North Cascades River Expeditions

Story Time: Page 5 of 6

We guessed the Chilko's clear flow to be around 6,000 cfs. (This was later confirmed.) We retained the order that had served us on the Taseko: Jerry and Brad up front, Jack and I in the middle, and Tim and Phil running sweep. Having left the food, water, and camping gear with the trucks, I had a more favorable strength-to-weight ratio. In addition, I had Jack. He could be counted on to high side and bail.

Having Jerry in the lead was a great help to me. If he pulled delicately on the oars, I could relax. If he flailed like a fitness buff at a health club, I knew I had better make my move.

Three klicks from the put-in we entered Lava Canyon. The first rapid lifted our boats up and down as we raced past an enormous pour-over on the right bank, maneuvered through a left S-bend and reached flat water.

It had been easy! It was Lava Canyon's toughest rapid and it had been a piece of cake. I was immensely relieved. True, I had been exposed as an alarmist. After all, I had told the group just yesterday, "Tomorrow's run will be the wildest river running we will ever do in our lives." Still, I was content to be a live fool.

And what of the Wrights? They had certainly overdone their description of Lava Canyon. But, I rationalized, it is the duty of a guide book author to overstate a river's problems to forestall complacency.

These thoughts floated merrily through my mind as I basked in the glory and fun of the Chilko. Kilometer after kilometer went by and I became convinced that Lava Canyon of the Chilko was just another river trip.

We were lazily dancing up and over 6-foot rollers between narrow rock walls, when, all of a sudden, Jerry and Brad vanished. Ahead the river appeared like a water-fall, with a sharp left S-bend. In a flash I knew the terrible truth: we had not yet entered the section described by the Wrights! No power on earth could prevent us from doing so in the next 2 seconds. I steeled myself for the wildest river running I would do in my life.

Tim and Phil later dubbed this rapid "Mr. Toad's Wild Ride". There was drop after drop after drop. The river was bubbly white from bank to bank and upstream to downstream. I have seen nothing remotely similar in 17 years of river running.

Some color was visible in the raging torrent at the end of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. There was no chance to catch a breath, however, as the "White Mile" commenced. For one mile, drop followed drop in a thunderous cascade.

I was doing all I could to keep "Hurricane" straight and in the middle of the river. Jack was expertly high-siding. Despite my efforts, "Hurricane" was being drawn to a van-sized boulder on river left. I turned sideways and pulled for all I was worth. No way. I shrieked to Jack, "Move to the back of the boat." As he did so, the front half of the raft slammed into the boulder. I dropped the oars and joined Jack in a high-side. The raft swung violently around and downstream of the boulder.

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North Cascades River Expeditions
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