Novice or pro, in deep blue sky or pea-soup fog, everyone earns their bliss on this beauty of a river.
Every fall in Southern West Virginia thousands of people from all over our planet come together for the main purpose of getting themselves on the river. Some folks pay a guide to give them a tour; some are lucky guests of friends with skills and a raft; and many navigate their own crafts somewhere on the 26 miles of the Gauley River below the Summersville Dam. For six weekends boaters are guaranteed that the river is going to run, usually at a predictable level and at a predictable time. For some purists a scheduled dam release (even a dam) may take away from their natural experience. For some novices, climbing into a boat may be the craziest, most unnatural thing they’ve ever done.
In this age of river running, we’ve come a long way. In the 1960s the first rafts descended what we now know as the Upper and Lower Gauley River plus part of the river that is now under the lake. In the early 1970s the pioneers of this river tell of a true wilderness experience with long days of scouting, terrifying swims into unexplored depths, and frequent portages in a place few had ever been. Those were weekend-long excursions with no easy take-out or mid- river put-in. Their fiberglass kayaks sometimes broke midstream and the rafts filled with water well before the end of a rapid. The boaters drove from all over the East without the promise of predictable flow. There was no gauge to call, no one else on the river, and no easy take-out road. It was hard, intense work, probing the unknown, and immensely rewarding. It’s a situation that we can’t replicate today. Thousands have been there before us.
We should remember those pioneers as we launch our crafts, if just for a moment before shove- off. We should celebrate their bravery and their success in finding a gem deep in southern WV.
For the Gauley truly is a gem. There are plenty of more difficult whitewater rivers in the world. There certainly are more wilderness experiences to be had out there, but if you are a regular on the Gauley you still bask in the magic of whitewater throughout your day. There are plenty of lines to summon your adrenaline and an infinite number of ways to play your way downstream.
Every fall, as friends from around the country and the world make their way to my backyard river I am reminded of why I paddle. I love whitewater and I love people who get themselves out onto the whitewater. I’m not crazy about crowds—and a few days of the season are crowded,—but I can appreciate the effort that every single person with a paddle in hand has made to get themselves on the water. Whether they are paying to ride in a raft or are some of the world’s best kayakers surfing their way downstream, they have been brave enough to get off the couch and away from the computer. In this age of instant gratification, most of these people have learned that the best rewards come after considerable effort.
No one kayaks successfully on day one—definitely not down any part of the Gauley. But with a lot of practice, and a couple of slices of the bittersweet humble pie, you do get better and you do achieve your goals. What better analogy for life? Hard work equals great fun. Add the bonus of better health, an enhanced appreciation for beauty, and camaraderie with fellow humans and voila! You are toasting all aglow at the dinner table.
It’s doubtful that I will run around the world chasing the best water like I once did. I’m lucky if I get on the river for two of the four days on a Gauley weekend. But it is still one of the reasons that I get up every day and exercise. I don’t want to be so out of shape that I can’t paddle this river that flows so close to my home. There are days when it takes me thirty minutes to walk to the put-in because there are so many old friends to hug along the way. At other times, usually Fridays and Mondays, that I find my party launching alone and we see no one else the whole day (it happens, really).
It’s tough to decide what’s better: being on the river on a bluebird day late in the season when the trees are bursting with color; or the warm, rainy days when the mist swirls in the treetops and the humidity seems to loosen every muscle in my body. Then there are the mystical mornings when the fog is so thick, it’s pea soup at Insignificant, and the roar of the rapid is magnified by the ceiling of fog. Everyone drifts away into the rapid, leaving me alone to count my blessings and summon my nerve. Fifteen minutes later the fog has lifted and the sunshine is blinding at Pillow Rock. Someone’s going big on the pillow while someone else is trying to remember where that fine, dry line could be.
Photograph courtesy of Adventures on the Gorge
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