This is the third part to a four part story. Click here to access Part I and Part II.
For a Table of Contents to The Island Chronicles, click here.
“A place is only as good as the people in it.”
~Pittacus Lore~
National Falls is
the kind of rapid that exists in nature as a gift to boaters who have trained
for years to reach its legendary drops through practice, patience, and a
multitude of WALLACES. But it also
exists within the fairy tales of whitewater lore told by boaters for generation
after generation. Most every beginner
and intermediate from the Northeast, the Mid-Atlantic, and beyond spend years
listening to the fables of perfectly executed Nationals Boof lines, WALLACE
producing beat downs in its final hole, and all day whitewater parties on the
rocks peppered along its banks. These are stories told by the hordes of
experienced Dirt Bags who flock to the riverside every summer to experience the
TRUTH of our rivah lifestyle deep in the heart of a Class IV-V whitewater gorge
cut off from the outside world.
Just venturing to
National's is a full on mission. There
is no easy way to walk in, or hike out for that matter, and it's deeply
entrenched in the middle of the UY gorge, protected by arduous rapids that flow
for miles both above it and below it, as well as a dense and desolate forest
stretching for miles on all sides. When
you finally arrive for the first time, a feeling of triumph fills your heart
the same way it does when reaching Pillow on The Gauley or Gorilla on the
Green. But what makes these places so
special are the memories created while present. Memories made by the familiar
faces surrounding you, all of whom are observing the entertainment you are
guaranteed to witness as boaters pass through the storied drops. It is those familiar faces that make this
whitewater life exactly what it is.............extraordinary, unique, and
meaningful to every boater’s soul. So let’s
continue the story of "The Adventures of the Virginia Dirt Bags", as
we carouse like playful children in the magic and mystery that is National
Falls.
"When I grow up I want to be a little boy."
~Joseph Heller~
Krazy, Ranger Dave,
and myself hauled our boats out of the water and dragged them up into the
boulders to allow room for the hordes of paddlers that stretched somewhere
along the two miles of non-stop whitewater we had just boogied down with
precision and a slight lack of grace and style.
Our small battalion was one of the first to arrive at this mythical
whitewater venue. I was delighted by our
early arrival because it meant that I was able to observe and analyze, with a
front row seat, no less than a hundred boaters drop the boof line at
Nationals............an observation that was sure to result in many, many
accounts of classic WALLACES, as well as some perfectly executed lines. We climbed up on the rocks directly in front
of the hole, pulled our food, water, and safety gear out of our dry bags,
leaned back under the summer sun, and simply absorbed the environment that
surrounded us, content to let the rivah flow, the boaters flail, and the scene
develop.
After a few
minutes, the parade of colorful plastic, fiberglass, and rubber began to
promenade through the drops, some with perfectly executed lines,
others.................not so much. The
flailing was frequent on this day, and I was on the sidelines to give play by
play commentary for all of it. As the
hour wore on, more and more paddlers traversed the drop, and eventually the
Open Boating train of destruction and debauchery known as Full Gnarlz Nation
showed up on the scene, along with the always popular Boof Sisters. Combining these two syndicates of
salaciousness is a marvelous concept on the rivah, but probably an equation for
disorder and disarray once back in the so called "real world." One by one, canoe after canoe stuck the boof,
displaying the pure TRUTH that paddling has to offer those who are patient and
properly practice the discipline of whitewater over an extended period of time.
It didn't take long
before the Nationals party was in full swing, and the banks surrounding the
final drop were littered with happy boaters of all ages, shapes, and
sizes. The Nationals crowd always
resembles the behaviors of a boisterous and rowdy truckload of redneck NASCAR
fans, not because we love women with muffin tops, mullets, and Bud Ice, but
because everyone on the banks of the rivah is eagerly anticipating the next
WALLACE to reveal itself in the chundering of Nationals hole. Smooth lines and stomped out boofs always get
a quiet head nod of respect, but a high quality beat down and/or swim warrants
cheers, war cry’s, and standing ovations from the peanut gallery. After all, almost everyone on those banks
have had their own day of reckoning in that nasty little bitch of a hole, and
when that day came, we appreciated the encouragement from our friends. Consider it a rite of passage into the realm
of the UY community.
"The wisdom acquired with the passage of time is a
useless gift unless you share it."
