Round 5: The Story (The Space Between)

“A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.”
                                                        ~Oscar Wilde~



  Life #3 - The Space Between. Marcelle and I led two very different lifestyles while living outside of Brevard, but our interests, our way of life, and our passion for the outdoors were always comparable. However, we demonstrated that passion in our own, unique way. Remember, during the times that The Epic Worthlessness that is Man was engaging in the multiple shenanigans that accompanied the lifestyle, Marcelle was living her own dream even deeper in the vast wilderness of WNC. Her days were spent on trail dealing with the hoods of the woods, dodging falling branches while stuck deep in the forest during the epic WNC ice storms that seemed to only hit while she was on trail, and testing her wealth of classroom knowledge with students she grew to love and admire. I was always proud of Marcelle's accomplishments in WNC, and was always supportive of the career she had chosen, regardless of the fact that it took a majority of time away from our relationship..................remember what I just said.
   The space that existed between our two lives is where Marcelle and I would always find a way into one another's heart, and the adventures that were produced in that space were always epic. We tested each other to a far greater degree than we ever tested ourselves. We moved to Brevard in 2005 and both of us had spent the years prior to the move, building ourselves into top physical form through multiple nights of premier league soccer, weekends pushing rubber on the low water James (which will make you very strong, much-more-so than any high water summer will), and the constant challenge of pushing each other to be that much more complete. Marcelle and I had spent a lifetime playing a very high level of soccer, and we both had a fierce competitive streak within us. When we moved to Brevard, our fitness level combined with our fiery competitive streaks forced us to not only push each other in the adventures we chose, but also prevented either of us from backing down to the challenges of the other.................this mentality also produced a very intense relationship to be built between the two of us, but at times I question if it also tore us apart.
   

“Real learning comes about when the competitive spirit has ceased.”
~Jiddu Krishnamurti~


  There are once again hundreds of stories that could be told to exemplify this consistent competition that existed, but it was when we saw things eye to eye that we were always at our best. I stated in a previous post that Marcelle and I were a good hire for USA Raft because we came as a two for one deal. This was very important to our manager, because on weekends when Marcelle was off trail we were able to travel to Hot Springs together to make some extra cash guiding. Any rafting manager will tell you, it is a tremendous benefit to be able to make one phone call and secure two highly qualified raft guides at once for a trip. Due to this set up, it was not long before Marcelle and I were being selected for the top trips of the day, and we were selected for those trips by the top trip leaders of the company. One of those leaders was a man named T.J., and in all my years of guiding, paddling, and traveling, T.J. was probably the most colorful character to ever cross my path.
   When I first met T.J. he seemed to be a quiet, down to earth, veteran rivah guide in his mid 40's. He was a big man, standing around 6 foot 3, with a grey goatee and a Sean Connery style profile. He spent a solid 20 years guiding the Upper G during Gauley season, and possessed the stories to back that experience. He was knowledgeable on and off the rivah, an outstanding leader, and he loved to guide with Marcelle and I. We always secured private, three boat trips full of the kind of custy's that loved to tip. Seniority allowed T.J. to always have first dibs on trips, so he always chose the best. He also had first dibs on guides, in which he also chose the best, Marcelle and I. (yes, my ego is speaking. If I am sitting in the guide hole of a raft, it always will. I know what I do well) Our trips ran smooth as butter, every time. The key to a rivah trip is to push quickly and smoothly down rivah, all the while keeping custy's entertained so they don't notice the pace they are moving. Rookies have a habit of being slow, sticking their boats in the rocks, pinning, and sometimes flipping, producing a yard sale through every rapid......................in short, rookies suck, and slow trips down. I would always run the lead boat to set a pace, Marcelle would follow right behind me, and T.J. would bring up the rear in order to sweep up any carnage that we left behind. (which only happened when we wanted it to happen) This set up produced a record setting pace to our trips, allowing us to flip doubles on a daily basis and rake in some serious weekend cash. Marcelle, T.J. and I became experts at how to get it done quickly, smoothly, and we always left our custy's with smiles on their faces!
   You are probably asking yourself why T.J. was the most colorful character to ever cross my path during my whitewater adventures. Well, like me, T.J. possessed the complexity of his own double life. On one side, T.J. was as hardcore as they came, flipping boats on the rapids of the Gauley, partaking in late night moonshine fiasco's, and leading the next generation of dirt bag kayakers through endless whitewater adventures. On the other side, however, T.J. possessed a unique quality to his life that very few people ever have the courage to explore.
   T.J. owned the largest nightclub in Asheville, a three story boarded up mansion named Scandals. From the outside, you would have never known the spot contained some of the wildest debauchery this side of the French Broad. But once you entered, you were perplexed by the contents of this hidden fortress of seduction and depravity. Scandals drew every kind of party seeking miscreant hidden in WNC. Be it gay or straight, black or white, drag or authentic, everyone who entered Scandals was walking into a kaleidoscope of culture and alternative lifestyle. T.J. was a smart business man and knew that hiring employees from the drag and gay communities was not a wise idea considering the activities that commenced at the club. As T.J. put it, "Queens are full of too much drama." Due to this, the driving security force of Scandals consisted of out of work rivah guides and dirt bag kayaking bums. This was a genius business move on T.J.'s part, and led to very little trouble in the club.
   It was how T.J. came to own this kingdom of corruption that makes him so colorful. In the late eighties and throughout the nineties, T.J. traveled the world as one of the most famous Drag Queens of his era...........his name was Aurora Borealis.
   

Aurora Borealis during the height of his career in 1995

    

   Yes everyone, the picture above is a man, and not only that, it is a hard ass rivah guide who didn't fuck around when it came to pushin' rubber or keeping custy's in line. The first time I attended a night out at Scandals, I passed by a trophy case full of history of Aurora Borealis and his "days on the road". While looking over the contents of the case, I remember coming across the picture above, and not knowing who or what it was, turned to Marcelle and stated in a drunken stupor, "Look at her. She's hot."..................Marcelle went years without letting me live that one down, but in all honesty, how could I have known. The transformation is remarkable.


“It's a sort of piss-take on culture, because a drag queen is a clown - a parody of our society. It's a sarcastic spoof on culture, which allows us to laugh at ourselves - but in a way that is inclusive of everyone.”
                                                               ~RuPaul~

   Marcelle and I were not frequent visitors of Scandals. Not only did we live in the stix, but we also remained very diverse in our activities and travels during our days in WNC, so a night at Scandals was usually a planned date that included dinner in "the city" followed by the midnight show at the club. Marcelle loved Scandals and was always excited to see a show. It says a lot about a relationship when your date nights include drag shows. Because of our connection with the club, we were always invited to the VIP Lounge and Scandals always made sure we were shown a good time. (In re-reading that last sentence I realize it could mean a variety of things..........don't let your imaginations get the best of you. The VIP Lounge and Champagne Room are NOT the same thing, especially in the Drag Club.)
   I loved taking Marcelle to the shows because she loved the environment, and seeing her happy made me happy. I will never forget the one night my drag club experience got the best of me though. Marcelle and I and a few other friends were partaking in a rather wild night of shots before a midnight show that featured a Drag King. This was a concept that was new to me. A Drag King is exactly what you think it is...........a woman dressed up as a man. When she appeared on stage it was obvious that she had nailed the look.............black leather jacket, sideburns, and an over the top rugged manner that she flaunted to the colorfully divergent crowd. However, after a few minutes on stage I noticed that the featured king was returning to perform for Marcelle again and again, and the look that she/he was giving my girlfriend and future wife was not one that was making me feel inordinately pleased . You have to understand how confusing this was for me................I didn't know if I was supposed to kick his ass or encourage the charade in the hope that I could witness something undoubtedly unique. I mean, what is a man supposed to do when a drag king starts scoping out his own girlfriend. The situation was distressingly uncomfortable for me, so I retreated to the VIP room for a safety talk with one of the security guards and fellow boaters. For the remainder of the evening, I kept a very close eye on that cunning little miscreant, and made sure whenever she was close to Marcelle, so was I. I learned an important lesson that night that I carry with me to this day.....................if something seems a bit askew, it most likely is, so whatever you do trust in your own instincts and don't ever trust a Drag King. They just cross too many lines of peculiar irregularity for me..................but I was walking a fine line on this night. How would I ever explain to anyone that I was justified in engaging in a brawl with a woman dressed up as a man because he/she was propositioning my girlfriend? I couldn't. I just had to deal with it. I think that night scarred me for life.  

