For a complete listing of the first seven parts of this story, as well as all of the adventures in The Island Chronicles, please click here on The Table of Contents.
~G K. Chesterton~
The burning sensation throughout the front of my body simply would not withdraw and the only way to assuage that discomfort was to bitch about it incessantly, mostly to myself, but also to others. I knew I was suffering a much deserved punishment for my actions from the previous night’s camp bell pole shimmy, but I chose to handle my discomfort with the emotional patience of a teenage girl, rather than sucking it up like a man. The Pepper Spray pummeling I had suffered at the hands of the police was temporarily debilitating, but that is what one gets for displaying the behaviors of a drunken freshman frat pledge. Of course very few of my exhibited behaviors from the previous night’s debauchery actually did allow me to claim manhood. I was well aware that my inebriated misadventures and shenanigans were more exemplary of a juvenile convict……………I didn’t care. This trip and the life lessons that I was acquiring while on it had a purpose, and although I was unaware of what that purpose was, I continued to follow one golden rule……………..do whatever the hell you want and see where it leads you! I was also still walking a fine line with those other three golden rules. 1. Nobody gets pregnant 2. Nobody goes to jail 3. Nobody dies. Based on the stories you have already read, you can see why I use the words “walking a fine line”.
I was following my own rules because I had spent most of my life failing to meet the obligations of others…….pretending parents, false friends, controlling ex-wives, and corrupt bosses. This was my time to do it my way, and living a few weeks of complete Dirt Bag euphoria seemed as good of a place as any to begin that journey. I write this story nine months removed from the depravity and untouched freedom that the trip allowed me to discover, and as I look back on it, one thing is painfully evident…………that kind of lifestyle is temporary, no matter who you are.
In the past nine months my life has changed in many ways, and as it does it has proven a very important theory to me. Perception is truly reality……….especially my own. The way I viewed the entire shit show from the very humble beginnings of the Whitewater Jihad with Lil Rook and John Denver, all the way up to waking up on Gauleyfest morning with a massive hangover, covered in pepper spray and missing my pants, has changed dramatically over the course of nine months. Would I ever do it again? HELL NO! For one, I doubt it can or will ever be repeated. And second, I question whether myself, or others, would survive the ordeal. But most importantly, an adventure such as that is only meant to be experienced once. Those who try to repeat and seek it out over and over aren’t doing so because they long for that kind of permanent existence; they are doing it because they are empty inside and want to fill the void with something that they will never find in the places they are searching. I understand that now, and it is why in the end, DBP was a false enigma. But I digressed, because before we delve into that arduous topic, we have a story to complete, and it starts with a hung over raft trip down the Upper Gauley.
I was following my own rules because I had spent most of my life failing to meet the obligations of others…….pretending parents, false friends, controlling ex-wives, and corrupt bosses. This was my time to do it my way, and living a few weeks of complete Dirt Bag euphoria seemed as good of a place as any to begin that journey. I write this story nine months removed from the depravity and untouched freedom that the trip allowed me to discover, and as I look back on it, one thing is painfully evident…………that kind of lifestyle is temporary, no matter who you are.
In the past nine months my life has changed in many ways, and as it does it has proven a very important theory to me. Perception is truly reality……….especially my own. The way I viewed the entire shit show from the very humble beginnings of the Whitewater Jihad with Lil Rook and John Denver, all the way up to waking up on Gauleyfest morning with a massive hangover, covered in pepper spray and missing my pants, has changed dramatically over the course of nine months. Would I ever do it again? HELL NO! For one, I doubt it can or will ever be repeated. And second, I question whether myself, or others, would survive the ordeal. But most importantly, an adventure such as that is only meant to be experienced once. Those who try to repeat and seek it out over and over aren’t doing so because they long for that kind of permanent existence; they are doing it because they are empty inside and want to fill the void with something that they will never find in the places they are searching. I understand that now, and it is why in the end, DBP was a false enigma. But I digressed, because before we delve into that arduous topic, we have a story to complete, and it starts with a hung over raft trip down the Upper Gauley.
~ Michael Bassey Johnson~
There were many options for my day’s campaign down West By God’s rowdiest Class IV+ big water roller coaster ride. When trying to decide, I first turned to my own Dirt Bag Mobile to consider the two options that I myself possessed………Pink and Stink. Pink was my 2nd generation Pyranha Burn, and my go to option for Upper Yough glory; as well as plenty of crickin’ jaunts throughout West By God and beyond. Her name was short for “Two in the Pink”, and she could truly slip through any wet rapid as gently as possible. She was tried and true, and she was my #1 love. Unfortunately a summer on The Island had taken its toll on her, and she leaked like a sieve, plus her hull was as warped as a ginger chick on an acid trip. (and yes I just used a ginger analogy…….haters) I paddled her throughout the week on the Upper Yough, but based on the condition of my hung over body, she was best left to rest for another day.
