THe Curse of the Yellow Duck III

There is something about shooting rapids that is so Zen. It pulls all your concentration into a single, unifying task to successfully navigait the crashing, splashing white-water that roars all around your tiny watercraft. It is terrifyingly beautiful to watch one's bow plow into a three foot high cresting wave, completley disappear under that wave, then blow out the other side like a surfacing sub, sending drenching sprays of water into your face and occasionaly the piolt in the back. Sometimes a rock is deep enough to allow the bow to pass over, yet the middle isn't. Suddenly the canoe will list to one side or the other and instinct will instantly shift your weight to keep the canoe upright all the while feeling the bottom of the canoe shudder and grate across the top of the rock. The floor even raises up a little; many times I have watched my gear lift up in a rippling wave under the tarp from front to back as the canoe scraped over a rock. This is all happening while also riding a killer adrenalean high.

The navigator, or person in the front of the canoe has the task of telling the piolt, the person in the back, which way to steer the craft. A good navigator will call out directions well in advance to allow the piolt to make the proper adjustments to the dircetion of the canoe. In many cases the contol is an illusion, because one never truly knows what is under the surface of the churing waters. Nevertheless, the adrenalean provides hightened reflexes and reactions to the problems presented while in the whtie-water. Commands bellow over the roar of the river:

"Hard LEFT!! STROKE! STROKE! STROKE!...HOLD!! THREE HARD ON THE RIGHT!!!"

Then, before one knows it, the angry water is calming down. Fluffy dabs of off white foam dot the smoothing waters or collect in little inlets along the shore. In most cases there are a few rocks that pock-mark the water and have to be navigated around, but nothing like the main set.

Whoops and shouts fill the air as everyone that makes it through says a little prayer for the safe passage and celebrates by cracking open a fresh brew. This has to be done because no open beer has ever made the ride without tipping over.

As Dishman and I came up to the Highway One Rapids, Duckie and Beans were nowhere to be seen. We discussed waiting for them but then decided to just shoot the rapids and wait for them on the other side. This way we could get some stellar pictures as they came through later.

Out of the three sets of rapids we shoot on this trip, the Highway One Rapids scare me the most. I don't know why since I always get stuck at the end of the Rice. The Muldoons are by far bigger and longer the Highway One, however, they cover a corner in the river, which tends to make them more intimidating. This could be coupled with the fact that more people have tipped on the Highway One's than all the others combined. Up until last year, I never had a problem, but they still freak me out.

Well Dishman and I sized up the situation as the river quickened and pulled us closer and closer to the raging waters. The strongest vee of water started a little to the left of center, drifted to the right a little and then we had a choice to take the left or right side under the bridge. I figured we would take whichever one had us in the best pull as we came up on it. We ended up taking the right because the bow was pointed in that direction and that was where the river wanted to take us. Of course when it spit us out on the other side of the bridge we had to cut it hard, hard left to keep from slamming into a log-snag that was caught up on some rocks.

Just like past years we were through he rapids before we knew it and offering up our shouts of joy to whatever creature would listen at the moment. Chicot, went our victory beers as we each enjoyed a well deserverd brew.

After slamming half my beer I manuvered our canoe to the right-side of the river. I bumped the bow into the soft, mucky earth and let the current of the river pivot our canoe so we were facing upstream. Having a prime view of when Duckie and Beans took the ride, we pulled out our camera's and waited. And waited...and waited...and waited some more. Finally after another beer and a half of waiting I started to get a little concerned.

"They should be coming anytime now," I said to Dishman.
"Wonder what's taking them so long?" He replied.
"Well I don't see any shit floating through, so I don't think they tipped." I commented.
"Lets just pull up on shore so I can take a piss." He said over his back. That didn't sound like a bad idea because I had to piss also. I jammed my paddle into the muck and grabbed a small bush on the shore to steady the canoe enough for Dishman to get out. Once out, he grabbed the bow to steady it for me.

We pulled the canoe half out of the water and each found a bush in need of some watering. I Finished before Dishman so I decided to walk up the hill to the bridge. I figured if I stood on the bridge I could get a really good shot of them going in and coming out of the rapids.

I got to the top of the hill and when I got halfway across the road I discovered the reason Duckie and Beans weren't coming. Fifty feet into the rapids sat their canoe, sideways, on its side, half submerged under the water caught dead center on a rock. I could see that the canoe was buckled hard. To my relief I saw Beans standing in the water next to the the bow of ther broken canoe and Duckie was almost out of the river, struggling hard against the current. Fuck this is going to suck.

"Dishman!" I yelled. "They rolled, get your ass up here!" Having my camera handy I snapped off a few shots. I don't know if Duckie has a copy of any of these photos, but I will make sure to get one up on this sight so you can see what I saw.

I had no sooner finished taking my pictures when Dishman reached my side.
"This is going to be an adventure." He said with a grin and bounded off down the other side of the road. Duckie was now on the shore, bent over resting from her battle against the waters relently current. I followed right behind Dishman. The closer we got to Duckie the more colorful her language got. She was spewing profanities that would have made a Andrew Dice Clay blush.

"We're so fucked Joe," she said half out of breath when we got to her. "The canoe is fucked. It ripped along the bottom. There's a huge gash in it. We're not going anywhere."
"What about Beans?" I motioned towards our cousin who looked like she was done with canoeing for the rest of her life.
"We need to form a human chain to get her out. The current is too strong for her. She tired to walk to shore and almost got swept away."
"I can go get my climbing rope and carabeiners," Dishman offered. "We can use it as an anchor to get her out of the water."
"While you do that I'll wade out to her to see if maybe I can help her in anyway I can" I said. "You rest." I told Duckie.

Well, it is getting late so I will finish this story her in the near future.

Until then I will remain...Crazy Joe.