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.

Legendary

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

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

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

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'

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.