That turned my attention to Stink, my newly beloved 20+ year old, 10.5 foot Ocoee Canoe. Stink carried history, for she belonged to Marcelle. It is the only material item that I was able to win in our divorce, and that was simply because Marcelle no longer wanted to paddle. She took literally EVERYTHING else…..even the shit that belonged to me. Stink’s hull was covered in patches, as well as about an extra 20 pounds of fiberglass, but she was a tough little bitch with a lot of whitewater days left in her. I named her Stink because it rhymes with Pink, and well, because Marcelle sucks……….you can take that logic however you would like. Fact is, that canoe was mine, and I will be damned if I ever give it back to her. Unfortunately my skill set in Open Boating was still developing, as is still the case today. Plus I felt like I was 2 seconds away from projectile vomiting. I figured it was not the best day for a first personal Open Boating decent down the Upper Gauley.
My third boat was Blue. He was my Necky Chronic, but unfortunately he had been out of commission for the better part of a year and rested at the famous kayaking graveyard of Fall Line Canoes World Headquarters in RVA……..the place boats go to die. I trusted that The Professor was going to take good care of him until the day I could actually afford to have him fixed. Based on my non-existent budget, as well as my poor man lifestyle, I would have him up and floating sometime around the 2017 season. But I can promise you, one day he will make his return. YOU’RE MY BOY BLUE!!!! I was quickly running out of hard plastic options, which left me only one choice…………….hitch a ride on some rubber. Don’t judge me! At least I didn’t SUP it.
That turned my attention to Stink, my newly beloved 20+ year old, 10.5 foot Ocoee Canoe. Stink carried history, for she belonged to Marcelle. It is the only material item that I was able to win in our divorce, and that was simply because Marcelle no longer wanted to paddle. She took literally EVERYTHING else…..even the shit that belonged to me. Stink’s hull was covered in patches, as well as about an extra 20 pounds of fiberglass, but she was a tough little bitch with a lot of whitewater days left in her. I named her Stink because it rhymes with Pink, and well, because Marcelle sucks……….you can take that logic however you would like. Fact is, that canoe was mine, and I will be damned if I ever give it back to her. Unfortunately my skill set in Open Boating was still developing, as is still the case today. Plus I felt like I was 2 seconds away from projectile vomiting. I figured it was not the best day for a first personal Open Boating decent down the Upper Gauley.
My third boat was Blue. He was my Necky Chronic, but unfortunately he had been out of commission for the better part of a year and rested at the famous kayaking graveyard of Fall Line Canoes World Headquarters in RVA……..the place boats go to die. I trusted that The Professor was going to take good care of him until the day I could actually afford to have him fixed. Based on my non-existent budget, as well as my poor man lifestyle, I would have him up and floating sometime around the 2017 season. But I can promise you, one day he will make his return. YOU’RE MY BOY BLUE!!!! I was quickly running out of hard plastic options, which left me only one choice…………….hitch a ride on some rubber. Don’t judge me! At least I didn’t SUP it.
~Everybody~
Crews of Dirt Bags were already rallying their boats. I had observed enough trips down different rivahs with these beaters over the past week to know that I needed to be selective with whom I would trust with my life……….which brings me to Waterhouse. Awwww, yes, Waterhouse. I liked Waterhouse. He was a stalwart rivah guide, friendly as can be, seemed like a solid comrade to party and travel with, and was seasoned in the ways of the rivah. I was so hung over that I resorted to being perfectly comfortable with playing the role of a custy for the day, and I had no problem with Waterhouse acting as my guide. It was a smart choice on my part.
Although Waterhouse is everything I just described, aside from running the rivah with him and sharing the responsibilities of a shitfaced wet t-shirt contest, I wanted to have very little to do with the guy……..Why? Because unfortunately Waterhouse possessed two personality flaws that happened to be at the very top of my pet peeve list. It was disappointing, because I truly did like the guy.
At this point in the story I need to point something out…….the entire crew that I was rolling with had gained familiarity with one another through social media. We were all from different corners of the continent aside from the Wisco crew. I recently read a story by Tucker Max in the bestselling novel Assholes Finish First. It was a tale about the first time Tucker decided to party with the fans of his blog, long before he became one of Time Magazines Most Influential People of 2009. The trip was a shit show, mostly because of the unexpected characters he encountered. In it he describes a very important component of social media that he learned through his experience; one’s ability to create a persona that doesn’t truly exist………..and THAT was my main issue with Waterhouse. He was not who he portrayed himself to be. To him everyone in life had to always be happy, and we should never argue, disagree, or have any conflict with one another. He tried to convince everyone around him that his life was perfect and he was ALWAYS jubilant and emotionally complete. HA! What kind of fantasyland was this guy living in? Waterhouse is the type of guy who gets on Swimmer’s Anonymous and attempts to induce everyone into being kind to one another and only leave positive comments, only to retreat back to his friends and bitch about how much he abhors SA……..this would most certainly result in being eaten alive by those satire obsessed beaters on SA, plus it’s a complete contradiction. He had already resorted to Facebook rants with me and others concerning my very strong and public feelings about SUP, as well as the controversial attitude that I exhibited on social media at times……I love it when they bite the line so easily. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. He basically wasted his time trying to convince me to be a kind social media character for the betterment of the community. This was not cool in my eyes. The world isn’t always sunshine and roses, and if there is one hard lesson I have learned over the past decade, it’s those who try to convince everyone that the world IS sunshine and roses are usually the ones who are the most fucked up. Waterhouse fell into that category. Over time I discovered that my theory was true after some of his acquaintances confided in me about the problems that existed in his life. All he had to do was be REAL, but because he failed to be, and it was so transparent, I knew I would never trust the guy. In short, Waterhouse was a complete fraud.