“Morals are nothing but a civilized society’s attempt to tame the beast called man.”
                                                 ~Mokokoma Mokhonoana~

   The late night experiences produced by Marcelle and I were small potatoes compared to the experiences we engaged in throughout the backwoods of WNC.  We utilized the time between 2005 and 2008 well, and immersed ourselves into the growing outdoor culture of the area.  In the Fall of 2005, after we first arrived in the Asheville area, we attended The Green Race.  For those of you who do not boat, The Green Race is the most revered competition in whitewater kayaking and the greatest show in sports.  Many accounts have been written describing The Green Race, so I will steal from others to explain this day in a nutshell................

  "No doubt the single most famous, most respected, and most competitive creek race on the planet, the annual Green Race remains a fabulous and homespun little affair held each Fall on the steepest section of Western North Carolina's Green River Narrows. Local boaters train here for much of the year due to the reliable flows, and people come from literally around the world to compete. More than five hundred friends and family members either hike or paddle in to watch and cheer on every racer, scattering themselves along the river's boulders and bedrock near the photogenic signature rapid called Gorilla -- a.k.a. "The Monkey" -- heart and soul of the entire run.
   Looming larger than life in any paddler's mind, the Green Race is -- save for a few individuals -- largely not about winning. It's more about having clean lines and a safe run, making a personal best time, beating (or losing to) a friend by a few seconds, and simply participating in such a unique event and the fine community that surrounds it all. And yet to date, in eighteen years, with perhaps several thousand people having navigated and portaged themselves down the Green in total, only 539 people have ever entered the race."
                                                          ~John Pilson~

**** Follow this link for a more detailed explanation of The Green Race.****

   The Green Race is special for any true kayaker, regardless of whether or not you have ever raced.   If you have attended or competed in the race then you know why.  It is a magical day, set in a magical place. However, in recent years, The Green Race has been infected by the same plague that infects the RVA boating community, or most any boating community for that matter..............the ignorance of the masses.  The sport of kayaking is growing, and unfortunately the increase in numbers brings an increase in stupidity.  These days the gorge is overcrowded on race day with spectators tearing down the mountainside, destroying the vegetation and trails as they descend into the gorge.  Worse yet, the race is quickly developing a reputation of being the greatest 'shit show' on earth, with many boaters entering the affair who are not skilled enough to race.  This small example on race day demonstrates a larger problem as a whole for the sport of kayaking............boaters running things they are not ready to run.  The competition aspect of the RVA paddling scene perpetuates this problem, creating scenes like the infamous Dumb Ass on the Log.................my conclusion.  Kayaking was never meant to become popular.  Its cloistered existence among extreme sports is what gives it so much charm.  As the numbers increase, the magic that makes our sport what it is will begin to fade............I can only hope that my theory here is wrong.

   Due to this problem, our attendance at The Green Race in 2005 now holds a special place in my heart.  Marcelle and I hiked into the gorge early on the morning of the race, and spent the day exploring the rapids of the Monster Mile, watching boater after boater descend the rivah that I idolized at the time.  I never thought I would become good enough to descend that rivah, but in 2007 I would prove myself wrong. 

   2005 was still early enough to allow the charm, homegrown feel, and originality of The Green Race to shine, and I soaked up every minute of the day.  My favorite paddler, Tommy Hilleke, a six time Green Race champion, won his last race of his career on that day, and I sat with Marcelle next to Gorilla, watching him boof into history.  Everything about the day was captivating...............the people, the forest, the rapids, the boaters, the community, and the archaic existence it still held.  I was proud that I was able to experience it with Marcelle, and was able to see the tail end of "the good ole days."  She and I truly loved the experience, and there is no one else in the world that I would have wanted to experience it with.  We returned to the race in 2006 but witnessed a scene that had changed entirely.  The crowds were thicker, the boaters were less skilled, and the feel of the day was just not there.  I swore after that day that I would never attend a Green Race again, content to hold the memory of the 2005 race forever in my heart. 

“Time ripens all things; no man is born wise.”
                      ~Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra~   

   The space between our two lives contained endless adventures that were only shared by Marcelle and I, and would have never meant so much if they hadn't been experienced together. We once hiked 27 miles of the Black Mountain Crest Trail and the nightmarish side trail in 24 hours, which included camping in consistent 60 mile per hour winds throughout the night, a 3.5 mile climb that changed in elevation by a little under 4000 feet, massive blow downs that we had to climb over and crawl through, and every conceivable weather pattern possible within a 24 hour period. I still remember to this day I have never felt weakness in my legs like I did on the final mile of that hike. T, the dog, literally attempted to give up on us at times. He simply sat under a tree in the pouring rain refusing to move..........and he was one tough dog. We traversed from the bottom of The Big East Fork to the top of Shining Rock in record time, climbing about 3500 feet in 3 miles. However, we did end up lost in the woods at one point, so we had to hike further than anticipated. That climb was one of the toughest hikes I have ever made, but the experience of reaching the top with Marcelle was triumphant. I paddled the Upper Green with Marcelle, watching her style Bayless Boof in a 10.5 foot Occee Canoe, and then carried the damn thing half a mile up the mountain after the run. I was determined to see her drop that rapid, and the pride I had at the time was unmatched. My girlfriend was a bad ass, but was also the sweetest, most caring woman I had or have ever met. Again, whether looking at it back then or today, there is no one I would have rather experienced any of these successes with, and I hold no regrets. It was on top of those ridge lines, deep in the gorges, and under those stars that I found my soul mate, and it was there that I discovered the love of my life.
   What happened to Marcelle and I in the end is in no way short of a tragedy, a tragedy that I induced. We created moments of perfection during our time together, and it is those moments I will always hold close to my heart. The perfection of those moments did not exist anymore so then when we found each other in the space between our two lives. As I write this story I continue to learn more and more about myself, and continue to understand why it is that this had to happen. The next few posts are going to be turning a corner, and there is some true heartbreak just around that corner. It saddens me to come to the end of this post, because the stories I have written lately contain some of the happiest times of my life...............not because we were young, wild, and free, and not because we were tearing through the backwoods of the WNC outdoor scene, but because we did it all with one another by our side, and we did it all together.

