclass or graduate WVU students, were out on their patios enjoying the scene as well. The scene was a full-size tow truck, engine running, in gear, lights on, with the aforementioned 6'4", 250 pound driver behind the wheel. Where was Jeremy? He was in front of the tow-truck, pulling a Tienanmen Square bit. Civil rights, however, were not at stake, though you might consider towing your precious Jeep uncivil in this part of the globe.

Before long, the driver is back out of the cab and engaged in a shouting match with Jeremy, who has pulled out the cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. "What's the emergency?" you might ask. "Is he threatening you?" the operator asked Jeremy, aloud on speakerphone. "You're goddamn right I'm threatening him!" boomed the driver, "I'm gonna run his ass over in a minute!" Jeremy continued to call the big man's bluff, and the two continued to shout at each other.

I must admit that recollection is spotty at this time, and I have a feeling that stories will begin to diverge anyway. However, convergence occurs at the moment when the tow truck driver swings at Jeremy, who somehow is missed, and begins chase. Fortunately, neither of the two men are very fast at this point in their respective lives, so those of us spectating were delighted with a nice, long dash across the parking lot. The driver stopped halfway, exhausted, after seeing that Jeremy was gone (he had ducked behind a car), but not until after exclaiming, "I have a fu**in' gun, and I'll fu**in' use it on you!"

The man then casually walked back to the truck and drove away with Jeremy's Jeep.

Naturally, the police showed up shortly thereafter, and I stood next to Jeremy to ensure he kept his cool. I'm happy to say that he did.

The irony of elevated situations such as this is that, around here, the elevation is not carried in excessive costs. Jeremy paid something like $85 to get his Jeep back, a small fraction of what it would have cost anywhere else. Was it worth the drama? From the perspective of a spectator, absolutely!!

Git r' Dun.

The Purple Fiddle

2007-01-20T09:21:00.000-05:00

Returning from the Labor Day 2006 weekend in Ohio, Kirsten and I recruited our friends Mike and Donnica to take a detour on the way back to DC. I had to stop in Pittsburgh, so I left a couple of hours earlier than the three others, who were in Mike's car. We communicated by cell phone and found out I was still way ahead of them even after I got back on the road. So, I made it through Morgantown and decided to wait at Jack's Smokehouse (I think it was Jack) in or around Reedsville, WV.

Jack's isn't exaclty a welcoming bar, but their fries are good. Upon walking in the door, the first sight past the two regulars is the bartender, who is wearing a shirt that reads, "SHOW ME YOUR TITS," and that is missing the sleeves. Appropriately, there was armpit hair working its way out. I was a little on edge from that first moment, but didn't want to wait outside, so I stayed. After about an hour, I was joined the rest of the group for a beer. The "date" didn't last long after Kirsten and Donnica saw a creepy poster in the women's room coupled with a creepy comment with the bartender. We left shortly afterwards.

I was the only one who had traveled this route because we typically come from DC, so I wasn't sure where we'd find dinner. And, the towns of Thomas and Davis, WV were pretty much our options, and it was late on a Saturday night, so we were skeptical that we'd find anything aside from a gas station convenience store. We would be dead wrong.

There was one place open in Thomas, and I was pretty sure that the entire town of Davis would be closed, which it was, as we later discovered. We passed the establishment, peered in and saw a crowd and what looked like menus in a bin by the door, and decided this would be the place. After the surprisingly difficult task of finding parking, we got to the door of The Purple Fiddle and at once realized we'd found a gem. It looks like they took an old general store, complete with built-in shelving everywhere, added a stage, put together a great green-ish menu, and recruited the best bluegrass acts they could find to play every night. To randomly find a place like this is, to me, like stumbling upon Las Vegas while trekking through the Mojave desert, running out of water.

We got to sit outside and hear The Steepcanyon Rangers, and the food was great. People danced, I actually bumped into an old friend, and we stayed awhile. The following weekend, Kirsten and I met there again to see The Speakeasy Boys and got front row seats. You should go there.

From Thomas, we drove about an hour into the Dolly Sods Wilderness to a cabin that our friends Mark and Margot own and let us use, which was the main event. But, that is a matter for another post. More to come . . .

Git 'r Dun.