His second personality flaw was that he based his own self worth on the attractiveness of the women he surrounded himself with. I know this doesn’t seem like a big deal, and many insecure men do it, but to me it was a huge deal, for one simple reason………….men who do that have no respect for the law of “bro’s before ho’s”. Waterhouse would surely sell any of his friends out for not just a piece of ass, but also for the ability to be pussy whipped by a piece of ass. I had experienced this situation in my past with the RVA crowd and The Fourteenth Street Whore. Beautiful women were, and still are a rarity in the RVA paddling scene, so when The Fourteenth Street Whore came around and started shaking her tail feathers in front of everyone, beater after beater fell straight into the trap. It is important to remember that I was whore fucking that silly little slattern in secret the entire time this was happening, so I had a rather unique observation deck to watch the entire shit show go down without anyone ever knowing. (Which by the way, none of that story has been written yet…….trust me when I say that the best is yet to come, but it will have to wait for the book). In the end I was able to see the TRUTH in a lot of people in that town before they ever even realized the omniscient role that I played; and one thing that became painfully obvious to me was that there wasn’t, and still isn’t any loyalty there when it comes to women or friends. Those boys became nothing but a bunch of slobbering slut bait every time any half way decent female entered that parking lot, and the amount of hypocrisy it created among the tribe destroyed what Fourteenth Street once was, or what it will ever be again……….eventually I also fell into the slut bait trap and sold out not only my wife, but also my friends for The Fourteenth Street Whore. It is THE biggest mistake I ever made in life and the primary reason this topic is so important to me. I hated myself for what I had become when I sold out, and I have no tolerance in watching other good men do the same. I knew that Waterhouse would do the exact same thing to me, as well as anyone else in our crew if given the opportunity, and in the end he did exactly that with Lil’ Rook…………but we will come back to that. Fact was, I had no intentions of ever trusting Waterhouse.
Although Waterhouse is everything I just described, aside from running the rivah with him and sharing the responsibilities of a shitfaced wet t-shirt contest, I wanted to have very little to do with the guy……..Why? Because unfortunately Waterhouse possessed two personality flaws that happened to be at the very top of my pet peeve list. It was disappointing, because I truly did like the guy.
At this point in the story I need to point something out…….the entire crew that I was rolling with had gained familiarity with one another through social media. We were all from different corners of the continent aside from the Wisco crew. I recently read a story by Tucker Max in the bestselling novel Assholes Finish First. It was a tale about the first time Tucker decided to party with the fans of his blog, long before he became one of Time Magazines Most Influential People of 2009. The trip was a shit show, mostly because of the unexpected characters he encountered. In it he describes a very important component of social media that he learned through his experience; one’s ability to create a persona that doesn’t truly exist………..and THAT was my main issue with Waterhouse. He was not who he portrayed himself to be. To him everyone in life had to always be happy, and we should never argue, disagree, or have any conflict with one another. He tried to convince everyone around him that his life was perfect and he was ALWAYS jubilant and emotionally complete. HA! What kind of fantasyland was this guy living in? Waterhouse is the type of guy who gets on Swimmer’s Anonymous and attempts to induce everyone into being kind to one another and only leave positive comments, only to retreat back to his friends and bitch about how much he abhors SA……..this would most certainly result in being eaten alive by those satire obsessed beaters on SA, plus it’s a complete contradiction. He had already resorted to Facebook rants with me and others concerning my very strong and public feelings about SUP, as well as the controversial attitude that I exhibited on social media at times……I love it when they bite the line so easily. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. He basically wasted his time trying to convince me to be a kind social media character for the betterment of the community. This was not cool in my eyes. The world isn’t always sunshine and roses, and if there is one hard lesson I have learned over the past decade, it’s those who try to convince everyone that the world IS sunshine and roses are usually the ones who are the most fucked up. Waterhouse fell into that category. Over time I discovered that my theory was true after some of his acquaintances confided in me about the problems that existed in his life. All he had to do was be REAL, but because he failed to be, and it was so transparent, I knew I would never trust the guy. In short, Waterhouse was a complete fraud.
