I have now gone white-water rafting with friends several times. This is the report of how it happened during the fourth year (2000) as written by Tony Gabor, one of the brave adventurers on the trip.
You were probably all blissfully imagining that maybe this one year might go by without getting one of my loquacious spams about the annual rafting trip that Wendi and I make with our friends from the South Bay.
Ha!
As you have no doubt surmised from the title and the introductory paragraph, we recently returned from what is now our Fourth (count 'em) Annual Whitewater Rafting Excursion, this time on the Merced River. We all made it back, wetter and wilder (as opposed to sadder-but-wiser, perhaps?).
As always, the trip was organized by our fellow Sagehen Vadim --three Chirps!-- who sent out an e-vite to dozens of his friends and eventually got a group of 15 to sign up. Like the last three times, we placed our lives in the trusty hands of All-Outdoors, who must surely, by now, appreciate the repeat business they have been getting from our group! Before setting the venue, Vadim had us take an electronic vote on whether we preferred the Merced River or the North Fork of the American. The Merced won by a narrow margin. I voted for it because I remember the area from my drives to Yosemite oh-so-many eons ago, and I couldn't pass up spending time in so scenic part of the Sierras.
Unlike last year on the Stanislaus, there were no last minute mishaps this time around. The river turned out to be at a normal flow for this time of year, and, unlike our Tuolumne excursion two years ago, the weather was gently cooperative. As usual, Wendi and I took off a half-day from work and drove up to the mountains on Friday afternoon, whereas the rest of the sleepless souls opted to do the three-and-a-half-hour drive early on Saturday morning.
We stayed in the quaint Gold Rush town of Mariposa, at a B&B called the Mariposa Hotel-Inn, which we heartily recommend to any travelers in that area. Our room was decorated with crafts by the native Miwok tribe, and next to us was a veranda which had dozens of hummingbirds battling over the four feeders hanging from the top. At dusk, we could see bats making their way out of the Spanish tiles of the roof, squeezing their way out one by one and portentously flip-flapping into the sunset. Kewl!
On Saturday morning, we gulped down a mediocre breakfast at a place across the street, checked out, and headed toward our appointed meeting place at the Midpines Country Store. We were delighted to see Vadim, Jeremy, and Amy, but Jeremy had some bad news: he was feeling quite unwell, so he decided that instead of going on the river, he would instead take it easy and join us for the overnight camping. Amy went with us on the first day, before returning home with Jeremy after the campsite breakfast 24 hours later. So, some of our "old group" was still intact, but otherwise we saw lots of new faces --various friends and colleagues of Vadim. We did remember Ed from the surprise party for Vadim's 30th birthday last November (he was the one who said, "Welcome to your house!" to the stunned 30-year-old).
So, the literally thrice-familiar procedure began: meet the guides, sign away our Constitutional rights on All-Outdoors boiler-plate forms, rent our wetsuits (and life jackets, and helmets, etc.), and hop on a bus to take us to the put-in point. The 40-minute drive up Route 140, on the way to Yosemite, took us through what has long been some of my favorite mountain scenery. After we got off the bus, our guides led us through the orientation, and we were then divided into groups to fill three rafts. On our raft, we made the acquaintance of Murphy, Chris, and Tim. Our guide was named Gina, and she wasted not one nanosecond before whipping us landlubbers into shape as soon as we launched our raft into the raging river.
At first, about all I remembered from my last three trips was how to hold my paddle, but Gina's quick-paced commands got us all alert in no time. Our first big rapid, Cranberry Hole, was no Thanksgiving treat. It was an angry Class IV torrent of high waves that set our raft spinning and flying almost out of control. How our boat made it across the river's "welcome mat" without flipping, and without any of us falling into the drink, is beyond me. After reaching a relatively calm eddy, Gina laid down the law. "If you guys don't start paddling more aggressively, and in sync, we are DOOOOOMED!!!!" She gave us pointers on "aggressive paddling," and it became clear that Tim and I had to paddle extra hard up front in order to set the pace for the boat. (As long as I watched Tim carefully and followed what he was doing, we were pretty much O.K.).
