Paddling

Learning the Language of the Lochsa

By Contributing Writer, 5-12-06

The Fish Creek put-in was in full circus mode as we pulled off of Highway 12. Colorful boats littered the pavement, spilling onto the sandy spit near the river. About 75 people were milling with the requisite beer in hand, wearing a diverse array of water repellent materials. The sun was shining, a rare occurrence in this moist, cedar-laden watershed, and the excitement was palpable among the boaters as they traded stories of past river carnage.

Welcome to the Wild and Scenic Lochsa River during spring runoff. It’s early May, and a special weekend here: The Rendezvous. This annual event brings thrill-seekers from several states to this northern Idaho river, where they play in tiny kayaks and inflatable rafts on a 30-mile stretch of class IV rapids during peak flows.

I’ve accepted my friend Brian’s invitation to float the "lower 10" (miles, that is) with him and his buddies. But, upon surveying the scene in the Fish Creek parking lot, I realize I’ve forgotten an important detail -- I have no idea what I’m doing.

I catch snippets of conversations as I walk to the outhouse:

"I mean, just chundered, man…"

"It’s running up at five and half, and looking thumpy…"

"Did you see those cats go vertical in the falls? They were sailing!"

"Yesterday, I did this sick stern squirt in Triple Hole, and was pummeled…"

Pummeled? Butterflies the size of airplanes land in my belly. Although I don’t speak boater language, the tone of the foreign words warns me that I am in the company of truly experienced risk-takers. Unfortunately, I am neither experienced with whitewater, nor a risk-taker. My idea of a thrilling risk is biking downtown after a couple of gin and tonics. In fact, I’ve only rafted twice before -- on two mellow rivers resembling lakes -- and the Lochsa in front of me is an imposing torrent of raging foam.

I take a deep breath to tone down the butterflies, grab a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon so I fit in with the crowd, and begin the unfamiliar process of "gearing up" for my raft trip. The kayakers, rafters, and catamaran captains around me have braved the Lochsa several times, and my inexperience with the entire event -- car shuttles, raft-inflating logistics, necessary clothing items -- is the entertainment of many onlookers.

"That dry top is actually made for a neck about twice the size of yours," says Brian, amused at my flailing as I wrestle on layers of polypropylene long underwear, neoprene wet suits, and water repellent outer layers. Since I can barely swallow under the tight rubber neck seal, I raise my eyebrows skeptically at him.

With a sense of accomplishment, I buckle and tighten the life jacket over the six other layers on my torso. I pull on a borrowed helmet over my neoprene skull cap, make sure my gloves are velcroed tightly, and waddle down to meet my rafting crew on the sandy spit.

And then I realize I have to pee. Badly. Who decided it was a good idea to drink beer before rafting?

Finally, an hour and a half after arriving at the put-in, our crew of four kayakers and three rafts shove off from shore. My fear subsides slightly, as I don’t immediately get "chundered" in a hole. But then I’m informed that those are the "warm-up" miles.

I long for a quiet deck and a gin and tonic as I hear the names of the next rapids -- Bloody Mary, Grim Reaper, Terminator and Car Crash. I seem to be the only person in the raft who wants to avoid flipping, and wonder if boaters are perhaps deficient in common sense, or maybe somehow immune to fear. Every muscle in my body is clenched tightly in expectation of "swimming" at any moment, because a swim in boating terms does not translate to the fun, voluntary "swim" used in my language. A more appropriate translation would be "rudely unexpected ejection."

One of the paddlers in the front shouts back to the guide that Lochsa Falls, a huge drop with incoming lateral waves, is really raging. "I mean, it’s flushy, but it’s also pretty pushy right now, dude."

Huh?

"Maybe we should take a different line through the Falls," our guide responds.

"Like a portage line?" I ask, half-joking. All heads turn to me with incredulous expressions. The boaters are appalled that I would actually prefer to walk around waves that sound like two trains colliding, rather than plummeting willy-nilly over the horizon line ahead. "Just kidding," I add weakly.

As we plunge closer toward the Falls, the guide shouts to me, "Hey, Bri -- are those sunglasses expensive?" I shout back a confused "no" right as our raft shoots vertically into the air, dumping me unceremoniously into the chundering, pummeling froth.

Cold, swirling, directionless shoving. Yikes. I push for "up" and miraculously find the surface, where I’m quickly pulled into the raft by Josh, a paddler in the front. As I collapse in a heap of cold wet neoprene at the bottom of the raft, I notice my cheap sunglasses have been sacrificed to the river gods. My back feels broken and I’m pretty sure my left leg is permanently twisted in half. But before I can decide if I’ll ever be able to walk again, I hear the guide shout, "Dig!"

And I’m up, paddling determinedly through another rapid, that lovely human hormone adrenaline covering all pain.

Falling into the Falls was the best thing that could have happened to me. The fact that I "swam" and didn’t die did wonders for my peace of mind during the rest of the float -- even the guide’s description of the last rapid as "a Foamy Apex of Hell" didn’t phase me. I felt tough. I felt proud of my personal carnage. I felt almost like a brave, badass boater.

I also, of course, have to pee again.

We drip our way up to the cars at the take-out two hours later, raft overhead. Beers are passed around the jubilant crowd, joints are smoked, and cheap greasy donuts appear from car backseats. Layers of wet rubber and plastic are peeled off, and people bolt behind the trees to relieve beer-soaked bladders.

As we wait for the car shuttles and load up boats, I learn yet another distinction between boaters and myself: they drink from dirty socks. Any paddler who "swam" (i.e. self-ejected from their kayak during a terrifying underwater, body-battering situation) is required to down a "bootie" (i.e. gulp an entire beer from a disgusting, smelly neoprene sock). Thankfully, this rule doesn’t extend to novice rafters.

Piling into trucks, we drive back up river to the aptly-named Ghetto Camp, where Brian and I will be spending the night. He warns me that the "bozos," or Bozeman paddlers, can get pretty rambunctious. I brace myself for a night of bootie-drinking antics interjected with phrases like "cartwheel" and "cat-sailing."

But reclining on my Thermarest pad, PBR in hand with Bob Marley blaring and dogs jumping over me, I realize I now understand the new language. I soak up the stories while my tired body sinks into the ground.

I won’t be throwing any loops on Pipeline, or dunking into a thumpy hole anytime soon, but I have a new appreciation for the sheer power of the river, not to mention the admirable passion of these river runners. I may have lost my sunglasses, but I gained piece of the language of the Lochsa. I’ll carry it proudly back to my land-loving life in Missoula.

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