Git r' Dun

2007-01-19T15:12:00.001-05:00

It was Labor Day 2004. For five years, my ex-wife, Kirsten, and I had been living in DC, and our outdoor activities generally consisted of exploring the mountains to the west (mostly Shenandoah National Park, VA and the Harper's Ferry, WV area), to the north (in and around Michaux State Forest, PA), or the DelMarVa Coast. With nothing planned for the Labor Day weekend, it was decided to go a bit further than usual and spend the weekend camped at Wonderfalls, a 15-foot waterfall on Big Sandy Creek in Preston County, WV. Because it is within two hours of Pittsburgh, we recruited our friend Jeremy, who brought his dalmation, Pepper, to show us the way to the campsites and invited the Groves (my sister's family: Julie, Matt, and the kids, Jonah and Xavier, at the time, aged 4 and 2, respectively), who came to stay for the day. On Saturday, we met at Little Sandy's Restaurant, a truck stop off I-68 in the truck-stop-dependent town of Bruceton Mills, WV, ate a couple Ostrich burgers, and heaed for the campsite.

Before Jeremy or the Groves arrived, in perhaps a bit of foreshadowing, Kirsten and I sat in the parking lot of the truck stop as a beat-up, muddy Chevy Blazer pulled up next to us and two party-worn kids jumped out. We chatted with them for a minute, discovering that they had just returned from our destination in order to stock up. Their "list" consisted of far more beer than two humans can consume and several Subway sandwiches. Nice guys, and it wouldn't be the last time we would see them.

The plan was neither complex nor ambitious. We're just camping, and we're not even packing gear in to the site. But, only signficantly equipped 4WD vehicles can actually drive to the falls, though any car can make it to within a mile to Rockville, WV, if its owner is willing to drive the backroad. Rockville is not a town. In fact, nobody lives there and it doesn't look like anybody has lived there in the recent past. It just has a bridge over the Big Sandy and a lot of rocks in the creek there and the USGS had to give the place a name when it set up a streamflow gauging station there, I guess.

After a few miles of the shoddily maintained backroads, Jeremy instructed us to park the Civic (our '98 DX Hatchback that went where no '98 DX Hatchback had ever gone before succumbing to the VA emissions regulation in April 2006 . . . it took us a whopping 205,000 miles in that time). Gear and passengers of the Civic (that's me, Kirsten, our dog, Harrison, and our stuff) were transfered to the two Jeeps, and we continued.

Continuing, in this case, consisted of twisting the Jeeps through terrain choked with large rocks, trees, and holes. In yet another bit of foreshadowing, a team of ATV's zipped passed us as we trodded on at one point. The crux move in the journey came when all of the non-driving Jeepgoers refused to stay in the vehicles for a dogleg down into a ravine, an uphill turn when in the bottom of the ravine, and back up out of the ravine. The rear ends of the Jeeps swung at least 4 - 6 feet as each dropped in to the ravine and made the right turn into the gradient of the slope, stopping hearts.

For about 30 minutes, the Jeeps labored along what, at some point, was probably a fairly clear passage into a clearcut forest. That was arguably decades ago, as the larger of the trees around which Jeremy and Matt drove were 2 feet in diameter. Jonah said to us on the 2-way radio we'd brought, "Mommy is scared of the road." "How do you like it, Jonah?" "This is fun! It's bumpy!"

As we approached the camping area, we started to hear the roar. It would take us about 10 minutes or so before we realized that what we thought was our beautiful destination waterfall was, in fact, an army of at least 40 ATV's. The choice activities were donuts in an ankle deep pool of the creek, thereby creating a muddy geyser 30 feet high, and lots and lots of drinking the finest beer in two counties (Natural Light, I believe, it was). A man with one arm ATV'ed past us while sipping, and waved, welcoming us.

The next several hours were spent trying to ignore the group. They were loud, they ran our beautiful waterfall muddy brown, they exploded dynamite, and they threw their cans wherever they landed. In the middle of the ankle deep pool, a man we eventually named "Buttcrack" stood with one hand hooked around a can of beer, the other fisted, pumping in the air. It was Buttcrack, the name begotten from the low hang of his shorts, who would introduce us to the true meaning of "Git 'r Dun!" The name "Buttcrack" could have easily been "Beer Belly," but his namesake got more severe as the beer flowed, so we stuck with it. He repeatly shouted the phrase, "Git 'r Dun!", while his comrades would do donuts around him, sometime as many as 4 or more geysers spouting around him. In a way, it was like he was the center of a Vegas act, and should have been lip synching AC/DC. The act, in this case, came with the unmuffled sound of several ATVs at about 6500 rpms.

