Roommates

It is weird to have a roommate at the age of twenty-five. No, not a housemate, DC-style, but a proper roommate. We don’t sleep in bunks, but that is a mere technicality. I sleep in the loft above her bed, just like college. At least in college, my roommate and I were of similar age and habit. We were both eighteen and students. Here, my roommate and I could hardly be more different.

She just graduated from high school. I’m seven years her senior. She works in the Outfitters’ Store. I’m a raft guide. She’s the National Open-boat Downriver Whitewater Canoeing Champion. I barely understand what that is. (In fact, if she ever reads this, she will probably correct me on her proper title.)

On the other hand, we’re both from the North. She’s from Maine (hence the canoeing), and I’m from New York. She hates spiders but can handle snakes. I have no problem with spiders but cannot deal with snakes. She drives an awesome truck, I get to ride along. We make it work. It’s actually kind of fun.

While my last roommate experience was college, this one reminds me of summer camp. There are lots of early mornings, long days spent on the water, campfires, impromptu sing-alongs, and plenty of gossip. It just wouldn’t be the same without a cabin-mate to share it with.

On the Road

Highway 19 West is the only road that runs the length of the Nantahala gorge. The speed limit ranges from 35 mph to 50 mph as the road curves and winds through the narrow canyon. There is no shoulder. Considering its distance from civilization, around here best defined by the presence of a Wal-Mart and a Waffle House, there is a surprising amount of traffic. It consists of everything from locals in pick-up trucks to tourists in sedans and river trolls in SUVs with four kayaks on top. There are also buses carting vacationers to the put-in and trailers loaded with rafts. To complicate matters further, massive trucks speed along the narrow roadway, hauling supplies to the Wal-Marts and Waffle Houses that are so few and far between. As if the traffic alone wasn’t enough of an issue, the gorge is also a temperate rainforest. The roads are effectively permanently wet. Add a bunch of teenage, college-age, and generally immature raft guides, and you have a recipe for roadway disaster.

Indeed, in the three weeks I’ve been down here, there have been at least three car accidents involving NOC staff. One hydroplaned going through a big turn, over-corrected, hit the guardrail and flipped, totaling the car. Another just rammed the guardrail. Most recently, a vehicle went straight over the guardrail and hit the ditch, destroyed.

I blame the high speed limits. As we all know, rules were made to be broken, and just about everyone goes 40 in a 35. That usually works out just fine, but speed limits generally refer to the road in good, dry condition. Highway 19 is rarely, if ever, dry. After all, the gorge is home to a temperate rainforest. Regardless, people refuse to adjust their speed to the conditions, possibly because of the magical invincibility of youth.

Working as a raft guide is quite the adventure, but it seems just getting to work is more life threatening.

Negligence

There are a lot of young children who raft the Nantahala. The age requirement is quite low, and the river is a nice introduction to whitewater. However, moving water is always dangerous and rafters on the Nantahala, particularly those who rent boats without guides, would do well to remember that.

During my trip this morning, I watched a small NOC raft float by. It was manned by two children who looked like they couldn't be more than ten, maybe twelve. They looked like they were doing okay at that point in their journey, just cruising along, but I was nervous about larger rapids further downriver. Even the guests in my boat, who didn't know what was coming, expressed concern about such young boys, adrift and left to their own devices. We didn't see them again for a long time, but when we did, they were in big trouble.

Just before the falls, there is a water feature called the Bump. In fact, there is a big sign hung from a tree  above it to warn boaters of its existence. The Bump is dangerous because it can grab whatever lands in its path and hold on to it. The boys' raft was stuck in the Bump, but only one boy was still in it. The other was clinging to the raft, trying not to be sucked under. The boy in the raft was obviously in panic-mode. He was practically in tears. 

When I came upon the scene, a rescue was in progress. Another guide was preparing to throw a rope. I was already off the preferred line at that point, so I just swept over, squared up, and bumped my (larger) raft into theirs. They were pushed out of the danger zone, the kid in the raft pulled the one in the water out, and they were fine. 

But they never should have been there in first place. People have died from similar situations on the Nantahala. I hope the parents of those two boys got a firm talking-to. It's a lot easier to avoid danger than to save someone from it. And saving those kids was not in my job description.

Overconfidence

At Nantahala Falls, the largest commercially-rafted rapid on the river, there are several photographers stationed on shore who take a series of photos of each boat that comes through the falls. One of my runs last week resulted in the single most epic photograph of the season so far.

While there is certainly a preferred line to run through the falls, no matter what happens, your boat will end up on the other side of the drop. Gravity just works like that. However, if you want to keep your guests in the boat, it is imperative that no matter which side of the river you are on, you square up to the drop and run it straight. Run it sideways and you are guaranteed to dump a guest or six. 

Going into the first drop (Top Hole), the raft was precariously angled. I reached out of the boat and did a big draw stroke. The raft swung around and straightened out, but unfortunately I wasn't with it. Instead, my massive stroke swung me right out of the raft.