“You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”
                                        ~Dr. Seuss~

   Damn, that one is hard to swallow. See ya on the rivah..............hopefully finding the reality of your dreams.         PEACE


To continue the adventure, click here..................The Defining Year  

Round 5: The Story (The Epic Worthlessness that is Man)

"I have to remind myself that some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright. And when they fly away, the part of you that knows it was a sin to lock them up does rejoice. But still, the place you live in is that much more grey."
                                               ~Morgan Freeman, Shawshank Redemption~



   Life #2............The Epic Worthlessness that is Man. When I was younger, my philosophy on growing up was "if I wait long enough, immaturity will eventually become the spirit of youth." That's where the Epic Worthlessness that is Man fits best..........in the never growing up category. And as an adult, there are certain lifestyles one can partake in that fit well in allowing a man to never grow up. It allows a man to hold onto the spirit of adventure that only burns bright when we are young...........kayaking is one of those lifestyles.
   Marcelle and I had an occupational situation which allowed for half my time in Western North Carolina to be spent alone, giving me the opportunity to do what I do best when I am companion-less and free....................wander. And as I have stated before, I had one of the best backyards imaginable to wander through for years. My solo adventures that concluded this year with a stint on The Island, followed by some rather foolish endeavors in West By God, began many years ago in the form of endless roaming through the WNC forests, solo paddles on the Class III classics (I sucked at kayaking back then), and a never ending thirst to experience the mountains of the great Balsam Range and Hot Springs and its surrounding peaks. I also spent plenty of time wandering the hidden Unicoi Range lining the Nolichucky Rivah, which is very remote for that area. I hiked the Toxaway Rivah at low water (Class V+ hike), became extremely lost in the Jocassee for two days, and scouted hidden cricks that I longed to one day run (Tanasee in Pisgah fellas. Check it out. It looked sick when I hiked it and it is still almost never run. Daniel undersells it in the following link............Tanasee Creek AW Link)  I snow hiked the highest peaks of the Balsams area, above Graveyard Fields, searching for the deepest forest trails I could find, crunching through waste deep drifts past Shining Rock and Cold Mountain. I explored hidden waterfalls, discovered epic panoramic views of the Pink Beds, Balsams and Green Rivah Gorge from outcroppings I bush pushed my way to and hiked the dark evergreen forests of Dupont, long before The Hunger Games ever came to town. These were the escapades my heart told me to pursue, and the solo aspect of the journeys are what defined my character. These were all unique adventures that I now cherish and consider myself lucky to have had the opportunity to experience ...................so why do I call myself "The Epic Worthlessness that is Man"? It is simple. Nothing I just listed means jack shit in modern day society. In fact, it is all nothing more than a complete waste of time in the eyes of the modern day man (which would be a woman).


“Man is the cruelest animal.”                       
                                  ~Nietzsche~

   The nomadic character traits that I cherished about myself were constantly fueled by the mountains and explorations of WNC. The environment was ideal for those character traits. The town of Hot Springs was my home away from home, and The Shack was the place I frequently found myself while in the hills surrounding the French Broad. The Shack was an exquisite illustration of everything a guide cabin should be. It was a three bedroom, one story house across the street and down the mountain from the USA Raft outpost. There were always six guides there, all living in co-ed bliss. It was hidden well, deep in the forest where custys never knew of its existence............which was a VERY good thing. The shack was a pile of shit, and the activities that we all partook in while there would not have been suitable for the eyes of the general public.........ironically those times usually involved Moonshine, guns, or that magical little weed we have heard so much about recently in the news. There were holes in the floor, leaks in the roof, and constant erosion problems from the fact it was built on the side of a mountain. Despite all these character flaws, it had just that..................character. Leave it to a handfull of guides and kayakers to take that rotting piece of rubble and turn it into a cozy mountainside cabin ideal for extensive safety talks, continuous consumption of Tennessee Moonshine, and a general sense of rivah guide apathy. It contained a wood stove, a warm den with lots of couch space, and a true sense of community...........it was even decorated with pretty pink curtains. There was a screen porch on the back next to a babbling mountain stream. For many summers, a fellow guide named Jed (not Tennessee Jed) lived on that porch, content to fall asleep to the sounds of pattering rain on the tin roof, winds whipping through the forest, and a gurgling stream just outside. I loved The Shack. It was a quiet escape from the outside world, and for rivah guides, it would always be a friendly home.


"This kayaker species certainly has its idiosyncrasies, but what becomes evident very quickly is that they are also some of the most passionate people alive. They have reverent relationships with the natural places on our planet, and that passion for life and nature is only magnified in their relationships with people around them. In a world focused on material success and social standing, these free-spirited beings live life fully in the present moment."

~Ashley Woodring~

   It was in The Shack on a rainy spring evening following a long, wet day of training, that I quietly witnessed the perfection of a "paddling community" and the whitewater lifestyle that bonds us all. On this day, the core guide group returned to The Shack seeking warmth, dryness, and comfort, as well as the afternoon safety session needed to re-cap the days events on a high water French Broad. Our head instructor was a local legend named Glenn.  Glenn fit the profile of a rugged old guide who had spent many summers pushin' rubber through the rivahs of WNC and beyond. He had a short, grey ponytail, leathery tan skin that was weathered from his sixty years of life, and a never ending smile and chipper attitude that made anyone around him elated. Glenn was also a genius rivah instructor and had a remarkable way of looking at swift water problems with a unique perspective that no one else could envision. I learned more from Glenn in one week of training than I have my entire career running whitewater..............most importantly, I have never met anyone in the last decade that loved what they did more than Glenn. He truly represented everything that whitewater should be.
   We stoked the fire as the rain poured down outside The Shack, and the light faded into night, laughing at the never ending rivah stories that spilled from the mouths of veteran guides, and enjoying our hidden little existence deep in the hills of Madison County. After the safety meeting had finished, activities started to flourish in The Shack. Myself and a fellow guide had undertaken a fierce game of chess that we had been planning throughout the day. (and by planning I mean talking shit) The girls of the house had offered to make dinner for everyone and were in the kitchen working diligently. Another guide sat on the couch with his girlfriend, strumming his banjo while softly singing bluegrass. Two more guides were glued to the TV, transfixed on the classic paddle porn "Southern Fried Creekin" as it played silently on the 20 year old television with an original Nintendo resting on top (and you better believe there were some epic battles of Mike Tyson's Punch-Out.)  Another guide lay in the hammock that had been strung across the room, comfortably reading a guidebook about classic WNC whitewater. You could not have asked for a more cozy, friendly, or comforting setting.
   My attention broke away from the intense game of chess that was at hand so that I could refill the beers for myself and the rest of the room. I went to the kitchen fridge, stocked up, and when I returned, Glenn stopped me in the doorway. He gazed out into the room, observing the peaceful sight. Then he looked at me and said, "Do you see this. Remember this moment Justin. This is why we paddle. This is why we love this life..........because of moments like these. In all my years of paddling I have learned to always cherish the simple moments like this one." I stood there for a moment, thinking about what he just said. It was a small, insignificant moment in time, but for some reason I will always remember it. Glenn was right. That moment was as close to perfection as a paddler could get ...............exhausted from a day of big water, warm and cozy deep in the mountains, surrounded by friends and fellow paddlers, quietly listening to the rain and bluegrass, hopeful that the cricks would rise. It was perfect.