~Esther Williams~
It didn't take long
before Full Gnarlz and the Boof Sisters broke out the inflatable dinosaur. It is important that before I explain this
short story you all understand that attempting to ride an inflatable dinosaur
through Class IV+ rapids is not a wise choice and should only be attempted by
professionals...........or partially intoxicated boaters with more balls than
brains. In all seriousness, the safety
for the day was exceptional, and in this case I do mean ACTUAL safety, which we
all practice on a regular basis. The
dinosaur ride was attempted by numerous victims, each one pathetically flailing
worse than the last. Most of these brave
souls never even made it out of the staging eddy, which made sense considering
they had chosen the least stable inflatable craft that Wally World
possessed. But regardless of how amusing
the attempts became, one after another after another tried the undertaking to
no avail. Eventually, the Boof Sisters
stepped up to the plate and just said "fuck it!", dropping into the
hole straight off the rock, but not before giving a war cry and claiming that
the attempt was "FOR GLORY!".
It was just that....................glorious.
The WALLACING
continued throughout the afternoon, with participation from custys, beaters,
boaters, and everyone in between occurring with enthusiastic effort. Before long, the crowds began to disperse,
continuing the whitewater pilgrimage that waited downstream. Our crew finished our lunch, discussed safety
one last time, and geared back up for the three miles of continuous, non-stop
whitewater that stood between us and the safe passage into Friendsville. Nationals once again had delivered a quality
performance, only further establishing its place in the annuals of whitewater
lore.
"The river delights to lift us free, if only we dare to
let go. Our true work is this voyage, this adventure."
~Richard Bach~
Every part of the
Upper Yough is a veritable playground of whitewater, but the section below
Nationals is always the piece of the puzzle that allows me to disappear into my
rivah place. Mile upon mile of Class III
and IV lines present themselves with unique character containing multiple boofs,
spins, ferries, attainments, slots, drops, holes, and waves, all set within the
seduction of an esoteric hardwood forest.
The mile below Nationals is a splendid place to paddle ahead and lose
yourself to the rhythm of the rapids, and on this day that is exactly what I
did. The groove I fell into allowed Pink
to slither along, gently gliding through the mysteries of the Upper Yough,
fulfilling my soul with the enrichment that makes kayaking so captivating.
Before long I
approached a straight section of rivah that leads to Heizerling, and eddied out
to wait for Krazy and Ranger Dave. A
giant house sized rock rests in the center of the rivah just above the main
drop of Heizerling, and on this day it contained a crowd of enthusiastic rivah
warriors. Before long, Krazy and Ranger Dave
peeled into the eddy, and we made the decision to make a short stop on the rock
to observe the potential carnage from a vantage point none of us had ever
experienced. We spent about half an hour
analyzing the Time Warp lines of the rapid, as well as meeting yet more
friendly rivah dwellers. Upon
re-entering our boats, Pink and I tested our skill by dropping The Gun Barrel,
one of my favorite lines on the rivah.
The Gun Barrel is suitably named because it contains a steep, rooster
tailing tongue that shoots boaters straight between two rocks with accelerating
speed, before peeling you into an eddy with a sudden stop. This eddy sets you up for the main drop of
Heizerling.................a move that happens to be my one true nemesis on a
rivah with so much whitewater joy.
To explain it
simply, I rarely make this move correctly, with the results often being that I
end up on my head, being grinded over a few rocks....................but I
always roll up. On this day, Heizerling
proved yet again to be the victor, dispensing another battle scar to my already
war ravaged helmet. The move is actually
quite easy to overcome, but psychological deterrents usually are the roadblock
to smooth lines..........Heizerling has always been that roadblock for me on
the UY. Moral of the story is that you
win some, you lose some, and for me, Heizerling usually takes the victory.
“Success is like sausage, you'd be surprised what goes into
it.”
~Tim Fargo~
The rivah
environment below Heizerling becomes a Tolkenesque labyrinth of stone and
water, with multiple lines to choose from, most of which hide between house
sized rocks and tight, runnable boulder gardens. I weaved Pink in and out of these lines, being
certain to appreciate the unique landscape that surrounded us. After a short distance, all lines dump into a
small pool on the rivah right, just above a blind horizon line falling back to
rivah left. Below the horizon line two
housed size boulders loom with a giant crack between them, as if Mother Nature
decided to slice through the stone with a meat cleaver. These rocks are aptly named "the cleaver
brothers" and they give the rapid its name.........Meat Cleaver.
Meat Cleaver is an
enjoyable, yet formidable line. It is
not possible to boat scout the drop due to the blind horizon line at the
entrance. This horizon line requires a
strong boof stroke over a four foot pour over hole. As you boof, you look downstream midair to
scout the remainder of the line..........it requires a bit of
multi-tasking. Errant boof lines lead to
blundering into either the right or left eddy.
I have had the misfortune of ending up in both, but I prefer the right
eddy as opposed to the left. The left
eddy contains a cave and small sieve, but the most challenging hindrance to the
eddy is the escape route. There is only
one way out, and it requires delicately typewritering between an undercut rock
and the boil line of the pour over you just boofed over...............basically,
don't go in there. I don't ever plan to
again, but then again, when kayaking, always be prepared to handle anything.