His second personality flaw was that he based his own self worth on the attractiveness of the women he surrounded himself with. I know this doesn’t seem like a big deal, and many insecure men do it, but to me it was a huge deal, for one simple reason………….men who do that have no respect for the law of “bro’s before ho’s”. Waterhouse would surely sell any of his friends out for not just a piece of ass, but also for the ability to be pussy whipped by a piece of ass. I had experienced this situation in my past with the RVA crowd and The Fourteenth Street Whore. Beautiful women were, and still are a rarity in the RVA paddling scene, so when The Fourteenth Street Whore came around and started shaking her tail feathers in front of everyone, beater after beater fell straight into the trap. It is important to remember that I was whore fucking that silly little slattern in secret the entire time this was happening, so I had a rather unique observation deck to watch the entire shit show go down without anyone ever knowing. (Which by the way, none of that story has been written yet…….trust me when I say that the best is yet to come, but it will have to wait for the book). In the end I was able to see the TRUTH in a lot of people in that town before they ever even realized the omniscient role that I played; and one thing that became painfully obvious to me was that there wasn’t, and still isn’t any loyalty there when it comes to women or friends. Those boys became nothing but a bunch of slobbering slut bait every time any half way decent female entered that parking lot, and the amount of hypocrisy it created among the tribe destroyed what Fourteenth Street once was, or what it will ever be again……….eventually I also fell into the slut bait trap and sold out not only my wife, but also my friends for The Fourteenth Street Whore. It is THE biggest mistake I ever made in life and the primary reason this topic is so important to me. I hated myself for what I had become when I sold out, and I have no tolerance in watching other good men do the same. I knew that Waterhouse would do the exact same thing to me, as well as anyone else in our crew if given the opportunity, and in the end he did exactly that with Lil’ Rook…………but we will come back to that. Fact was, I had no intentions of ever trusting Waterhouse.
~Anonymous~
But this day was not about Waterhouse……..it was about massive piles of whitewater, a quality crowd of people, and one hell of a rivah adventure. I was perfectly comfortable sharing that experience with Waterhouse, regardless of how I felt about him personally. Like I said, he was a good guy with unfortunate personality flaws. He had chosen two of the lovely ladies from the previous night’s wet t-shirt contest to share his raft (see what I mean), and in doing so was in need of some serious paddling power, which is where I came in. I volunteered to be the fourth party in his raft. The day was set and the team was a go!
When we arrived at the put-in the typical chaos of Gauleyfest had already overtaken the parking lot. This was not a scene reminiscent of the peace and tranquility that the Upper Yough put-in exemplified throughout the week. This was a clusterfuck of cars, busses, rafts, kayaks, people, and Dirt Bag fucktards. The event has become so popular that the Rangers now force you to wait in your car at the top of the mountain, only allowing a certain number of vehicles down to avoid a bottleneck on the twisty, curvy road………..the only thing this succeeded in doing was it allowed everyone to drink twice as much, so by 11am everyone was well on their way to being inebriated yet again. The one variable that kept me sober was the fact that on this morning the smell of alcohol triggered a gag reflex within me that would have made projectile vomiting a certainty. I played it safe for the morning and stuck with my meetings of impregnability.
Upon arrival I made a B Line straight for the rivah in order to indulge in a nature bath and rid myself of the remaining Pepper Spray………yes, I washed police Pepper Spray off my body in the waters of the Gauley Rivah. That’s about as Dirt Bag as it gets. As I did this, I simply floated in an eddy, relaxed and content under the late summer sun while seeking relief in the cool waters. The weather was picture perfect, and various forms of entertainment were happening in front of me to keep my senses occupied.
Throughout this three year journey I have developed a keen sense of observation……..something I did not possess in my former life. I do this in order to write the stories with as much detail and fact as possible. Once I discovered that I was smarter than the average bear and gained the self confidence that was never instilled in me by despotic parents, my entire world changed. It is amazing what one can ascertain when removing oneself from an environment to simply observe the happenings of the world around them. You become an outsider constantly looking in and seeking analysis. Everyone is so fixated on themselves and their own personal role in the world these days that we forget to contemplate the scene around us………..I do not. People watching has become an art for me, and humanity is a fascinating social experiment that also provides an ample amount of entertainment. I have discovered that the best places to unearth quality people watching in mass amounts are at amusement parks, Wal-Mart’s, and NASCAR events. I laid back in the waters of the rivah and simply observed the social showcase that buzzed all around me.
Before long the rafts were in the water, coolers were strapped down, and our Dirt Bag dignitaries entered the whitewater proving grounds of the Gauley Rivah. The Upper G truly is a gem of a rivah and is worthy of the fight that the whitewater community has always battled against to keep it flowing and beautiful. The whitewater is of outstanding quality, the scenery is exceptional, and the remoteness of the gorge allows for a complete escape from the outside world. It is worthy of the pilgrimage that thousands of Dirt Bags make on an annual basis to experience it’s natural wonder.
When we arrived at the put-in the typical chaos of Gauleyfest had already overtaken the parking lot. This was not a scene reminiscent of the peace and tranquility that the Upper Yough put-in exemplified throughout the week. This was a clusterfuck of cars, busses, rafts, kayaks, people, and Dirt Bag fucktards. The event has become so popular that the Rangers now force you to wait in your car at the top of the mountain, only allowing a certain number of vehicles down to avoid a bottleneck on the twisty, curvy road………..the only thing this succeeded in doing was it allowed everyone to drink twice as much, so by 11am everyone was well on their way to being inebriated yet again. The one variable that kept me sober was the fact that on this morning the smell of alcohol triggered a gag reflex within me that would have made projectile vomiting a certainty. I played it safe for the morning and stuck with my meetings of impregnability.