"The song of the river ends not at her banks, but in the hearts of those who have loved her."
                                                              ~Buffalo Joe~

   Why do I tell this story now?............................the answer is simple. The scene on that rainy evening was so authentic, and so profound. It didn't require money to create................everyone in the room was a rivah guide so we were all dirt poor or completely broke. It didn't require the luxuries of modern man..............we were deep in the mountains protected by a leaky shack drinking PBR and cooking cheap spaghetti while being warmed by a wood stove. It didn't even require us to be boating..........although Big Laurel and Brush Crick were on the rise just down the road. It only required a love for a lifestyle that for some reason is so hard to hold onto as we grow older and move on to a more complicated life. There is one thing about that scene that always resonates in my mind.....................happiness. Everyone in that room was happy, if even for just that one night.
   There are a lot of young paddlers throughout RVA who are definitely not a fan of myself or The Island Chronicles..........gee, I wonder why? Sometimes I find myself writing this story more for them than for anyone else.........which is rather ironic. Scenes like the one I just described seem to be easily overlooked these days, because the world moves so damn fast now. They are also scenes that are becoming more and more rare to stumble upon, because they just don't happen as much.  There are many lessons for the younger crowd of RVA to take from The Island Chronicles. One day you guys will have ownership over your own decade of whitewater history and experience, maybe more, and the pressures of 'real' life will be bearing down on you. The Island Chronicles are here to teach you what is ahead. If there is one thing about our lifestyle that is an unfortunate truth, it is that it does not mix well with modern society. We chase the rain and weather, camp out on the sides of roads, and literally simplify our existence down to transportation, food and water, skill, gear, and a boat. As the world becomes more complicated, our sport remains simple, producing generation after generation of dirt bag nomads. One day you will fall in love, get married, and have children. These are wonderful things, but they are things that require you to sacrifice something in your heart that you cherish...................the pure and simple life of a paddler. I learned that lesson far too late, and just couldn't let go in time. Because of that I lost it all.

“If a man cannot understand the beauty of life, it is probably because life never understood the beauty in him.”
                                                    ~Criss Jami~


   The stories from WNC are endless, and I could tell them forever. There are many people that keep reading The Island Chronicles waiting for the train wreck story that is inevitably going to reveal itself. They don't seem to care about what is being written at the moment, despite the fact they continue to read it...............I cannot stress how pathetically sad that is. These stories are the reason we do what we do and love what we love. Listen to them, and take something positive from them. No one else seems to be capable of telling them, although I know my stories are nothing more than a representation of stories that every paddler holds close to their hearts. There are lessons embedded in every story I write, and they are lessons that every paddler will one day face. Yes, I can be blunt, brutal, and just plain mean.............but that is not who I truly am, and anyone who knows me well, knows that is a fact........even the haters. That is just the style in which I present this story...............blunt, cold, and to the point. But it also contains compassion, pain, love, understanding, adventure, sympathy, sadness, and the ability to admit when I am wrong. It is exactly what we all are....................human.


 “Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers.” 

                            ~Voltaire~

   I truly led a double life year after year while living in the hills outside Brevard.  The contrasting lives were in constant battle with one another, but that battle existed within myself. I consistently balanced the domestication and dandelions with the boofs and bong hits. The Flower Pickin' Gentleman was always there to comfort Marcelle, be a functional member of society, and lead a life of perfection...........but The Epic Worthlessness that is Man was there as well. He was quietly waiting for his chance to style Boxcar Falls, stomp out another lap on the Narrows, and boof into Tennessee the Hard Way (if you are a paddler reading this you better know which rapid I am referring to, otherwise you need to stop calling yourself a paddler). My experiences living in WNC are one of the reasons I struggled to connect with the RVA paddling scene. Things in RVA are different, and they always have been. The competition that surrounds the rivah does not exist within ourselves......it exists against one another, and it always has. I do not know why, and I am passed attempting to figure it out............but whatever it is that is missing, breaks my heart and takes away from our rivah..........it takes away from our home.
   Neither one of the lives I have related to you were a perfect fit for Marcelle and I, and because of that our relationship was a constant give and take............however, every once in a while we would find a small place between the two lives that we were able to hold onto, even if only for an afternoon. It was in that space that Marcelle and I were able to find true perfection, and were able to meet each other in the middle. It was in that space that we were truly in love................we just never found a way to remain there. We never found a way to forget about the outside world. I miss that space..........I always will.



“To say that one waits a lifetime for his soul mate to come around is a paradox. People eventually get sick of waiting, take a chance on someone, and by the art of commitment become soul mates, which takes a lifetime to perfect.”
                                                             ~Criss Jami, Venus in Arms~

See ya on the rivah...............hopefully discovering that space we never stop searching for.   PEACE



To see what it is like when that space between is found, click here........The Space Between  
 

Week 24 - The Perfect Rivah - Part II

****This is the continuation of Week 24 Part I.  It was written almost two months ago.  Sorry for the delay.  I blame the ADHD and lack of Adderall.  I advise that you read Part 1 first before continuing below, otherwise you will have missed out.  Week 24 - The Perfect Rivah - Part I****

“There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”
                                    ~Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear~

You would all be wise to fear that last one.

   ..........So to review, I have just dropped into Koontz Flume, one of the largest rapids on the Lower Gauley, and upon reaching the bottom I turned and witnessed my friend drop over a pour over upside down before disappearing next to an undercut rock............Yes, this day was not going well.  The worst part about the situation was that there was nothing I could do except sit and watch.  I heard whistles being blown from the photographers on shore and then watched as an empty boat was spit out of the maw and into the passing wave train at the bottom of the rapid, but the paddler didn't follow.  When it comes to the rivah, I tend to be a worrier, so needless to say I was a little worried.  Seconds passed by and nothing..................I kept watching the photographers on shore because their angle of view to the ensuing carnage was better than mine.  It is not a pleasant experience to have to read the faces of others in order to gain clarity as to how drastic the scene was that was being played out behind the undercut.  All I could read on their faces was that they looked worried, and whatever was happening looked like it hurt.  Fortunately, not a moment too late, I caught a glimpse of a blue helmet, then a hand, then a PFD, and then a paddle.  Two of my friends had derailed off course and been funneled over the drop, and now I counted two boats and two bodies, both of whom were conscious.  The paddler who had rolled as he fell over the drop had somehow rolled up out of the maw and eddied out behind the undercut.  The second paddler, who had pulled his skirt and swam, was recirculating in an eddy behind the undercut, hence the reason I was unable to see him.  They both flushed out from behind the rock, and were quickly swept downstream and into the pool I was watching from.


"Every strike brings me closer to the next home run.” 

                                                ~Babe Ruth~


   We recovered all the gear and the boat, and after a few minutes of struggle found ourselves re-grouping on shore.  The swimmer had taken a beating.  I had not turned in time to see it, but he had flipped well above the drop in the entry rapids, missed two rolls, and was swept over the drop upside down.  The pour over that he tumbled over has a sharp pointed rock in the middle of it just under the surface of the water, and unfortunately his head met that rock with considerable force. For all the non paddlers out there, imagine being upside down in an oxygen absent environment, trapped in a boat, while taking a major blow to the head, completely disoriented with no ability to know where you are............it really sucks! Once he gathered his senses, he reported that he took a hard knock to his head and asked me to inspect him for a concussion, as well as checking his skull for holes.  I went through the proper protocol, and found a large quarter sized welt behind his ear.  When I saw it, it became obvious that he had hit his head very hard.  I looked over the rest of his head, checked his pupils, and asked him a series of questions.  Despite the rather large goose egg he now possessed, he showed no signs of being concussed, but I knew we needed to closely monitor him for the remainder of the day.  However, as I have stated before, kayaking is a very psychologically tortuous sport.  My buddy was rattled, and we had A LOT of whitewater left to paddle.  I have learned that in these instances it is best to let the paddler be, and allow him or her to work out the issues inside their own head.  Having someone harass you about your psychological state of mind never helps make anything better, and usually results in further anxiety.  After about ten minutes of cigarettes, a safety meeting, a replay of the scene, and a bit of silence, he regathered himself and away we went.


