A March to Remember

I had been waiting for spring quite excitedly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My recap of March personal firsts:

• 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

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

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

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

Git 'R Dun

A Legendary Run

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

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

Photos.

Git 'r Dun.

Increasing Without Bound

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Git 'r Dun.

March rolls in . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

Git 'r Dun.

Layers upon Layers at Coopers

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

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.