Upon arrival I made a B Line straight for the rivah in order to indulge in a nature bath and rid myself of the remaining Pepper Spray………yes, I washed police Pepper Spray off my body in the waters of the Gauley Rivah. That’s about as Dirt Bag as it gets. As I did this, I simply floated in an eddy, relaxed and content under the late summer sun while seeking relief in the cool waters. The weather was picture perfect, and various forms of entertainment were happening in front of me to keep my senses occupied.
Throughout this three year journey I have developed a keen sense of observation……..something I did not possess in my former life. I do this in order to write the stories with as much detail and fact as possible. Once I discovered that I was smarter than the average bear and gained the self confidence that was never instilled in me by despotic parents, my entire world changed. It is amazing what one can ascertain when removing oneself from an environment to simply observe the happenings of the world around them. You become an outsider constantly looking in and seeking analysis. Everyone is so fixated on themselves and their own personal role in the world these days that we forget to contemplate the scene around us………..I do not. People watching has become an art for me, and humanity is a fascinating social experiment that also provides an ample amount of entertainment. I have discovered that the best places to unearth quality people watching in mass amounts are at amusement parks, Wal-Mart’s, and NASCAR events. I laid back in the waters of the rivah and simply observed the social showcase that buzzed all around me.
Before long the rafts were in the water, coolers were strapped down, and our Dirt Bag dignitaries entered the whitewater proving grounds of the Gauley Rivah. The Upper G truly is a gem of a rivah and is worthy of the fight that the whitewater community has always battled against to keep it flowing and beautiful. The whitewater is of outstanding quality, the scenery is exceptional, and the remoteness of the gorge allows for a complete escape from the outside world. It is worthy of the pilgrimage that thousands of Dirt Bags make on an annual basis to experience it’s natural wonder.
~Wendell Berry~
Waterhouse demonstrated a solid skill set in his guiding. As we dropped into Pillow, I experienced the thrill of one of nature’s great whitewater puzzles for the first time ever from the aspect of a front row custy………it was simply awesome!!! The front of a raft is the place to be for a ride down Pillow rapid and is much better than a seat in the guide hole. I have kayaked and guided the Upper Gauley on numerous occasions, but experiencing the monstrous waves and deeply pocketed holes of Pillow from the front of a raft was truly an epic experience as well as a pleasant surprise………..if you have failed to experience it for yourself, do so, because it is worth every penny of a commercial trip.
The rivah heals………..always. By the time I reached Pillow I had shaken off my defunctive hang over and returned to the world of the living. Our crew styled the gauntlet of Lost Paddle rapid before creeping up on the horizon line of Iron Ring. Iron Ring is an infamous Upper G rapid with a dark history of stories told by veteran rivah legends as a warning to rookie guides of its fatal consequences. It is short and steep and full of deadly hazards. There is a cave on the far right that is exposed at low flows and reveals a large portion of the rivah pushing underneath it. As a result of blasting by the old mining companies of the area, an unnatural rock sits in the middle of the rapid blocking a safe exit out of the turmoil. I have hiked from the cabin to this rapid many times, and in doing so have discovered why the rock was bestowed with the name “Woodstock”……….because it is shaped exactly like a little birdy. Unfortunately that shape creates an ugly S-turned sluice on the rivah left side, and a pocket in the dead center. The rule of thumb is stay right for a safe exit. Unfortunately you can’t start right. There is a nasty entrance hole guarding the top right side as you enter the precipitous drop, and it has a long history of not only flipping rafts, but literally tossing them airborne straight towards the death trap of Woodstock. Behind Woodstock rests a monstrous hole that sucks all unused carnage into its grips before sending unlucky custy’s deep into the darkness of the Gauley. Basically, you have to tight rope a fine line down the middle to start the rapid out, with right handed momentum to safely push you away from Woodstock for a clean exit. The pucker factor in a raft can be high, and it is not a rapid you want to fuck with. For all of those who think I am giving The Ring too much credit, take a hike down and view it at low water, and then come back and tell me what you think. It’s truly a grotesque sight to behold. Once the line is learned it is a rather easy feet to accomplish, however, being off target just a few feet to the right or a few feet to the left can result in disastrous consequences.
Waterhouse did not hide the fact that he was learning the lines as we descended the gorge, but I was confident in our knowledge and his skill to traverse the complex puzzle successfully. I don’t remember a discussion about an optional land scout, so we crept up on the ominous horizon line from our boat, looking for the correct entrance from our vantage point. I now know that there is a small reactionary wave just at the crest of the horizon line that you drift into from left to right. Once you hit that little reactionary, turn your raft to a 1 o’clock angle, and bomb straight forward bracing for impact with the first of the two Woodstock holes. Unfortunately on this day, I was not aware of the little reactionary, and we entered too far right. As we did, we missed the top reactionary and the raft continued drifting right, straight towards the top hole that must be avoided. I was sitting on the front right side of the raft, so when we hit the hole, I dug my shoulder deeply into the pile of whitewater. The hole twists back to the left, and it did the same thing to our raft. With the blink of an eye, our raft started a violent left sided flip as it became airborne. I attempted a quick high side, but all this accomplished was it positioned me even higher up the right tube of the boat. As it flipped, the sling shot effect literally catapulted me out of the raft, sending me airborne and straight towards Woodstock. As I calmly floated above the raft and through the air, I knew exactly what was happening and that one thing was painfully clear…………..I was about to eat complete and total shit. If you have ever seen Talladega Nights, think about the scene where Will Ferrell wrecks his car and is flying through the air in slow motion and mutters the phrase, “I’m flying through the air. This is not good.”…….yup. That was me.