The Groves left after a few hours of jumping off the waterfall and swimming about the rocks, and we drove behind them to make sure they got out okay. Jeremy, Kirsten, and I then drove back in with the two dogs, looking forward to the ATV group's departure. There was very little camping gear scattered about, so we were fairly certain that such a departure would take place, and it did, eventually, just as the sun was setting. We started a fire, cooked dinner, and climbed into our tents.

Waking up in a tent with headlights coming straight at you and the high-pitched squeal of an ATV drawing louder is perhaps one of the most unsettling ways of waking I can imagine. I might have preferred the roar of an attacking Rhinoceros. It was actually Kirsten who woke me up to this intense moment, and we literally had to shout to hear each other. Jeremy was awake, as well, and when we hurriedly got out of the tents, we found that the ATV's were driving right at us and turning away at the last moment on their way to the bedrock of the creek. It was midnight. They'd convene somewhere out there, discuss the fact that there's no party here as they'd believed there to be, and drove back out, again just missing our tents. These were different ATV'ers, much younger than the earlier party that I figured was composed mostly of shell-shocked Vietnam vets. One of them even clipped one of our tent guywires on the way out, creating a good "thung-g-g-g."

Jeremy moved the Jeep around to prevent a drunk ATV'er from driving into our tent, and we sat there on the hood, miles deep into the woods, at least an hour's drive to the nearest motel, exhausted, as the ATV's kept coming and going. After they finally stopped for a spell, we set a time of 1 AM, deciding that unless they stopped coming and going by that time, we'd break camp and drive out. 1 AM came, and it was quiet. We climbed back in our tents, exhausted, behind the protection of Jeremy's bright yellow Wrangler.

I believe that the rest of the night was peaceful. We woke up early as the sun was rising. Kirsten and I were doing Yoga at the time, and so Jeremy joined us for some poses on the rocks above the waterfall. We hung out and laughed at the situation while cooking breakfast, knowing that the ATV's would be back as soon as they slept off their hangovers and saddled up. But, before any of our morning truly began, I woke up alone and walked over to the bedrock where the rodeo had taken place. There was a man there, trash can in hand, picking up the hundreds of beer cans that had been left by the ATV army. I chatted with him a bit, discussing the travesty of yesterday's activites, wondering when they'd be back. He was very disturbed by the group's disrespect. I returned to our tents and told Kirsten and Jeremy that there was, in fact, another camper here who is interested in treating this beautiful place as it should be treated, someone who would prefer to hear the roar of Wonderfalls rather than the roar of the ATV's. Kirsten and Jeremy glanced over at the man, who was on his second trash bag, and, together, said, "Dude, that's Buttcrack!" Sure enough, after a few beers, there he was, pumping his fist in the air. "Git 'r Dun!!!!!"

Believe it or not, we decided to stick it out and camp the rest of the weekend after moving our camp to an area below the falls. The ATV's didn't go down there, and the roar of Wonderfalls drowned out the noise for the most part.

On Monday, as we were driving out of the forest, we came across the two kids Kirsten and I had seen at the truck stop. They were walking the trail to the campsites, and they looked dazed. This was somewhat normal, given the weekend's activities, but walking very far wasn't in anybody's intersts, from what we had experienced. So, we stopped and asked if they were okay. "Well, we rolled the Blazer," one told us. Sure enough, the two of them had been driving the trail and went off to the side, rolling several times down the slope. We gasped, asking if they needed a ride out to get medical attention. "Naw, we called my Dad and he's gonna come get us. We're gonna go have a couple more beers till he comes."

I went back to Wonderfalls yesterday, the first time in the two-and-a-half years since this event. It was a Thursday afternoon in January, and my friend Rob and I were driving back to Morgantown from paddling the Cheat River. We knew that the creek would have enough water to paddle the falls, though neither of us has the skills for that, but we wanted to see it. There was nobody there, and it was like a different place. It is hard to find a place as beautiful, and I've been spending a lot of time looking. Ice coated all of the rocks within the range of the waterfall's spray.

I also wanted to test out my fairly new Subaru Forester, which made it to the falls just fine. I, however, was a shaken mess of nerves driving most of the trail, but I'm happy to report the car is just very muddy, but fine.

Git' r Dun.