My mind went into shock. The water in the Nantahala runs at a constant fifty-two degrees. It felt frigid. All I could see was whitewater. I vaguely recalled the whitewater swimmer's position, but when I went to tuck my feet in, I noticed a minor detail. My right foot was still jammed inside the raft. Every other limb, from my head to my left toes were swimming, but that right foot wasn't going anywhere. I still had my paddle, swirling in the water above my head. I don't know how, but I seized upon all my core strength and performed an epic sit-up, back into the boat. 

We hit Bottom Hole just fine. Everyone stayed in the boat. 

Once the trip was over, the paddles were put away and the gear was rinsed and ready to be hung up, I walked my guests over the photo hut to see pictures of our run. The first few were unremarkable, as were the last couple. Sure, there was big water, paddles in the air, and the shocked and surprised facial expressions of the guests. But there was also a guide sitting calmly in the back all the while. How boring. Only two photos showed how exciting the falls run had actually been for me.

The first was a side-view of the raft. Instead of my profile in the back of the raft, the picture shows a strip of black (my right leg) standing out against the yellow raft and a few inches of my dirty blonde hair dangerously close to a large rock.

The second photo in the series is another side-view. In this one, I am mid sit-up, rising into the raft like a phoenix from the ashes, paddle in hand. In fact, it looks like I'm about to clock the guest in front of me with the paddle, but in reality I missed her. Thank goodness. 

Most of the guests had no idea what had happened until they saw the photos. They were quite impressed, as were the other guides and staff members. I sacrificed myself for my guests, and then I saved myself. I was a hero, well on my way to legend.

Unfortunately, that one epic save overinflated my ego. I pulled myself out of Top Hole, I could pull myself out of anything! Or so I thought, until my self-confidence all came crashing down at Delebar today.

My boat was heavier than ever before, with six adults. Admittedly, I was having some trouble with boat control. Still, Delebar isn't a particularly large rapid. There's a drop and a little S-curve, but nothing too dramatic. Well, it's nothing too dramatic when the bow of the boat has two ten-year-olds. It's a much different experience with average American adults. We snagged a rock for a spin, but it was much more powerful than those I had done before. I was caught unprepared and slid right out of the boat. I let go of my paddle and grabbed the boat. My guests had no clue that I was missing. I hauled myself in, with their eventual assistance. 

I was, and remain, hugely embarrassed. I knew that an unintentional out-of-boat experience was going to happen eventually, but I wish there was a better story than me suffering from my own arrogance. 

To make matters worse, I also lost my river knife. My PFD had a special knife tab, but it was made of plastic. It broke when I hauled myself back into the raft. The company has a repair center in Asheville, so next week I'll send the PFD down to be fixed. Unfortunately, my knife could not be recovered, and since it's required river gear I had to shell out for another one. Yikes. The kicker is that I knew I should put a rope on it, just in case the plastic tab shattered. I even went to the Outfitter's Store for rope last week, but they were out. Today, of course, they had it in stock. Just a tad too late for me.

In any case, lesson learned. Ego reigned in. Wallet lightened. 

Kelsey's Rock

A trip down the Nantahala takes about two-and-a-half hours. During that time, in addition to yelling paddling commands, I tell little anecdotes about different points of interest along the river. There’s an old railroad, a portion of the Trail of Tears, a rock quarry, a fancy new housing development, the Nantahala National Forest, and Delebar’s Rock.

Delebar, as I tell my guests, was a kayaking instructor. One day, he decided to take a canoe out on the Nantahala. He went along just fine, until he hit a particularly tricky rapid around a sharp turn of the river. Instead of cutting the corner, he slammed into a rock. His canoe, naturally, was wrecked. Undefeated, Delebar returned to the canoe rental agency for a second canoe. They gave it to him. Everyone deserves a second chance, right? Well, maybe not Delebar. On his second trip down the Nantahala, Delebar wrapped his canoe around the same rock as before. Determined to get it right, Delebar went back to rent another canoe. His third time down the river, Delebar was once again foiled by the same rock. Not one to give up without a fight, Delebar retreated to the rental agency for a fourth canoe. Though Delebar may not have learned his lesson, the rental agency certainly had. Having lost three canoes, they refused to give Delebar a fourth. Instead, the rock that gave Delebar such difficulty is now named for him.

“Well, Kelsey,” my crew joked, “Where’s your rock?” At the time, I didn’t have one. But by the end of that trip I did.

The largest commercially-rafted rapid on the river, Nantahala Falls, is at the very end of the trip. It is so close to the end, in fact, that you can see the take-out from the falls. This can be problematic. It gives both myself and my guests a false sense of security.

“Ok, we made it through the falls! There’s nothing left in our way!”

That is a dangerous lie. There are some serious obstacles between the falls and the take-out, which I learned when I hit one dead-on.

