Rockville to Jenkinsburg

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

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.