Our next rapid was Can Opener, which was only a Class III, but it felt more like a IV. Each river has its own unique challenges. The Tuolumne had its steep drops, the Stanislaus had its boulder slalom courses, and as we soon found out, the Merced has humungous waves! After the initial shock, the first Class IV rapid that I remember as genuinely fun was Percolator, in which the waves were large enough to produce a rolling, amusement-park sensation, but not high enough to be truly menacing.
After another Class III, we were starting to paddle more efficiently, and we were getting used to Gina's rapid-fire commands. Then, the real challenge started with the very aptly named Balls to the Wall (or, alternately, Boobs to the Tube). Beside the humungous waves, this rapid had a current that smashed our boat against a rocky wall. It was one hell of a jolt, but with Gina shouting a strategy for quick recovery, our boat managed to make it through the "Wall" intact and with all passengers still securely on board. It amazes me how much stress these inflatable rafts are built to take.
Gina complimented us on having made it thus far without any casualties, but then she told us that this was all a mere prelude to what was imminently on the horizon...the deceptively innocuous-sounding "Ned's." She told us in advance about its rocky entrance and its three extra-large waves, the third one being the biggest we were to encounter on the river. She drilled us on strategy and contingency plans and gave us a rousing pep talk. At this point, I admit, I was hoping that the Merced would live up to its Spanish name and show some mercy to this petrified accountant...
Gina wasn't kidding about those waves either. Each one slammed right into our faces as it tossed up our boat (Tim and I bore the brunt of it at the front of the raft). We paddled furiously and leaned into the boat in order to avoid getting thrown out by the seemingly not-so-merciful waves of the Merced. They came in quick succession, and after the grand finale of the third wave, I spent about a minute coughing the water out of my lungs before realizing that we had all made it. A huge sigh of relief.
After an anticlimactic Class III called "Son of Ned's", we disembarked on a sandy bank for lunch. (A propos "Son of Ned's," I remembered the Tuolumne's "Son of Clavey" after Clavey Falls, and I have concluded that the experience of parenthood can make rapids really ornery).
During lunch, Wendi and I got introduce ourselves to some of the folks on the other rafts, and to catch up with Vadim & Co.
After lunch, we still had a long haul ahead of us. We passed through some more gnarly waves, including Split Rock and Corner Pocket, but nothing like Ned's. We were really getting the hang of it by the late afternoon, when we disembarked again, this time to set up camp in a perfect site that had plenty of sand to fit all the tents. Jeremy was waiting for us, having spent the day at the Gold Museum in Mariposa before driving his car to the closest access to our campsite and then being ferried across the river by one of the AO guides. (Did I get that part right?)
Wendi and I have always enjoyed the overnight camping in these trips, at least as much as the water itself. We got to talk to the guides from the other rafts; one of them, Noah, is a Gen-X extreme sports addict who is a snowboard instructor at Sugar Bowl during the winter, had torn two ACLs in separate skateboarding accidents, and once got a permanent scar on his forehead and his paddle broken in half while going down a rapid in a kayak. He seemed very existentialist. Gina, as it turns out, is an X-Ray technician when she's not rafting.
After setting up our tents, mellowing out a little, and getting to know the people in our group, we were treated to another one of the many joys of the All-Outdoors experience: the dinner prepared by our guides! Some exotic corn (supposedly imported from Asia; I'll believe it, since it both looked and tasted completely different from any other I had seen/eaten before); mashed potatos to die for; gourmet chicken; and chocolate cake for dessert! Not too shabby, eh? (Yes, the scale has confirmed upon my return home that between the exercise and the food, I had a net weight change of zero during this weekend!).