“As long as there is life, there is a potential; and as long as there is a potential, there will be a success! You will sprout again when cut down! You will rise again even when you fall!”
                                                                         ~Israelmore Ayivor~

   The great thing about the situation was that we were on the Lower G, a rivah that can turn the tide for any rattled boater.  There are so many majestic pools, smaller Class II-III rapids, and endless pieces of shoreline scenery to help restore ones psyche.  I have had multiple non paddling readers make a request to me that I write a story about what it is like to be a kayaker, experiencing Class IV-V whitewater.  I was told that they enjoy the creative writing aspect of The Island Chronicles (as opposed to me bashing the shit out of someone), and wanted to see a piece written strictly about the journey down a whitewater rivah.  I have been reluctant to write the piece because it is a piece that means a lot to me, and I don't want to screw it up.  I figured if I ever did write that piece, it should be written about one of my favorite stretches of whitewater in the world..........the Lower G.  So let's begin with our journey down The Perfect Rivah, from Koontz on..............(now that you know I broke my camera, it should explain why I post lots of older pictures.  All of the pictures in the following piece were taken by myself during the 2012 Gauley season, mostly on the same day we were chased by the gun tottin' hillbillies..............ENJOY)   

****Let's make this little trip interactive.  The following is a link to an excellent scouting site about the entire Gauley Rivah.  Feel free to follow along on the journey as you read the story.  It is pretty easy to figure out.  Just pay attention to the rapid names.  Naming rapids is a great way to figure out logistics, and produces some very creative results......................... Link: A Trip Down the Gauley****   

   "The calm nature of the Lower G revealed itself after pulling out of the rescue eddy below Koontz.  We floated through the pool and stretched back out to prepare for the long paddle ahead.  As we rounded the next bend, the majestic nature of the rivah exposed itself in the form of Canyon Doors and Junkyard.  Canyon Doors is a long Class III rapid that looks intimidating from above, but possesses a clean line all the way through to the bottom.  I have never been sure which rapid is Canyon Doors and which is Junkyard, so they always exist in my mind as one.  What makes Canyon Doors so memorable is the towering rock wall on rivah right that rests directly over the rapid.  It climbs nearly 200 feet up the shoreline............

The cliffs of Canyon Doors and Junkyard watching over us.

  Rumor has it that you don't want to flip or roll in Canyon Doors (Junkyard) because the rivah bottom contains old dishwashers, dryers, and a few cars that have been pushed off the top of the cliff by the hillbilly locals of West By God. (might be the same boys who held a gun to our heads in "One Great West By God 'Yakin Story")  Snagging your face on an old, rusty dishwasher on the rivah bottom would not be a good way to end a day on the Gauley.  As we dropped into the entrance, the warm sun glowed off the rock face of the canyon, and the rhythm of the Lower G seeped back into our souls.  We slipped through, and spit out into the pool below the rapid.  
   The next few miles contain easy Class II-III rapids as the canyon breaks apart.  The scenery is magnificent, and the calm nature of the rivah allows you time to soak it all in.  We floated along, passing under the train bridge and the last sign of human impact until reaching the meadows more than six miles below the lower gorge.  For miles the rivah continues its slow push through the hills of West By God.  With every rapid, we slipped deeper and deeper into the lower gorge, giving up small Class II and III mazes of whitewater along the way.  Each rapid contains it's own unique character.  These rapids are great fun for intermediate and advanced boaters alike.  They give the chance to practice new moves, explore alternate lines, and enjoy the payoff to years of training that we all cherish as kayakers.  One of my favorite things about the sport of kayaking is it gets better as we become better boaters.  When you put in the time to really learn the skill, and develop a passion for what you love to do, as opposed to doing it simply for the glory, it pays off so much more in the end.  Loving kayaking and developing that passion is the greatest reward in sport.        


“The score never interested me, only the game.”
~Mae West~

   After a few miles of open valleys, easy rapids, and breathtaking scenery, the rivah makes a quick ninety degree turn to the left.  Boaters instinctively know what this means...........things are about to pick up, no matter what rivah you are on.  Thousands of years ago the Gauley formed, and when this happened it did what any trickle, rivulet, brook, crick, tributary, or rivah would do......................it found a way to the sea.  The entire state of West By God rests on a high plateau, so the rivahs all need to fall off the plateau to carve their course to the ocean.  The gorges we paddle are where these rivahs fall out of the highlands.  When rivahs make sharp turns in those gorges, it is because the mountains have blocked their flow and forced them through tight places that drop between the hills.  This ninety degree turn in the rivah marks one of those drops, and signals the approach of one of the toughest rapids on the lower...........The Mashes.
   The Mashes are split into two rapids, Upper Mash and Lower Mash.  They are stacked right on top of each other, but each one has its own unique character.  We rounded the corner and watched the mountain walls close in tightly around us.  The sun disappeared behind the ridge line and ahead of us a horizon line formed between house sized boulders strewn across the rivah landscape.  The horizon line and large boulders obstructed our ability to see the Class IV-V maze that lay ahead, however, the whitewater revealed itself to our senses through sound.  A low rumble began as we rounded the bend, and quickly grew into a faint roar.  The roar grew louder, and then the calm pool of water increased in speed.  We quickly passed between the first set of house sized rocks, and the whitewater began as a series of easy wave trains.  
   The approach to rapids and their entrance are usually the hardest part.  On 99% of all whitewater rapids, a clean line always exists.  The behavior of water dictates these clean lines, and choosing the correct path is the difference between style and defeat.  It is usually the entrance that decides that fate.  We entered Upper Mash, which is a complicated rapid to navigate if you do not know the route. A large rock the size of a three bedroom house exists on the far right, and the line can be traversed just left of the rock.  I dropped into the small wave trains at the top, and eventually the speed and force increased. As it did I was quickly swept into a series of Class III holes that required precise paddle strokes and braces.  At the bottom of the series of holes, a strong pour over exists that will sneak up on you quickly.  I have flipped here before, and trust me when I say, it is shallow.  Throwing a strong boof stroke over this hole will produce successful results, as well as set you up for the next series of sweeping tongues and off set holes.  I passed by the house sized rock and continued to weave and slip right to left through whitewater features.  Rounding the house sized rock is an awe inspiring experience in my opinion, similar to the experience of breaking out of Reedy Creek on to the James Rivah, or sitting on the 420 rock of  the Green.  As you pass the rock, the rivah opens up to a few hundred yards wide, with unique rock formations all around, including a complicated rivah scene, full of varying whitewater features passing by in all directions.  

Upper Mash and the top of Lower Mash...........and my one true love, Pink.

   There is little time to take in the sight however, because the rapid itself requires full attention.  Once you pass by the crux of Upper Mash, and continue through the run out, you must begin to search for the entrance to Lower Mash, which lurks just downstream.  The key for kayakers is to find the eddies on the far left side of the rivah just above the crux of the rapid.  Whitewater is similar to being trapped in a giant puzzle.  Once you commit, you have to link each piece of the puzzle together in order to find your way out.  The more experience you have, the more puzzle pieces you have to work with.  Working through Upper Mash is a great example of connecting the pieces.  