I took a header into the water dangerously far left, directly above Woodstock, arms and legs flailing in the process. (FYI: I held onto my paddle the entire time. Take note beaters) I was quickly submerged by the churning waters upon landing. I immediately slammed into Woodstock, under the water I might add, and felt myself bounce around the right side of the hazard. Believe it or not, this feeling comforted me because I knew I was out of danger from being sucked into the left side sluice. Unfortunately, I was also about to hit the monstrous hole behind Woodstock head on, still underwater………..when I did, I went deep. And I do mean very DEEP! I went Ron Jeremy DEEP people. I opened my eyes as the churning bubbles roared in my ears, and as I did I could see the light fade from above and darkness enter my world. Then I felt the pressure on my ears. It’s the same pressure you felt as a child when you dove to the bottom of the diving well, only much worse, because you are much deeper.
Things became quiet and peaceful. I released control of the situation, held my breath, and let the waters take me where they may. The darkness was blacker than anything I had ever experienced on a rivah, and the silence was just that………..eerily silent. As strange as it may sound, being at the bottom of a whitewater rivah is actually momentarily peaceful. I bounced gently across the bottom of the riverbed for a few seconds, before the buoyancy of my PFD took control and started my long ascent back to the light of the world and the much needed oxygen I was quickly longing for. The roar of the water slowly returned to my ears, then the light to my eyes, and then the pressure eased. Instantly I rocketed to the surface and exploded out of the water, at least fifty yards downstream from where I had been submerged. The entire experience happened within a matter of 10 seconds.
“Holy Shit!!!!” I bellowed. I popped up directly next to the raft, almost under it, and immediately threw myself back in to help the rest of my crew. Waterhouse was on point, back in the raft at the same time, and we fished our two lovely custy’s out of the jaws of Iron Ring. We all portrayed the look of deer in headlights as we lay in the raft happy to be alive. “That was intense!” I stated, attempting to break the silence and shock of the situation. Waterhouse reveled in it based on the look on his face, which is about par for any hard core rivah addict. The nastier the carnage, the more alive we feel……..we’re seriously fucked up that way. We had just survived a violent flip through a notoriously nasty rapid, and popped out on the other side with more insight and experience to the world of whitewater…………..don’t get me wrong. I wish to never repeat the feet again in my life. The only thing I was really bummed about was the fact that we didn’t get to view the catastrophe from a second hand perspective, because from what we were told by witnesses, it was impressive. Once again, rubber pushing had proven to be the sketchiest form of travel in whitewater sport.
The rivah heals………..always. By the time I reached Pillow I had shaken off my defunctive hang over and returned to the world of the living. Our crew styled the gauntlet of Lost Paddle rapid before creeping up on the horizon line of Iron Ring. Iron Ring is an infamous Upper G rapid with a dark history of stories told by veteran rivah legends as a warning to rookie guides of its fatal consequences. It is short and steep and full of deadly hazards. There is a cave on the far right that is exposed at low flows and reveals a large portion of the rivah pushing underneath it. As a result of blasting by the old mining companies of the area, an unnatural rock sits in the middle of the rapid blocking a safe exit out of the turmoil. I have hiked from the cabin to this rapid many times, and in doing so have discovered why the rock was bestowed with the name “Woodstock”……….because it is shaped exactly like a little birdy. Unfortunately that shape creates an ugly S-turned sluice on the rivah left side, and a pocket in the dead center. The rule of thumb is stay right for a safe exit. Unfortunately you can’t start right. There is a nasty entrance hole guarding the top right side as you enter the precipitous drop, and it has a long history of not only flipping rafts, but literally tossing them airborne straight towards the death trap of Woodstock. Behind Woodstock rests a monstrous hole that sucks all unused carnage into its grips before sending unlucky custy’s deep into the darkness of the Gauley. Basically, you have to tight rope a fine line down the middle to start the rapid out, with right handed momentum to safely push you away from Woodstock for a clean exit. The pucker factor in a raft can be high, and it is not a rapid you want to fuck with. For all of those who think I am giving The Ring too much credit, take a hike down and view it at low water, and then come back and tell me what you think. It’s truly a grotesque sight to behold. Once the line is learned it is a rather easy feet to accomplish, however, being off target just a few feet to the right or a few feet to the left can result in disastrous consequences.