Handling
unfortunate situations is the part of kayaking that I have dramatically
improved upon since moving to The Island last summer. I have been a quality enough boater to run
Class V rapids for a few years now, but my skills to keep my head about
"I think people need to be educated to the fact that
marijuana is not a drug. Marijuana is an herb and a flower. God put it here. If
He put it here and He wants it to grow, what gives the government the right to
say that God is wrong?”
~Willie Nelson~
Exiting Meat Clever
leads to still more and more whitewater bliss, as the gradient of the mighty
Upper Yough just keeps falling away beneath our hulls. Krazy, Ranger Dave, and myself continued to
boogie through rapid after rapid, blue angeling the lines, with perfectly
executed draw strokes and the ease that advanced boating rewards to skilled paddlers
deeply entrenched in their true environment.
We sliced and diced our way through Fuck Up Falls, stomped out the
chundery boof on the far right of Cheeseburger Falls (one of my favorites), and
then glided effortlessly through Double Pencil Sharpener after miles of Class
III-IV boogie. No matter how many times
I run the Upper Yough, I always find new lines, hidden secrets, and a true
sense of disconnect from the outside world.
After exiting DPS,
the gradient begins to relax, the safety meetings become plentiful, and the
friendly smiles of boaters from all walks of life flood the rivah with a
heartwarming sense of community. The
final three miles of the UY are a slow, leisurely float that allows time to
meet new boaters, catch up with old friends, or enjoy the solitude of a
rivah. It is always a perfect end to a
perfect day of rapids. The Upper Yough
is a whitewater rivah that every advanced boater needs to experience at least
once in their life...................and that is TRUTH!!!
"Finding your inner peace, one has to achieve the ability to
live in harmony with oneself and the world."
~Julandie Sholtz~
The takeout for the
Upper Yough is an antiquated outfitter just under the bridge of Main Street
passing through the center of Friendsville.
Floating the final quarter mile of flat water chaperones boaters out of
the mountains and forests, and into town, passing humble homes dotting the
rivah bank that appear to have been untouched by modern time. Modest gardens, wild rivah flowers, and
quaint front porches border the banks as tired rafting custys sip hot coffee
and cold beer and relax in the late day sun, always giving a cordial wave as
you gently float passed. The takeout
borders a vast corn field surrounded by gently rolling blue ridges that keeps
Friendsville secluded within the Yough Valley.
It is an inspiring scene that creates a splendid end to a sublime
day.
I pulled up to
shore, stretched the pins and needles out of my legs, threw my boat over my
shoulder and trudged up the hill, passing hoards of kayakers, custys, guides,
and friends. Boats lined the small
parking lot with gear spread out over them, slowly drying in the late afternoon
sun. I was in whitewater harmony, and
couldn't have asked for a more perfect day.
I tossed my boat down next to my friends, stripped off my wet gear, and
relaxed in the afternoon warmth.
The harmony of the
day was temporarily broken by the sudden and unexpected presence of The Fat Bastard amongst the delightful scene. I
had hoped that six days in jail from his impetuous and violent assault on one
of my friends had humbled his inordinate ego, but I was wrong. Cars lined the parking lot in the designated
spaces, but the Fat Bastard did not feel the need to follow suit, and pulled
directly up to where my boat was sitting, illegally parking in the center of
the road as if he was the only boater present.
As he exited his overcompensating truck, is corpulent size was difficult
to miss, and my friends warned me of an altercation that seemed to be building
in the apprehensive environment. His
presence was obviously unwelcomed to all, but I felt no need to supplement the
tension. The fact is, I have stated my
opinion about who he truly is and what he has come to represent in our paddling
community. If he wants to continue to
attempt to force feed my fellow boaters with his abhorrent presence, then I
will simply remove myself from the scene...................so that is exactly
what I did. In short, The Fat Bastard is
a piece of shit and no longer deserves the negative attention that he seems so
desperate to feed upon. If he was any
sort of a man, he would disappear and stop utilizing his son as an object to
dragoon the paddling community with his presence..............but apparently
ignorance is bliss.
“There are four kinds of people to avoid in the world: the
assholes, the asswipes, the ass-kissers, and those that just will shit all over
you.”
~Anthony Liccione~
The ubieties of The
Fat Bastard brought about darkening skies and ominous
clouds....................I mean this both figuratively and literally. I storm was quickly approaching. I carried my boat away from the inimical
scene created by our chubby little villain to seek out a good friend, new
Chronicles character, and true Dirt Bag Royal...................The
Professor. The Professor will be part of
many future adventures in The Island Chronicles, so let us take a moment to get
to know him.............