My buddy Mike entering Lower Mash while boaters in the background traverse the whitewater maze that is Upper Mash.

   Where Upper Mash is the technical piece of whitewater, Lower Mash is the brute substance of the flow.  It is simply a big, fat, funneling tongue raging down towering waves that end in a large, crashing hole..................this rapid is every raft guides wet dream.  Kayakers are given the option of staying right and plowing head first into the foamy hit, or skirting to the left and watching your buddies eat shit with a front row seat.  Be careful though, because undercuts exist at the very bottom of the rapid on the left side.  
    Running Lower Mash is pure bliss.  Peel out of the top eddy and tear into the funneling tongue, and then hold on and follow the wave train.  Dropping into a wave train rapid can take some getting used to, because although wave trains always produce big roller coaster style rides, you can't see a damn thing.  Wave trains block all view of what's ahead when you duck down to the bottom of the trough.  The trough slingshots you up and over the crest of each wave, and as you peak, aside from being really damn fun, it is also a great way to get a glimpse of what's ahead.  Dropping down the backside of each wave gives a brief moment to reset, before the ride starts again.  
   The roar of each rapid doesn't exist to me as a boater when I am engaged in navigating the whitewater.  As I picture the experience in my mind, I can only hear silence while I am running rapids.  Maybe it is the focus of other senses, or maybe it is something more, but the only time I ever hear anything in rapids, is when I am getting beat down in them.............otherwise, silence.
   

“It's as if when I open myself up to every perception, things create their own focus.”
                                                                ~Kristin Cashore~

   After passing through The Mashes you drop deep into the Lower Gauley and the most inaccessible area of the entire Upper or Lower Gorge.  After a brief period of flat water, the depths of the gorge form yet another hidden whitewater arena, this time in the form of Diagonal Ledges.  Diagonal Ledges is a series of small drops that form endless variations of runnable lines, as well as the best surf wave on the rivah.  This area of the Gauley is a play boaters dream, and the designated break spot for just about every boater headed downstream..  The Gauley is never too crowded, so having a crowd around at The Ledges represents to me what everything in the social realm of boating should be.  It is always diversified, always unique, and above all else everyone always has a smile on their face.  Diagonal Ledges always draws a good crowd.  (****Research the link and click on Diagonal Ledges to check out the details.****)
   I always exit Diagonal Ledges hydrated and with a full stomach, and it always allows me to find my second wind.  That second wind always comes at the right time, and The Gauley always delivers below The ledges.  A brief period of flat water brings you to yet another horizon line, and another big, long wave train full of monster holes.  This is Heaven Help You.  Great rapid, with a burly hole called "Juicer" half way down, and an ugly little undercut on the bottom left.  
   The rivah calms down at this point, allowing for a breath of fresh air and a reminder to how spectacular the scenery can be.  Soak it up, because you are now floating deep through the stix of nowhere West Virginia.  There is nothing but forest and whitewater for miles in every direction.  The only thing that matters is what you have on you, and surviving is broken down into its simplest form.  You have food, water, and safety gear to keep you alive and happy, a boat to get you where you need to go, and the skill to overcome the obstacles that lie in your path.  Existence does not get any simpler than that.  It also doesn't become anymore clear.  
   At the end of the flat water some serious fun begins.  What feels like half a mile of endless wave trains slowly commence, and one after another, the big, friendly waves of Upper and Lower Staircase hit you with pure euphoria.  Deep within the gorge, floating down rapid after rapid, it hits you.................whitewater kicks ass!  


“Life is a blank canvas, and you need to throw all the paint on it you can.”
                                                       ~Danny Kaye~

   The next few miles of the rivah reveal the inevitable.........the gorge walls are beginning to loosen their grip.  The rapids begin to mellow, but still feed your remaining hunger for whitewater.  After a slow mile or so, one final kink in the rivah exposes itself as the water bends sharply to the right.  The Gauley isn't about to let you off that easy, and one of the largest, most dangerous rapids on the lower section prowls below.................Pure Screaming Hell.  PSC is a long series of waves and holes down the far right bank of the rivah.  The entire series bends slowly back to the left, pushing the water hard into the right side.  Over time, this design has pushed a large jumble of car and house sized boulders into a pile at the bottom right of the rapid, and an ugly sieve exists in the middle of the chaos.  Dropping into Pure Screaming Hell is a great feeling, because the entire rapid is laid out in front of you.  It is easy to see where you are going, but it still holds BIG water fun.  The rule of thumb on this one is simple......stay in the middle of the flow and know that a huge hole lurks at the very bottom.  Enjoy the ride as you follow giant, sweeping tongues, soaring over wave after wave.  Large holes exist throughout the puzzle of whitewater, so keep on your toes and know what is coming, not what is already there.       
   The bottom of Pure Screaming Hell is the Gauley's own little farewell present, and it is wrapped in the form of Hell Hole.  Hell Hole is a carnage producing dream.  Let me give you one of many examples I have witnessed...........I once watched a sixteen foot raft instantly flip its occupants out (they didn't stand a chance), recirculate back into the hole, and then window shade over and over again for over three minutes, catching air with every flip.  Window shading a commercial raft is not something that is easily accomplished.  It takes a special hole.  The raft reminded me of a cheap KMart version as I watched it buckle and bend throughout the ride.  Hell Hole is a mean little bitch to unknowing rafts, but one hell of a ride if you can hold on.  Square up to it in your kayak, and be prepared for a hard hit.

Typical results when meeting Hell Hole.

   As you exit PSC, put yourself back together, lay back, and enjoy mother nature.  The next 2 miles of rivah transition into a calm, peaceful float trip through rolling mountainsides.  The Gauley is a long day, so many times this float will be accompanied by the warmth of the late afternoon sun. Break out the jars, sit back, and toast to one of the world's great rivah trips, because the scenery truly is special."
   

   
“From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those whence it had issued. We called it the "River of Silence"; for there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.”
                                                                         ~Edgar Allan Poe~

See ya on the Gauley................hopefully with clean lines, good weather, and a smile upon your face.  PEACE
           
    

  
   

   

Round 5: The Story (The Complexity of the Double Life)

“A lot of people get so hung up on what they can't have that they don't think for a second about whether they really want it.”
                                                              ~Lionel Shriver~

   

   

   This is the first time I ever posted a quote in The Island Chronicles that I disagree with...........and trust me, I completely disagree with the quote above.  I posted it because for the longest time I did agree with it.  I thought we were all cursed to only crave what we couldn't have, regardless of whether it is what we really wanted.  This theory may have applied to The Fourteenth Street Whore, but that was about the only thing in my life it applied to.  Funny thing is, she is also the only truly negative thing that I have ever had enter my life, and I never even wanted her............Now I only disagree with the quote above because there are some of us that crave both sides of the fence, and I do mean two very healthy sides to life.  Some of us believe we can truly have our cake and eat it too, and make all of it work together in an orderly fashion.  I believed in the ability to make it all work, and the double life I started to lead in WNC was encouraging my confidence in that theory.  For half the week I was a calm pillar of the community; well put together, sleeping normal hours, reading books instead of watching cable, helping children in the school system (shit, I am still amazed they even let me in the school system), cleaning the kitchen at night as opposed to the next morning, gardening, buying flowers, sitting on a grassy hillside in the afternoon sun, talking about our future and dreams, and I did all of it with rainbows and butterflies floating all around the both of us..........now, if you are a man reading this you are probably saying, "Damn it Justin!  Shut the fuck up about the God damn love fest and talk about kick ass rivahs and epic WNC adventures."  Meanwhile, a lot of the women reading this are saying, "Ahhhhhh.  That sounds beautiful and is exactly how I always pictured happiness.  Just like the movies."....well, perception is reality folks!