The stars came out, the campfire was lit, I could hear some Great Horned Owls hooting in the woods, and we all started feeling ready for some shuteye. But the guides had yet another treat in store for us (well, at least a couple of us), before the day was done. After the campfire fizzled out, they decided to use the hot rocks for a Native American-style "sweat lodge." Being rather culturally uninformed, I had no idea what this was, but heck, I was eager to try something new. Wendi and the others were already getting sleepy, but Ed and I followed the guides under a tarp which we pulled tightly around us. We sat down next to the campfired rocks, and Gina started pouring buckets of river water on the rocks, to make steam permeate the tarp. The first five minutes were rather painful, I must say; I don't think I had ever felt such intense heat before, not even when I lived in the San Fernando Valley. It was difficult to breathe at first, but I kept my head down to avoid inhaling the hottest steam. After ten minutes that felt like two hours, the guides pulled up the tarp, and we all jumped into the river. I hadn't thought that anything would make me WANT to get into that ice-cold water, least of all at night, but by golly, that contrast of heat and cold gave us all a feeling of exhilaration that we are not soon likely to forget. We repeated the process a second time; this time the sweat lodge felt a lot more natural to me. After the second jump in the river, I felt a little bit lightheaded from it all, but I also felt a serenity that is quite difficult to describe in words. And to think that the process of creating this sensation is perfectly legal! (I used to think that saunas were the invention of Finns who had to think of something to do after listening to a Sibelius symphony).
I had one of the soundest sleeps of my life that night. Wendi got up a lot earlier than I did; I wasn't even aware that it was morning until Wendi and most everyone else were already up and about.
On Sunday morning, the guides prepared a breakfast to compare with the quality of the previous night's dinner. The plan for the Day Two was to ferry to the other side of the river, hop on a bus, and be driven to a new put-in point, three miles above where we had started on the day before. In other words, we would get to do a few new Class IVs and then do some of the Day One rapids a second time. A strange way of arranging things, but it was O.K. by me. I welcomed the chance to get a second shot at some of those runs.
Jeremy and Amy went home on Sunday morning, and they were joined by four others who decided that one day's rafting had fulfilled their Merced River quota for the year. But we were all still together for a hike that we did at the new put-in point. We all climbed up a steep hill, dodging a forest of poison oak surrounding the overgrown path, until we reached a pond at the top. Some of us dove in, only to find out how very cold the water was. But at least this cold morning shower got us prepared for the new day of rafting.
Back at the put-in point, we said goodbye to six people from our group, and subsequently the number of rafts was consolidated from three to two. Day Two was pure fun from beginning to end. By then we had gotten used to the Merced's big waves, and our collective paddling was more confident and synchronized. The three miles of new territory seemed to go rather quickly, and then it was deja vu all over again when we reached Cranberry Hole. This time, our boat sailed right through without spinning. The only real jolt we experienced was in Balls to the Wall, where on the second day Tim and I were hit smack in the face by one of the waves. When we reached calm waters and caught our breaths, Murphy remarked that from her position our encounter with the wave looked like Moses' failed practice-run in parting the sea.
Ned's was a blast the second time around, and after the last big wave, Gina had us high-five with our paddles. Not long after, we saw three guys from the other raft (including Vadim) swimming. They were having a great time, but later we heard unconfirmed rumors that this swimming excursion, for some, may have started with an unplanned ejection from their raft! Vadim eventually jumped into our boat, for variety's sake, and soon enough we reached the take-out point, not far from where we had lunched the day before.
After loading our various gear onto the bus for the final time, we all rode back to Midpines, where we packed our stuff back into our respective cars and drove home.
While in some ways our Tuolumne trip in 1998 will remain the most unforgettable of the four the Wendi and I have taken so far, I think the Merced was the most enjoyable. But, we still have some years to go before we run out of California rivers...
And on this note, I thank you all again for having made it through yet another one of my narratives. Take care, folks!