It was a great trip. I had two couples and two young children. No one went for a swim,  we hit good lines on the rapids, and everyone got along well. There were no problems. I had been a bit nervous, as I always am, with two young children in the front of the boat, but they did just fine. Coming out of the falls with everyone still in the boat, I was busy sighing with relief while the crew was busy celebrating. We were all too busy doing something to notice the giant, flat rock spread across the river in front of us. By the time I noticed it, it was too late to gather the crew into paddling mode. We had just enough momentum going to glide half the raft over the top of the rock and get firmly pinned on top. Ironically, this particular rock is known as Celebration. People get stuck after celebrating their falls run.

Normally, getting off a rock is fairly easy. You can back-paddle, shift weight around, bounce off it, or even get out of the boat and push. None of the usual tricks worked in this case. We were pinned, stuck seemingly indefinitely. My raft was one of the first over the falls, the rest of the trip passed us while we were stuck. Another guide tried to bump into us and slide us off. It didn’t work. The trip leader passed me and just smiled. Frankly, I think there a little bit of a smirk in there somewhere.

Minutes passed. They felt like hours. Days. The wives in the boat were getting a little nervous, looking back at me while I rapidly ran out of ideas. I could see the outline of the rock in the floor of the boat, right in the center. I moved everyone to the back, to the front, to the left, to the right. We bounced, we pushed, we pulled, we paddled. Nothing worked. Until, finally, something did. We slid off the rock, I praised Heaven, and we promptly ran into another rock.

I kid you not. Immediately after unpinning my boat, I re-pinned it. This time, it only took a few seconds to get back in the current and on our way. It was only another minute or two until we reached the take-out. I almost wanted to keep going on the river, rather than deal with the shame of being “that guide” who hit some of the most obvious rocks on the river. Not once. Twice. At least my crew handled the situation with humor. “Well, looks like we found Kelsey’s Rock!”

But did we? I actually hit two. Maybe they should be Kelsey’s Rocks.

Love on the River

"Get any love today?"

The guides always ask each other this after a trip. It's not as crass as it sounds. What they're really asking is whether or not the guide got tipped. Yes, even here in the Great Outdoors, people equate money with love.

It's a strong association. So strong, in fact, that a low tip or, even worse, no tip at all, frequently leads to intense periods of self-doubt. It's a bizarre phenomenon. Most of the guests on the Nantahala fully-guided trips have little to no whitewater experience. They could no more evaluate the skills of their river guide than make apt comparisons between Michelin-starred chefs. Whitewater, like extremely fine dining, is simply beyond the realm of average experience. Nevertheless, guides use tips to measure their success.  Failure to receive a tip after a good trip (no one went for an unintentional swim, the raft didn’t get stuck, no one was hit by a paddle or a tree branch) is a baffling experience. “No love today,” is a remark often followed by, “What am I doing wrong?” Alas, guide quality and tip are utterly uncorrelated. I got $10 on one trip and $40 on the next. I doubt there was substantial improvement in the guest experience between the first trip and the next, three hours later.

Just like conventional love, there is no logic to raft guides’ fiscal interpretation. Instead, there is boundless bliss (big tip) and dark troughs of despair (no tip).

In the Beginning

Greetings! This is my third week of work at the Nantahala Outdoor Center as a raft guide. There have been mishaps and mischief aplenty, but before I start storytelling I suppose there are a few logistical issues you are dying to know about.

-No Service
AT&T is a joke here in the gorge. I get a few bars, sometimes, at the main NOC campus (Wesser) but none where I actually live. Similarly, there is no Wifi at staff housing, but I sneak online at Wesser. Thank goodness the guest Wifi isn't password-protected!

-Staff Housing
You know those tool sheds they sell at Home Depot to store your lawn tractor and garden supplies? Well, I live in one of those.With a roommate. I think it's tiny and cramped, but the other staff are jealous. My shed is huge in comparison to theirs.

-Hitchhiking
Staff housing is six miles upriver from the rafting center I work out of. Since I'm car-free, I spend a significant amount of time standing by the side of Highway 19 with my thumb up. It reminds me very much of South Africa. Last week, I rode in the back of a bakkie (pick-up). I almost thanked the guy who picked me up in Afrikaans. (Don't worry, 90% of the time I get rides with other NOC staff.)

-Work
I'm a raft guide. In that last 14 days, I've spent 13 of them in water. One day I drove a trailer packed with rafts down the narrow highway in the gorge during a rainstorm. I hit a guardrail. No one has suggested I drive since.

-Poverty Wages
Enjoy your ride, tip your guide! Tips typically double or triple the amount of money I earn on a trip. NOC pays me about $20, and guests usually (hopefully) do the same. Without tips, it would be rough going. My first paycheck was $120, my first trip to the Outfitters' Store was well more than that.

-the South
One day I told a crew from Mississippi that I was from New York. At the end of the trip, they each gave me a hug and said, "Welcome to the South." It's not so bad here. I am starting to like bluegrass. Maybe I'm suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.

I've got to run, I have a trip!