Wireless Communication in the Wilderness

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Outside Magazine March 2004

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Can You Hear Me Now? (Cont.)

A FEW MILES downriver, we reach an even more intimidating set of rapids. Whitewater rushes through a boulder garden and plunges past a house-size rock. Landing, we walk along the shore, climb the rock, and stare downstream, over an incongruously calm pool to a narrow slot where the river erupts into a rooster tail of spray before churning through a violent hole. To the hole's right lies a broad shelf of rock; to its left, a tower. The entire Horton runs through this small defile.

"Class III plus, maybe IV," Len says calmly.

Neither of us has to say anything more: This final rapid in the train would eat our loaded, open, erector-set canoe and spit it out in pieces. It's not runnable in our craft and, if we're sucked into the hole beyond the chute, perhaps not survivable.

We discuss our alternatives. The safest is to off-load the canoe, carry the gear and canoe around the house-size boulder's right side, repack everything, paddle down the pool just upstream of the rapid, ferry to a gravel bar river left, off-load the canoe again, and portage around the tower. However, the technical challenges of negotiating this boulder and the swift water adjacent to it are appealing. Almost midchannel from us is a beach-ball-size rock that creates a slot where we could shoot down to enter the pool, ferry river left, and portage around the tower.

After a period of silence, Len asks, "What do you think?"

"I think we should do it. I think we can do it"—I point—"running right down this slot."

"Thank you," he says, relieved that I haven't suggested the cumbersome portage. "But I think we should aim at the big rock and carom off its pillow of water."

I consider this. Len has done some Class V kayaking—very demanding boating—and has run a few rapids that I wouldn't entertain in my dreams. I don't want to dismiss his knowledge; still, I'm not convinced this is the right strategy. The loaded canoe isn't like the kayak he's used to. It'll bore through the pillow and hit the rock. Yet most of the decisions on this trip have been mine—I've been doing Arctic trips for two decades—and in an effort to balance our power, I decide to go with one of Len's suggestions.

"You've done a lot more difficult boating than I have," I say. "I'll go with it."

He nods, satisfied that I've taken his suggestion.

We hike back to the boat, snug our life jackets, and push off, the first set of waves and holes going by almost without my notice. My eyes are fixed on the rapidly approaching boulder. We head directly toward it, as planned, but it's coming way too fast. We're hurtling forward on a crest of green water and foam. Before I can yell it, Len shouts, "Backpaddle! Backpaddle! Backpaddle!" He strokes madly, leaning upstream for all he's worth.

As hard as I can, I backpaddle with him. For one incredible instant, it appears that we'll stop the canoe in midstream and be able to angle it left and down the slot. Then we hit the boulder, head on, not violently—our backpaddling prevented that—but hard enough to bounce the canoe crosswise, stern first, out into the main current. In half a heartbeat, we're rushing sideways downstream, directly at the smaller rock, on which we'll broach and be pinned, wrapping the boat and breaking it in two.

I spin in my seat, kneel in the bottom of the canoe, and yell at the top of my lungs, "Take the stern!" Simultaneously, I paddle two strokes forward with all my strength as Len spins, drops to his knees, and paddles from what has become the rear seat. The canoe kisses the midstream boulder, slightly behind midships, rides up alongside it, and teeters on its right beam as the Horton comes under us and lifts. We paddle another stroke and pull around the boulder, the forward part of the canoe levered into the main channel by the enormous force of the river. We are now precisely where we didn't want to be. Waves higher than our heads swamp the canoe. Half full of water, we paddle through the haystacks, into the pool downstream, and manage to guide the ungainly boat onto the gravel bar.

"Well," I remark, stepping ashore, "that was exciting." I'm shaking a little.

"You pulled us around the midstream rock," Len says. "'Take the stern!' Great call." We're talking fast, pumped on adrenaline, overjoyed to be in one piece, our estimation of each other confirmed— neither one of us clutched.

We drink some water; we eat some food; we stare 30 yards downstream at the rapid that could have ended our lives. Would I have made the same decision without the damn sat phone? Absolutely. And that's a comforting thought.

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