Cindy Fan

By Cindy Fan

FAYETTEVILLE, WEST VIRGINIA—Most travellers buy souvenirs. Me? I bring home bumps and scrapes. Tsetse fly bites, courtesy of Kenya. Infected insect bite on my (ahem) derriere, with love from Bangladesh. Violently-violet bruises and a set of X-rays, memories of Morocco.

So I thought I should stay close to home for a change with a weekend trip to West Virginia. Every autumn, 43,000 people from all over North America descend upon the Mountain State for one reason: rafting the “Beast of the East,” the Gauley River.

It’s called Gauley Season, six weekends where the Summersville Dam is released, creating a combo not commonly found in the U.S. — huge volumes of water and steep gradient. It drops 668 feet in 28 miles, putting paddlers through a gauntlet of over 100 rapids in quick succession. If you’re into lists, it’s ranked seventh in the world, second in the U.S. behind the Colorado.

West Virginia may not be the most exotic of locales, but a nine-hour drive from Toronto and I was in the heart of Appalachia, as otherworldly to me as any foreign country: small-town America with coal miners, fuzzy mountain men, Walmarts as big as a football field and rolling mountains so deeply green they were almost blue.

The morning atmosphere at the Rivermen resort was charged with excitement. We would be tackling the upper section of the Gauley. Whitewater is graded on a six-class scale, with Class V being the most difficult a raft can run. In a span of three hours, we would be facing five Class V rapids.

The guides — a weathered, piratey bunch — hustled to load rafts onto a trailer. We squeezed into wetsuits and hooted compliments at each other while silently wondering what we would do if we had to pee.

I could tell who the Gauley devotees were — those who made annual pilgrimage to the river — as they sauntered about, eyes twinkling at the newbies who put their helmet on backwards, fumbled with the clips, winced as the guide tightened their life jackets and tested them with a good shake. You could see the smirk that said, “suckers don’t know what they’re in for.”

We stood around dwelling on how lumpy we looked, instead of paying attention to the first of many safety talks (“Do not keep pens or keys in your pocket. They WILL end up through your thigh”). After signing waivers, we piled into a yellow school bus that smelled like a woodshed after the rain and rumbled to the put-in.

“This is the last Class V rapid of the day, folks. Congratulations, you’ve made it this far. Now for the final test,” Chuck, our guide, sang from the back of the raft. “This is Sweet’s Falls.”

“Falls?” I thought, eyes bulging. Was this one of those cutely ironic names they gave to rapids? The Gauley’s first Class V rapid was called “Insignificant.”

“Sweet’s Falls is a 14-foot drop. This is a pass or FAIL rapid. Nooo mediocre grades. Too far right is too far wrong! High-diddle diddle, right down the middle — that’s how we need to run it.”

I trembled.

I had been chasing whitewater for a few years, starting locally, then travelling abroad for the experience of being thrashed by monstrous waves and jagged rocks. At first I relished in it. I upped the danger-factor with every trip; but instead of gaining confidence, the more I paddled whitewater, the more afraid of it I became. I began vividly picturing all the ways I could die.

Take strainers, for example. Trees and other debris get jammed between underwater rocks and form a net. Water still passes through but larger objects cannot. The force of the water can push even the strongest swimmer wearing a PFD under and pin them against the strainer. It doesn’t end well.

In Chuck We Trust.

A legend among Rivermen, Chuck has guided the Gauley since 1982 and his experience showed in every precise manoeuvre of the raft. West Virginia born and raised, from a family of coal miners, Chuck’s sturdy, round figure was a reassuring presence at the back of the boat.

Some guides were local stock like Chuck; the rest came from all over the States. They were an earthy bunch — not the “save the whales” kind of earthy, but the “jump into a pond to bathe” kind.

I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to have my body beaten by the sun and the water, to be the captain pirate of my own craft. Agile yet tough, they scaled a flipping raft like Spider-Man, they rode the waves like cowboys on bucking broncos.

I was certain they all have had something broken and healed in them. They were insouciant, breezy mongrels, half-aquatic creatures moving with the swell of the rivers and the seasons. They were vagabonds, yet they knew exactly where they should be — and that, I was envious of.

We approached, the unmistakable signs of a pour-over on the horizon. Louder the thunder grew. All I thought of were Chuck’s words, “falls” and “fail”.

“All forward!” Chuck called. Obediently we gave one stroke. “Stop! HOLD! HERE WE GO!”

In an instant, sudden weightlessness, like taking a step forward and lurching because the ground is not there — screams — I was pummeled hard from behind and knocked forward — a loud crack — an explosion of hot pain through my face. The force was stunning. It felt like I had been hit by a truck.

I was dazed. People were missing. My face hurt like hell but I sat up, ready for Chuck’s command. And that’s when I spotted his head, the unmistakable grey moustache bobbing down the river.

My friend Herman looked at me, aghast.

“You’re bleeding.”

I touched my face and looked down. Blood gushed from my nose. I also discovered the long cut that ran across my lower lip, and the new awareness brought stinging pain.

It made sense now. Chuck, all 200 pounds of him, was ejected — into me. My face went into the back of Alice’s helmet; Alice went into the river. It was a chain collision and I had been the tin can in the middle.

It took three of us to heave-ho Chuck into the raft. Drawing into the banks, we joined the raucous spectators in cheering when boats capsized. When bodies flew, catapulted clear into the air like human cannonballs, the crowd really went nuts.

I was given gauze and a hearty pat on the back. When I dipped into the river to wash my face and hands, it felt as if I was performing a rite. If the Gauley had a deity that demanded blood sacrifice, I had appeased it; now I belonged to the tribe.

Back at Rivermen, the tribe gathered in the open-air tavern to watch the day’s video, to relive the action and see our faces contorted with fear on the big screen.

Despite my distaste for Budweiser, I accepted one from Chuck. When in Rome, I thought, before chugging it and placing the cold bottle against my nose. Laughter floated around me. Someone started about the time they ran the Gauley “buck nekkid” in the moonlight and I soon forgot my wounds.

Cindy Fan is a writer and photographer based in Toronto. www.cindyfan.com

JUST THE FACTS

GOING West Virginia is a nine-hour drive from Toronto. The 2011 Gauley Season runs every weekend from Sept. 9-Oct. 16: five four-day weekends, Saturday/Sunday the last weekend. Competition between the 11 commercial outfitters means prices have remained reasonable. One-day rafting starts at $160, including lunch, with discounts for Friday/Monday.

The minimum age to raft the Upper Gauley is 15-16 and prior rafting experience is recommended. Not ready for the Upper? The Middle/Lower Gauley and the New River are exciting alternatives for all experience levels.

This year’s Bridge Day Festival ( www.officialbridgeday.com) is Oct. 15. A celebration of extreme sports, thousands come to watch base jumpers launch from the New River Gorge Bridge, the world’s third longest single-arch bridge.

STAYING & DOING Outfitters have evolved into full-blown adventure resorts, offering single-day, weekend or week-long packages with activities such as ATV tours, fishing, rock climbing, zip-lining, yoga and horseback riding. Resort accommodations range from deluxe cabins to DIY camping.

WEB SURFING Rivermen: www.rivermen.com, 1-800-545-7238. ACE Adventure Resort: www.aceraft.com, 1-800-787-3982.

Link to the story on The Toronto Star’s website here.