I speak a lot of
blunt TRUTH in this shit show of whitewater literature, and there are few
people in our little world of rapids and rambunctiousness that I would consider
to be more blunt than myself...............The Professor is one of the few who
outweighs me in verbal fidelity, and it is the character trait I respect the
most about him. He says what he means
and means what he says. He also
possesses an artistic ability within our paddling community that is unmatched,
and his artistry is respected the world over by the Open Boating community and
beyond. Many beloved broken boats have
been given a second chance at life thanks to the ingenuity of The
Professor. He is an exceptionally
talented Open Boater, a genuine human being, and he is the only person who may
despise the Fat Bastard more so than me.
However, my methods of dealing with this negative character of our
paddling community are somewhat subtle compared to The Professor. He is not apprehensive in the
least to walk directly up to The Fat Bastard and explain to him in detail just
how much he sucks at life, and on this day that is exactly what he
did........................I find this to always be highly amusing and extremely entertaining. In short, The Professor is a true Dirt Bag,
and was a befitting addition to the team of Virginia Dirt Bag Royals,
completing our whitewater trifecta of Kayaking, C-1, and Open Boating.
Krazy and Ranger
Dave chose to have dinner in the solitude of Friendsville. Due to the approaching storm, I decided to
bum a ride to our campsite with The Professor to rescue my sleeping bag and cot
that I had failed to secure from the elements that
morning......................I blame the ADHD.
We hopped in The Professors Dirt Bag dream machine and cruised up the
mountain, traveling towards our inception from that morning. As we traveled, the sky continued to darken,
and brilliant streaks of lightening ripped across the horizon beyond the
mountains. We indulged in a safety
meeting and discussed the day’s debauchery, arriving back at camp just as the
afternoon storm unleashed a deluge on us.
The barrage of wind driven rain was an unpleasant experience for me,
seeing that all of my warm clothes were still at the takeout with Krazy and
Ranger Dave. I pathetically shivered
under The Professors gear tent with another unfortunate soul and friendly new
character...........Purebeater, a rather colorful character who we will get to know more in the near future.
Purebeater was my hero on this afternoon, because he used common sense
to conclude that saving my cot and sleeping bag from the storm was a wise
decision and a very friendly gesture...........unfortunately for me it meant
missing dinner for no reason at all and being caught in the elements without
the proper gear to remain warm and dry.
Considering my body fat could almost measure in the negative numbers on
the BMI, this situation really sucked for me.
Luckily I had Purebeater there to keep me company, all while The
Professor remained warm and dry in his hammock not too far away from my
pitiful, drenched dumb ass. The rains
lasted quite a while...................and unfortunately so did Krazy and Ranger
Dave’s dinner. Eventually the deluge
ceased after dark, but at that point the party atmosphere for the evening had
been overshadowed by the poor weather conditions. We were all content to retire for the evening
to our campsites with a few more quality safety sessions, some enriching
conversation, and for me, a good book in my warm and welcoming sleeping bag/cot
combination.
"For the man sound of body and serene of mind there is
no such thing as bad weather; every day has its beauty, and storms which whip
the blood do but make it pulse more vigorously."
~George
Gissing~
As I drifted off to sleep under the re-emerging stars my mind was filled with the adventures from throughout the day and the new memories that I now carried with me until my next Dirt Baggin' adventure. The people that I encountered, the environments that I immersed myself in, and the decisions that I have elected to make are all part of a much bigger journey for me...............the journey that will take me home to my boys. Many may question how it is that whitewater Dirt Baggin' in the deepest hollars of West By God and beyond will ever assist me in returning to my children?........and that is a valid question. The answer is simple............it is my way of discovering who I am and what path I am meant to take moving forward. My critics are numerous, and the topics in which they criticize are plentiful...........I am aware of that. Some cristicize me for my financial situation, some for my parental decisions, and some for the TRUTH I write and characters I write about. But these disparagers fail to see me for who I truly am..............a simple man who lost his way once, and is now determined to follow his heart in order to discover a new path back to his children, and back to his home. Whitewater flows within my veins, and it constitutes everything that defines for me what is a complete life...........without it, I wouldn't be who I am. I made choices in the past that lead me to a certain place in life, and sometimes those choices took me away from the person I really was. Perhaps in losing myself, I lost my way as well, and in the end lost my children. Now I only see one way back............to follow my heart and be who I am. By doing that I truly believe that I will find my path, find my way, and in the end find all the answers I am searching for. Goodnight Marlow. Goodnight Quint. Daddy loves you, and he will find his way back to you, as the man he was always meant to be.
“Sometimes when you lose your way, you find yourself.”
~Mandy Hale~
Stay tuned for the conclusion to "The Adventures of the Virginia Dirt Bags", because there are more whitewater antics on the way, as well as my best WALLACE of the weekend.................and I wasn't even in my kayak for it. See ya on the rivah...........hopefully discovering your own path. PEACE