“I would rather trust a woman's instinct than a man's reason.”
                                                         ~Stanley Baldwin~

Personally I wouldn't trust either one.

  My reality was I couldn't only see both sides of the fence, but I could live both very well, and not only did I do it well, but they were both acceptable, promising lives.  Knowing that I was going to have three days every week to be the pathetically irresponsible, immature, whitewater obsessed slob of a man that I knew I could be when no one was there to keep me in check made me work that much harder to be the perfectly loving, responsible, well groomed, saint of a man I knew I could be when someone was watching over me...........closely.

  So here we are again at a crux in this post when men and women are going to read what was just written and interpret it completely different.  I will try and explain......................every man out there knows that what I just wrote describes most of us perfectly. (unless you are a gay man.  In that case you are very clean and well groomed and every woman out there loves you and wishes their boyfriend or husband were just like you......well, almost)  So to explain I will ask a simple question to all the men out there.........What happens every time your wife leaves town for the weekend?................C'mon, you all know the answer.........you do whatever the fuck you want!!!!!!!......and don't even try to deny it.  You may sit on the couch with your hand down your pants playing Modern Warfare for 7 straight hours.  You may hit up a sunrise bong hit, pass back out until noon, then eat an entire package of bacon for breakfast while having a beer to start the day (and the beer is totally justified because after all, it is the afternoon).  You may do this for an entire Saturday, knowing that if she were there you would be doing anything but sitting on the couch for seven hours playing video games with your hand down your pants, taking sunrise bong hits and eating packages of bacon for breakfast with your first afternoon beer.  But this is only one example of just how pathetically worthless we, as men, can be when left unattended.  Whitewater obsession is another perfect example.  I once turned six laps on The James around 10 feet in one Saturday when Marcelle was out of town for the weekend, went home that evening, ate (on the couch with my hand down my pants I might add....well, I take that back.  My hand went down my pants AFTER I finished eating...........I'm pretty sure I ate bacon), and then I fell asleep.  When I awoke at midnight, I headed back out for my seventh lap..........solo.  Who does that?........then again, who lives on an Island as a fully grown adult just so they can kayak everyday.  We are men, and like it or not ladies, we are very good at being worthless and justifying every second of it.  And ladies, you are very good at trying to call us out for it.  Dave Chappelle stated it best........................................(****the first two and a half minutes of this video apply to what is being discussed, but the entire ten minutes is probably some of the most bluntly stated TRUTH I have ever heard spoken about the differences between women and men.  Be warned, the content is R-Rated and may be offensive, but then again, this is still The Island Chronicles, so fuck it!  ENJOY****)

    Told you Dave stated it best............"If it wasn't for a woman a man wouldn't buy a house.  He would be happy living in a cardboard box."  Well, I was happy living on an island, so that is probably true.  Plus, as I have stated before, I make one hell of a good homeless man.


“There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.”
                                                                          ~Ernest Hemingway~ 


   Given everything you have just learned about my perceptions of modern day man and my ability to push the limits, imagine me being given anywhere from three to ten days at a time to "get out all the bro" from my soul, and imagine having WNC as my playground to do it.  That is exactly what I did............and I did it for three years!  When Marcelle left town, I did what I had to do to keep my life in check, but did what I wanted to do every other moment.  This worked out well......so well in fact I would work the other side of the fence with the same reckless passion for Marcelle when she got off trail.  I prepared baths with flower petals and candles waiting for her when she returned home from a rough three days on trail in the middle of winter.............I would have the house spotless as she walked through the door..........I would plan dinners and weekend trips that I hoped she enjoyed..............I even tried to write her Legend of the Falls style love letters (which I pathetically failed at I might add) ................and I would always be rested up from my weekend of worthlessness and/or twelve hour sleep from an endless two days of boating, allowing me to be ready to do whatever she was ready to do.  We would go apple pickin', attend art exhibits, watch drag shows (I will come back to that one fellas), go on picnics, and take endless walks on country roads.  We picked flowers, I helped her with art projects, helped her pack her bags for returning to trail (this was always a complicated process), and we would always go to the town coffee shop to just sit and talk before strolling through the local Farmers Markets.  I loved all of this, don't get me wrong...........but now think about how to cram both the kayaking adventures and epic worthlessness that is man into a time frame that fit with the responsible, perfect, flower pickin' gentleman I had been groomed to be.  It works fine, as long as the two worlds are separated.  Now combine them, with no breaks, no separation, and just for kicks go ahead and throw in two kids......................See where I am going with all this?  Stay tuned, because this story contains lessons for us all.


“Men marry women with the hope they will never change. Women marry men with the hope they will change. Invariably they are both disappointed.”
                                                                                 ~Albert Einstein~

 

See ya on the rivah.......................hopefully your wife gave you permission.   PEACE


To find out just how different those two lives are, click here.............The Flower Pickin' Gentleman   

Week 13 - Part II - "The Great Brown's Island Goose Herd of 2013"

"Now that we're essentially an indoor species, walled off from the world of other life forms, we're divorced from the very domain that supports and sustains our lives." 

~Charles Cook~

  The second half of Week 13 can be defined in three words: STUPID CANADA GEESE.  You see, I have a very deep and intimate relationship with the Canada Geese of the James.  Throughout the first 10 years of my kayaking and rafting career I learned to despise the geese of the James.  Kayakers on the James have a long love hate relationship with Canada Geese.  You have to understand, these damn birds are not migrating through our little river anymore.  The showed up in the 90's when the river started becoming cleaner, and just never left.  They cannot be fully blamed for this.  We have created the perfect environment here in RVA for them.  The grasslands of the James provide them ample food next to a perfect water source (they love rapids and can clean a line as well as any kayaker.  Seriously, the geese run the rapids all the time), and the urban environment protects them from most natural predators.  Additionally, society's obsession with golf courses doesn't help either.  It confuses the geese into thinking they reached Canada. The area they used to migrate to in Northeastern Canada contains large grasslands and few trees next to small ponds.........just like a golf course.  (I love to golf, but golf courses are terrible for the environment, which is why I created the game of Island Golf.  It's probably the coolest way to ever play golf, kayaking is involved while playing, I have a nine hole course in my front yard, and yes, my country club is free to all.  The only membership requirement is that you can handle the Middle Lines in a kayak.....which means we have no Team WAV members.  They don't meet the membership requirements.  But Island Golf will have its own post to be introduced to the world.  This post is about the geese.)  Now, where was I?.......So the geese live full time here on the James.  They have been doing this for over twenty years, and every year their numbers grow.  Unfortunately, they are no longer just a part of the James.  They are a problem.  Below is an excerpt from Wikipedia about Canada Geese:

Canada Geese on Spokane River, Washington.

A flock flying in V formation.

   This species is native to North America. It breeds in Canada and the northern United States in a variety of habitats. Its nest is usually located in an elevated area near water such as streams, lakes, ponds and sometimes on a beaver lodge. Its eggs are laid in a shallow depression lined with plant material and down. The Great Lakes region maintains a very large population of Canada Geese.

