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June 28, 9:12 A.M.—It rained earlier, and I decided to sleep late. I look out of the tent and see a low, overcast sky. I camp about six kilometers from the confluence with the Keele River. In those six kilometers, the Tsichu River drops over sixty meters, most of that in the last two kilometers.
6:07 P.M.—I stand less than two and a half kilometers from the confluence with the Keele River. Over-optimistic perhaps—I learned later. I have walked a good bit of riverbank above the confluence. Every glimpse of river shows heavy whitewater. I can run the next section of rapid; heavy and long, I don’t see it as too dangerous. I will need to eddy out on the north bank before I come to the section next to the cliff. The water near the cliff on the south side stacks upon itself wildly, and I call it as on the edge of runnability. If I attempt it, I would want to begin with a canoe completely dry on the inside. The eddy where I need to stop offers the only calm haven of enough size to make the exit, and it is so tiny that if I plan to catch it, I need to prepare myself as well to miss it.
I would have waited until tomorrow to run these rapids, but I have a clear sky and warm air with only a moderate wind. I won’t find better conditions. I spent most of the afternoon below the big Class IV rapid I portaged in the middle of the day. I cooked bread in the gravel between an open fire and a rock, and I worked on the clips that keep the cover on the canoe, hoping to tighten them enough to hold better. The first big wave always gets the clips, and the second gets at least one of the front snaps. To do this rapid ahead, I will need to run drier.
8:45 P.M., Camp XI—Sometimes I hear Polo’s voices. I should explain the reference. In Marco Polo’s The Travels, he described crossing the deserts and wildernesses of Central Asia. The great emptiness frightened Polo and his traveling companions. Polo emphasized the importance of staying on the known path. From the emptiness beyond, they thought they could hear voices. They always stayed together in as large a group as possible and feared the voices. To be lured by the voices beyond the beaten track might mean to disappear forever.
I was happy out there for a few minutes this afternoon, riding the big ones. The standing waves threw the loaded canoe well into the air. I rocked wildly. Sometimes the bow pushed upwards higher than my head. Other times I had to look way down to see it. The cover held. My balance was good. At the bottom of the waves, I saw nothing but foaming water. By inches, I slipped rocks that could have destroyed the canoe. I had to bring myself back. I had to remember that a canoe loaded for wilderness travel with three hundred pounds of gear, and added to that my own two hundred pounds, is not a whitewater play boat, regardless of my desire to use it as such.
I felt the change when the canoe began to ride the waves too low, plowing when it should have glided and surfed. Water came in at my lap. By the time, I finished the first long set, perhaps two hundred yards, I had very little freeboard left. Every place that could have held water did. The canoe made the second, long set on instinct, I suppose. I kept her straight, and she kept on taking it. Before I finished the second long set of standing waves, I needed to eddy out. Whether I could have taken the set in the next bend with a dry canoe, I have doubts. If I had hit it with a waterlogged canoe, my chances of losing everything were high, that I would roll was certain.
The fast water of the second set didn’t really end. Very little slack water next to the shore offered a haven. The waves pushed hard toward the big rapid below. Holding a waterlogged canoe straight in fast water required one level of skill, maneuvering in such water demanded the near impossible and precipitated an immediate roll. Regardless of risk, I had to make my turn against the current for the bank, if I meant to avoid the big rapid below. I made the slight turn, angling toward the bank, which required all of my strength and balance. I felt the place near the bank with the slack water slipping past. I looked into the face of disaster and felt nothing, as if emotion could not touch me. I made the brushy shore, six feet in front of the first standing waves, leading into the next rapid beyond which there would be no return. I jumped for the brushy shoreline, rope in hand, without upsetting the canoe.
I tied her off, unloaded her on to the steep shoreline, dumped her, and then reloaded part of my gear. To move all my gear to the dark sand beach in the center of the tiny bit of slack water at the shoreline, which couldn’t quite constitute an eddy, to the place I had picked out earlier for my campsite, I had to walk the partially reloaded canoe back up through the current twice. The water in the canoe drenched all my clothes, the tent, and the sleeping gear. I have everything hanging on bushes or rocks to dry. As far as I can determine, I have damaged nothing.
11:02 P.M.—I prepare for a night with wet gear. The temperature drops though it is still light. It is the time of shadows. I haven’t seen darkness yet on this trip, but in the late hours, when the sun drops, I feel the noticeable coolness. The heavy sleeping bag sags on a low branch, still laden with water. The light summer bag is damp and only soaked at the foot. I will use only the light bag tonight.
I have a set of medium weight, polyester long johns in one of my waterproof bags. The wool shirt I wore in the rapid didn’t get wet, and the Gore-Tex raincoat I wore when I paddled through the rapid is drying. I found a pair of dry wool socks and mittens. Almost everything else I own is soaked through, even things in bags supposed to be waterproof. With the poly and the wool, and the synthetic sleeping bag, I will be warm enough.
I could use the completely soaked sleeping bag, but unless it were necessary for safety, I would rather sleep a little cold than suffer the clamminess. The tent itself, soaked in the rapid, is now almost dry. The stove, untouched by water, lit on the first stroke, and I made hot chocolate almost immediately after I first had everything out on the bank. Tonight will not be bad. I take the events of this afternoon more as a warning than a disaster.
June 29, 10:00 A.M.—The day is sunny and slightly windy, the longest stretch of sunshine I remember this season. I needed it. Everything is yet to dry.
Yesterday we risk our lives; today we sew. The nylon whitewater cover has a long rip.
2:30 P.M.—Low tea this afternoon consisted of sourdough bread formed into long rolls, and Russian Caravan tea, a blend of oolong, keemun, and lapsang souchong, brewed in my tin pot. I believe I could pass these at a formal tea, provided no one saw the preparation.
Everything is nearly dry. I could begin packing at any moment, but a little more sun won’t do the clothes any harm.
I had a close call today. I don’t know that I could come up with the appropriate emotions on demand. Fear when I need fear and relief instead of denial might serve me well. I am only numb.
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Photo Credit: Getty Images
By comparison, the sea is warm but the salt does itch something bad as things dry and the slightest hint of moisture will make it all damp again. My mind did boggle at the image of the canoe riding so low. Her design must be stable for weight.