Waterhouse did not hide the fact that he was learning the lines as we descended the gorge, but I was confident in our knowledge and his skill to traverse the complex puzzle successfully. I don’t remember a discussion about an optional land scout, so we crept up on the ominous horizon line from our boat, looking for the correct entrance from our vantage point. I now know that there is a small reactionary wave just at the crest of the horizon line that you drift into from left to right. Once you hit that little reactionary, turn your raft to a 1 o’clock angle, and bomb straight forward bracing for impact with the first of the two Woodstock holes. Unfortunately on this day, I was not aware of the little reactionary, and we entered too far right. As we did, we missed the top reactionary and the raft continued drifting right, straight towards the top hole that must be avoided. I was sitting on the front right side of the raft, so when we hit the hole, I dug my shoulder deeply into the pile of whitewater. The hole twists back to the left, and it did the same thing to our raft. With the blink of an eye, our raft started a violent left sided flip as it became airborne. I attempted a quick high side, but all this accomplished was it positioned me even higher up the right tube of the boat. As it flipped, the sling shot effect literally catapulted me out of the raft, sending me airborne and straight towards Woodstock. As I calmly floated above the raft and through the air, I knew exactly what was happening and that one thing was painfully clear…………..I was about to eat complete and total shit. If you have ever seen Talladega Nights, think about the scene where Will Ferrell wrecks his car and is flying through the air in slow motion and mutters the phrase, “I’m flying through the air. This is not good.”…….yup. That was me.
I took a header into the water dangerously far left, directly above Woodstock, arms and legs flailing in the process. (FYI: I held onto my paddle the entire time. Take note beaters) I was quickly submerged by the churning waters upon landing. I immediately slammed into Woodstock, under the water I might add, and felt myself bounce around the right side of the hazard. Believe it or not, this feeling comforted me because I knew I was out of danger from being sucked into the left side sluice. Unfortunately, I was also about to hit the monstrous hole behind Woodstock head on, still underwater………..when I did, I went deep. And I do mean very DEEP! I went Ron Jeremy DEEP people. I opened my eyes as the churning bubbles roared in my ears, and as I did I could see the light fade from above and darkness enter my world. Then I felt the pressure on my ears. It’s the same pressure you felt as a child when you dove to the bottom of the diving well, only much worse, because you are much deeper.
Things became quiet and peaceful. I released control of the situation, held my breath, and let the waters take me where they may. The darkness was blacker than anything I had ever experienced on a rivah, and the silence was just that………..eerily silent. As strange as it may sound, being at the bottom of a whitewater rivah is actually momentarily peaceful. I bounced gently across the bottom of the riverbed for a few seconds, before the buoyancy of my PFD took control and started my long ascent back to the light of the world and the much needed oxygen I was quickly longing for. The roar of the water slowly returned to my ears, then the light to my eyes, and then the pressure eased. Instantly I rocketed to the surface and exploded out of the water, at least fifty yards downstream from where I had been submerged. The entire experience happened within a matter of 10 seconds.
“Holy Shit!!!!” I bellowed. I popped up directly next to the raft, almost under it, and immediately threw myself back in to help the rest of my crew. Waterhouse was on point, back in the raft at the same time, and we fished our two lovely custy’s out of the jaws of Iron Ring. We all portrayed the look of deer in headlights as we lay in the raft happy to be alive. “That was intense!” I stated, attempting to break the silence and shock of the situation. Waterhouse reveled in it based on the look on his face, which is about par for any hard core rivah addict. The nastier the carnage, the more alive we feel……..we’re seriously fucked up that way. We had just survived a violent flip through a notoriously nasty rapid, and popped out on the other side with more insight and experience to the world of whitewater…………..don’t get me wrong. I wish to never repeat the feet again in my life. The only thing I was really bummed about was the fact that we didn’t get to view the catastrophe from a second hand perspective, because from what we were told by witnesses, it was impressive. Once again, rubber pushing had proven to be the sketchiest form of travel in whitewater sport.
~Dejan Stojanovic~
For anyone suffering from a hangover and looking for a quick remedy, I suggest a violent flip in a Class V rapid, and a temporary visit to the depths of a rivah. It will cure even the most vicious of alcohol induced anguish. I felt alert and attentive for the remainder of the day, and was ready to once again join the alcohol induced party that had become this journey.
We reached the top of Sweet’s Falls within the hour, and even from above the rapid we could hear the screams and jeers of the crowd of onlookers and peanut gallery. Sweet’s is the finale of the Upper Gauley gauntlet……….the last Class V of the Big Five on the section. It consists of one massive hole that the entire rivah drops into, and it is a carnage producing wet dream. In 2013 I sat in an eddy at extremely high water on Gauleyfest Saturday and watched 25 rafts drop into the beast………22 of them flipped, and most succeeded in doing it with violently cringing results. Add to this the fact that an errant line too far left will lead you into Dildo Rock, probably the most feared feature on the rivah. Dildo is a cooler sized rock protruding out from the falls just under the water that literally stops rafts dead if met by a rubberized vehicle full of victims. It is the equivalent of a head on collision. And just like in a car, when the raft plugs into the obstacle at a high rate of speed, the custy’s just keep right on going, flying in all directions like an explosion of PFD wrapped humans. Collisions with Dildo have produced some of the more jaw dropping sights I have ever witnessed on any rivah. Dropping into Sweet’s on the festival Saturday is like skydiving into the Super Bowl. Once you land below The Falls, you look around and realize that you are the show, and EVERYONE is hoping you crash and burn!
