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Outside Magazine March 2003

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DESTINATIONS SPECIAL: The Scouting Expedition
A Trip is Born (Cont.)


	Edwards, Briggs, and Wilson mapping the route (Joshua Paul)

Day 6, mile 161
"COME HERE!" Clinton screamed at us. "Come right fucking here!"

The river had separated into small channels, and suddenly we were rushing through dense forest. Clinton's kayak had disappeared around a bend. Branches flicking against our paddles, Steve and I swept around to spot Clinton standing barefoot atop a large boulder midstream. He was shouting and wildly jamming his finger down where the swift current was pressing his kayak against the rock. I swung our big kayak and piled it into the boulder, climbed out, and poked my head over to peer downstream.

"Holy shit!"

Splitting around the boulder, the channel instantly formed a thick white torrent that plunged a good 30 feet in a powerful S-curve through rock and forest. The air shook. A cool mist swirled. If we'd missed the boulder...The thought made my stomach drop.

We heard shouts. We turned upstream to see Rod and Cherri's overturned kayak floating downriver, the two of them swimming beside it and grabbing at bushes on the left bank.

"Waterfall!" we screamed. "Waterfall!"

They stopped the kayak 50 yards from the drop. Rod dumped out the water, and they climbed in. As Clinton shouted instructions, they attempted to cross the swift 40-foot channel to the far bank, where portaging looked easier. The current suddenly spun their boat and sucked it toward the lip.

"Paddle! Paddle! Paddle!" shouted Clinton.

Rod's big shoulders and biceps flexed. Their kayak surged upstream like a porpoise. The nose plowed into the bank a few dozen yards upstream from the drop.

"Do you think you can ferry across?" Clinton asked me.

I studied the channel, the lip at our feet. There was zero margin for error. If the boat swung in the current, I knew Steve couldn't correct it, and I wasn't sure I could alone. Besides, we'd already dumped in a rapids just upstream.

"I think we can make it across," I told Clinton. "But I really don't like the consequences if we don't."

"OK, we'll tie a rope across and Rod and I will ferry you. Get me the throw rope!"

I hesitated. I liked this plan even less—if we tipped, the rope would secure the boat while Steve and I spilled over the lip.

Branches suddenly shook in the trees across the channel. A baboon family, I thought...But it was Rod. He yelled down that portaging didn't look good on his side, but Clinton pushed for us to cross anyway. I finally convinced him to let Steve and me paddle through easier water to the near shore, so I could bushwhack through the forest looking for a better portage. I found a dry streambed that led down below the waterfall to a sliver of beach, where we set up camp.

We were all banged up. Clinton plucked huge thorns from Rod's palm with pliers. Steve's shoulder was hurting. Everyone's legs were masses of cuts and scrapes from numerous portages and wading through rocks. I slathered my shins with antibiotic cream. The waterfall pounded overhead. I thought of how vulnerable we were out here. My trust in Clinton's river judgment— nearly total at first—had been shaken by the way he'd tried to get us to ferry near the lip. My greatest asset, I realized, was not strength or boldness or good eyesight. My greatest asset was my own judgment.

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