By the early 20th century, over-hunting and loss of habitat in the late 19th century and early 20th century had resulted in a serious decline in the numbers of this bird in its native range. The Giant Canada Goose subspecies was believed to be extinct in the 1950s until, in 1962, a small flock was discovered wintering in Rochester, Minnesota, by Harold Hanson of the Illinois Natural History Survey.[11] In 1964, the Northern Prairie Wildlife Research Center was built near Jamestown. Its first director, Harvey K. Nelson, talked Forrest Lee into leaving Minnesota. Forrest Lee would head the center’s Canada Goose production and restoration program. Forrest soon had 64 pens with 64 breeding pairs of screened, high-quality birds. The project involved private, state and federal resources and relied on the expertise and cooperation of many individuals. By the end of 1981, more than 6,000 giant Canada Geese had been released at 83 sites in 26 counties in North Dakota. [12] With improved game laws and habitat recreation and preservation programs, their populations have recovered in most of their range, although some local populations, especially of the subspecies occidentals, may still be declining.

In recent years, Canada Goose populations in some areas have grown substantially, so much so that many consider them pests for their droppings, bacteria in their droppings, noise, and confrontational behavior. This problem is partially due to the removal of natural predators and an abundance of safe, man-made bodies of water near food sources, such as those found on golf courses, in public parks and beaches, and in planned communities. Due in part to the interbreeding of various migratory subspecies with the introduced non-migratory Giant subspecies, Canada Geese are frequently a year-around feature of such urban environments.

Contrary to its normal migration routine, large flocks of Canada Geese have established permanent residence in Esquimalt, British Columbia, on Chesapeake Bay, in Virginia's James River regions, and in the Triangle area of North Carolina (Raleigh, Durham, Chapel Hill), and nearby Hillsborough. Some Canada Geese have taken up permanent residence as far south as Florida, in places such as retention ponds in apartment complexes. Large resident populations of Canada Geese are also present in much of the San Francisco Bay Area in Northern California.
   
   I find it fascinating that our river environment was used in the Wikipedia definition as an example of the over population of the Canada Goose.  I truly believe that I could not be a better expert on the daily problem of Canada Geese in the James.  They have a severe impact on both my personal and professional life.
   When I moved to The Island, I certainly was not alone.  I recorded 36 Canada Goose nests when I first arrived.  The following is an exert from my journal from the first few weeks on The Island:

April 13, 2013 ~ Journal Entry ~ Day 12

   "I woke up this morning to the extra loud racket of goose battles.  When I looked out of my tent window I observed two large male geese entangled in a heated battle for territorial rights directly in the middle of my camp.  They had their necks wrapped around one another, and were attempting to swat one another with their wings.  (if you have never observed a goose battle, they are extremely violent) I found it ironic that they were both battling for territory right in the middle of my territory.  This could not continue, because on this island, I am king.........and the geese know it.  I gave one loud yell and they both scampered off, still fighting each other as they went.  
   Don't get me wrong.......I love the geese, as long as they are kept in check.  When I first arrived on the island, I had an extremely bad impression of them due to my previous encounters with them while kayaking.  My original plan was to rid the island of the geese and all of their eggs, especially after a conversation I had with the legend......Ralph White.  The James has provided the perfect habitat for the geese to overpopulate" (already explained above).....................
   "Once I settled into the island, I realized the geese were able to adjust to my presence well, and we quickly co-habited.  Although they are obnoxiously loud, poop everywhere, are territorial as hell, and have severe attitude problems, they are actually harmless. (their bite does not hurt.  It tickles)  They have grown a lot on me since being out here.  They give me plenty of company, provide lots of entertainment, and are funny as hell at times.
   However, the attribute I respect the most about the geese are their attention to family.  Each one has an unbreakable commitment to raise and protect their young at all costs.  Yesterday I saw a mother goose and a father goose lead five little goslings over the rocks and into the river.  The father goose led the way, with the five little ones following right behind in a perfect line like a little kindergarten class.  The mother goose brought up the rear, helping the ones that lagged behind.  They were a family, and it showed that they stuck together, through thick and thin.
   I have begun to name the mother geese, mostly after ex-girlfriends.  When I first came to the island I tried to move a nest for camp.  The mother goose was having none of it, and she is still the only goose on the island to back me down.  Out of respect, I named her Marcelle.  Marcelle is an amazing mother and would do anything to protect our boys (including manipulating herself into believing they shouldn't be allowed to see their father) and she always could back me down in a fight."

   As the weeks and months passed by on The Island, the geese continued to fascinate me.  I watched a gosling hatch straight out of its egg one afternoon, (it was a moving experience, especially with the turmoil and fight for my own boys) and witnessed two geese fight off a red tailed hawk trying to pick off their goslings.  I also unfortunately witnessed a hawk snatch up a gosling and eat it alive one day just above my camp in a tree.  It was disturbing and brutal, especially hearing the screams of the gosling as it died, but it is also a part of nature, and needs to happen more to control the growth of the species.
   Skip forward to late June.  My job at Venture Richmond requires me to assist in the care and maintenance of Brown's Island.  The Island is covered in Bermuda Grass, which grows laterally and makes brown's Island look like a golf course most of the summer.  Due to the high water we have witnessed throughout the summer, the geese retreated to Brown's Island to feed of the Bermuda grass and take shelter in the canal.  This is a huge problem for us and for the island.  Their poop covers the canal dock and the sidewalks and we power wash on almost a daily basis.

As you can see, we are not talking about a little bit of poop here.  At the end of June, the geese begin their molting season.  This is when they loose their feathers and grow new ones.  During this time, they are unable to fly, which encourages them even more to seek shelter in the canal and on the island.  D.J. has dealt with the problem every year for a long time, and he is very good at being patient with them, but due to the abnormal weather and water levels this summer, the problem was exasperated.  So we decided that a goose heard was in order, and it would be "The Great Brown's Island Goose Heard of 2013".........long story short, the geese kicked our asses.  We began by taking two john boats and pushing the flock up the upper canal and onto Browns Island.  Then we slowly walked 70 to 100 geese across Browns Island and into the James.  From there I attempted to use my kayak to force them all into Pipeline Rapid and down river, away from Brown's Island.  We then built goose fences around Brown's Island to keep them out.  By the end of the day, the island was goose free.......................by 11pm that evening, every one of those little fuckers found their way back onto the island and were sitting there staring at me, as if to say "Fuck You!  We are way smarter than you think."...................so in the end, the geese won and we apparently suck at our job.  However, the experience taught me a few very important lessons.

1.  Don't fuck with nature, because in the end nature always wins.

2.  Geese have brains the size of a pea, which makes us complete morons, because they beat us.

3.  I no longer love the geese.  I hate them once again.

4.  I have one of the coolest and most unique jobs in all of RVA.

5.  The entire experience was funny as shit!

In the end I feel the experience was yet another unique lesson taught to me throughout my experiences of The Island Life, and I am grateful to D.J., Venture, and all those who support what I am doing, plus, as you can see below, I made some new friends.  

"If a group of beings from another planet were to land on Earth - beings who considered themselves as superior to you as you feel yourself to be to other animals - would you concede them the rights over you that you assume over other animals."

                                                                                             ~George Bernard Shaw~ 

Now there is a quote that will make you think......fo' sho'!  See ya on the rivah......be nice to the geese........and the homeless.  :)    PEACE