Whether this is the year to master that one drop, or to move on to the next level, Kyle “Smitty “ Smith has some solid advice: push your limits, not your luck.

 

Before leaving the house to spend time in the mountains, if one can call the hills near my hometown mountains, my mom would always yell out the door “Make smart choices, Kyle!” in a demanding, yet loving, way that only a mother can master. Did I always heed her words? Too many scars to count and a few fractured bones are evidence for an emphatic no. However, leaving loved ones at home, who I value returning to, and losing a number of friends—travel buddies and close members of the whitewater family—along the way has left me contemplating the decisions I make on the water more often than in the past.

Given that boating is an inherently dangerous sport, I still don’t make the safest choices, which would probably be to stay at home. Invest that money, not on paddling gear, but in a secure low-risk stock portfolio. Yeah. That would be safe. But, sometimes you just feel the fire. Sometimes you’re just going to want to send it. How can we better ourselves without pushing our comfort level? How does one make improvements without crashing and burning along the way? The answer: you don’t. But don’t confuse experience with stupidity.

Making mistakes is one powerful way that we learn new skills and gain experience. However, don’t think swimming a class V rapid is a sufficient substitute for years of practice and time spent honing essential skills paddling on calmer water.

On multiple occasions, I have found myself being sandbagged by friends. Eager to paddle, one friend assured me that the South Fork Clearwater at 2,500 CFS was a great “beginning creeking experience.” Earlier that day, while sitting in a creek boat for the first time in my life on a smaller tributary of the Lochsa, I had asked “Sooo, what’s this ‘boof’ thing that everyone talks about?”

I had paddled for a few years, but exclusively in a play boat and never in a situation where flying over hydraulics was absolutely mandatory. So, later that day, back on the South Fork, I found myself getting beaten in “Chuck Rawlins,” a rapid named for the paddler who drowned in a strainer after swimming out of the hole many years ago. In that moment, I realized why one should develop a boof. Nearly pulling my skirt in the frigid spring runoff, I flushed out while still in my boat, one leg out of its thigh brace. I probably gasped, produced an “OHMYGAWD!” and rolled up at the same time. I was left with an ice-cream headache pounding in my skull.

Since that day, I’ve accrued many more sandbagging stories, both as the sandbagged and the sandbagger. I’ve been taken to places where I didn’t belong, even if I thought I did. And I’ve taken friends to sections I knew they didn’t have any right to be on, but resisted saying anything, afraid of seeming unkind. Through these experiences, I’ve come to realize that sometimes it all works out, but when things go wrong, it can usually be traced back to that moment when we asked ourselves, ”Are we ready for this?” Keep in mind, a little honesty, even if unkind, can save a whole lot of grief.

In “Style,” a Site Zed post, North Fork Champion, Louis Geltman, delves into the push-it or go home mentality of the coming generation of kayaking. Geltman hits home on some important points concerning the evolution of the sport of kayaking and its participants:

“Much has been made about how advances in equipment and technique now enable paddlers to run whitewater in a season or so that once might have taken a career to achieve…[for example] the Green is now regarded as a place to start, and taking hair raising crashes [are] a stepping stone. That mentality has serious implications, though, for everyone’s safety and for the ability of new boaters to progress in the sport.”

With the introduction of high-def kayaking media covering skilled paddlers running intensely difficult whitewater and death defying cascades, a younger generation of paddlers are setting goals very high, and very quickly—perhaps too quickly. This is often done without establishing a proper paddling foundation. Multiple young paddlers have fallen off of Oregon’s 90-foot Metlako Falls with barely enough skill to roll in a swimming pool. The North Fork of the Payette, or the Grand Canyon of the Stikine, were once a test of a paddler’s skills, a test with years, even decades, of prerequisite experience. But now those runs have entered the novice-intermediate paddler’s pre-conceived, must-do checklists, even though their time on the river indicates inability.

When heading out the door this spring to recreate, whether you’re on a kayak, raft, ducky or boogie board, consider your skill level, experience and the knowledge of yourself and your crew. Have you or others in the group taken swiftwater rescue courses? Do you or others have medical training? Can you communicate river signals and initiate a rescue plan when out of ear shot? Can you roll on your offside if found trapped against a cliff wall with your paddle obstructed on your onside? Do you or others have the experience or skillset to not only save yourselves, but others when things start to snowball?

Don’t be afraid to portage. Look to your crew and listen to them when considering firing up something that pushes your own skill level. Often times, our friends and paddling partners are great tools for assessing our own abilities and growth. After all, they are the ones you’ll rely on to pick you up at the bottom if you crash and burn.  Remember, more than likely, the rapid will be there tomorrow or the next season. You can always come back.

We are surrounded by pine and cedar, sage and stone. As children of the Northwest, we find ourselves spoiled from day one. We are too close to the landscape, too accustomed to its existence, to realize how fortunate we are. Those who travel here often leave a piece of their heart, yearning to return to it one day. We spend a lot of time with our friends and loved ones playing outside in these places, and to most, it’s important that we come home.

The edge of the horizon drops away as we paddle closer to the lip. I have run this rapid many times. I was a little clumsy today on the section above. We have had a spectacular week of warm water and sunshine and the stoke is high. It would be easier to route over the horizon line than make the 200-yard portage.

“What are you guys going to do?” I ask.

“I’m walking. What about you?”

A moment of consideration passes by.

“I think I’ll walk too.”

My mom would have been proud of me for making a smart choice, and even though we portaged, the beers at the take-out tasted just as good.