When you are running the rivah, the approach to the rapid can be an anxiety induced nightmare based on the downstream sounds alone, let alone the blind horizon line revealing a misty cloud produced by the churning hole. Our crew dropped in heavy, nailing the line with ease and disappointing the carnage crazed crowds. We scampered towards the right side of Postage Due, the perfect observation rock for the NASCAR style shit show we hoped to witness. Postage Due is a veritable playground, surrounded by whitewater features on all sides. Aside from the monstrous hole of the actual Falls, visible directly in front of the granite viewing deck, there is also “The Box”. This little gem of a puzzle is a boxed in room of churning water with swirly currents and a nasty triangular rock that pins rafts against its side, before flipping them and tossing unsuspecting customers in every direction, including occasional slams against the surrounding walls. On Gauleyfest Saturday there is probably no better place to be in the whitewater world than sitting on top of Postage Due witnessing the show that surrounds you. The following is by far the greatest raft carnage collection of Gauley footage ever assembled, with the ending highlighting the chaos of Sweet’s Falls and some EPIC Dildo hits. The best part of it is that this video is straight up Old School West By God, before the lawyers and board members destroyed the TRUTH……………….enjoy, because this video is a classic in the world of whitewater.
We reached the top of Sweet’s Falls within the hour, and even from above the rapid we could hear the screams and jeers of the crowd of onlookers and peanut gallery. Sweet’s is the finale of the Upper Gauley gauntlet……….the last Class V of the Big Five on the section. It consists of one massive hole that the entire rivah drops into, and it is a carnage producing wet dream. In 2013 I sat in an eddy at extremely high water on Gauleyfest Saturday and watched 25 rafts drop into the beast………22 of them flipped, and most succeeded in doing it with violently cringing results. Add to this the fact that an errant line too far left will lead you into Dildo Rock, probably the most feared feature on the rivah. Dildo is a cooler sized rock protruding out from the falls just under the water that literally stops rafts dead if met by a rubberized vehicle full of victims. It is the equivalent of a head on collision. And just like in a car, when the raft plugs into the obstacle at a high rate of speed, the custy’s just keep right on going, flying in all directions like an explosion of PFD wrapped humans. Collisions with Dildo have produced some of the more jaw dropping sights I have ever witnessed on any rivah. Dropping into Sweet’s on the festival Saturday is like skydiving into the Super Bowl. Once you land below The Falls, you look around and realize that you are the show, and EVERYONE is hoping you crash and burn!
When you are running the rivah, the approach to the rapid can be an anxiety induced nightmare based on the downstream sounds alone, let alone the blind horizon line revealing a misty cloud produced by the churning hole. Our crew dropped in heavy, nailing the line with ease and disappointing the carnage crazed crowds. We scampered towards the right side of Postage Due, the perfect observation rock for the NASCAR style shit show we hoped to witness. Postage Due is a veritable playground, surrounded by whitewater features on all sides. Aside from the monstrous hole of the actual Falls, visible directly in front of the granite viewing deck, there is also “The Box”. This little gem of a puzzle is a boxed in room of churning water with swirly currents and a nasty triangular rock that pins rafts against its side, before flipping them and tossing unsuspecting customers in every direction, including occasional slams against the surrounding walls. On Gauleyfest Saturday there is probably no better place to be in the whitewater world than sitting on top of Postage Due witnessing the show that surrounds you. The following is by far the greatest raft carnage collection of Gauley footage ever assembled, with the ending highlighting the chaos of Sweet’s Falls and some EPIC Dildo hits. The best part of it is that this video is straight up Old School West By God, before the lawyers and board members destroyed the TRUTH……………….enjoy, because this video is a classic in the world of whitewater.
We spent a few hours gawking at the obscene amount of carnage that the day produced. Postage Due continued to collect rafts and kayaks as the day wore on, and at one point a rubber castle of rafts stacked seven high was constructed. I have never seen the rock covered with so many boats or people, and I doubt I ever will again. During the show, Chicago Mike and I climbed to the top of the pile of rafts and sat above the whitewater world witnessing the chaos that ensued below. It was the culmination of the week of whitewater, but was also the unfortunate peak of my friendship with Mike. I was completely oblivious as to the extent that he was not only about to fail me, but also fail the rest of the DBP following.
The remainder of our afternoon consisted of a lazy float out of the gorge. The rivah drastically flattens out for three miles after Sweet Fall’s before passing through the milder Middle Gauley and then re-entering a secondary gorge known as the Lower section. The Lower is a somewhat easier trip, but still contains world class whitewater, and what is in my opinion much better rivah scenery. For an in-depth description of the Lower Gauley feel free to click here on The Perfect Rivah.
The remainder of our afternoon consisted of a lazy float out of the gorge. The rivah drastically flattens out for three miles after Sweet Fall’s before passing through the milder Middle Gauley and then re-entering a secondary gorge known as the Lower section. The Lower is a somewhat easier trip, but still contains world class whitewater, and what is in my opinion much better rivah scenery. For an in-depth description of the Lower Gauley feel free to click here on The Perfect Rivah.
~Albert Einstein~
~Winston S. Churchill~
