It was obvious that the river had doubled in volume since the night before, and was rising. Five hours into the hike we reached the river and took a quick food/water break. It was at this point that I looked into Paul's eyes, and said, "This is VERY dangerous. We are fully committed. I don't think we could get the boats back up this trail." Paul's response, "Shaka bro, were going big."

John was all smiles, and Scotty Young had some philosophical response like, " Nothing worth anything in life comes without hard work."

After another sigh, I responded, "Lets get going. We have to move fast."

We were right at the base of a 30-foot boulder drop with a six to eight foot boof 10 strokes down from the put in, and it was pouring. Just downstream the river mellowed out over some class III/IV boulder gardens for a quarter mile- a good warm up. Then the first major horizon line came, and we were sure it was the first of two huge drops. Sure enough, it was a pretty good-looking 30-foot waterfall. Unfortunately, directly below this with no eddy was a twisting 20-foot drop that slammed both walls before forming a huge compression hydraulic at the bottom.

"I had both of my arms wrapped around John and was trying to keep from uncontrollably shaking."

We quickly opted for the portage (after contemplating some lines on the first drop), and started a most heinous bushwhack. Using my boat as a trailblazer, I would toss my boat into the twist thicket and then jump onto my cockpit (which would press the vines down enough that I could get another foothold to repeat the process). I did this until I realized that the ground had dropped away and I was being held 15-20 feet off the ground by these vines. Then I tried to forge a path towards the low road. Eventually, we emerged scraped and bloody below the 30-foot waterfall, but above the twisted 20-foot waterfall. We managed to scurry around the rock and find a good seal launch spot to re-enter the river. Much higher and we wouldn't have been able to paddle out of the dynamic eddy in the bowl that formed compression hole.

Below this drop, it was read and run into the next gorge, where the runnable class V started. We rounded the corner to where the most significant tributary joined our stream (at the base of a 500+ foot waterfall), and right at the confluence was a beautiful eight foot drop into a 20 foot waterfall. We ran one drop after the next. We would scout and run each drop individually, setting up safety and cameras. We continued this slow progress all afternoon, trying to shoot our cameras in the unrelenting weather.

It was actually going great until we all saw the alpine-glow. We realized that our situation was becoming dire. At this point, we were portaging around a sieved-out boulder sluice and were in a nice patch of trees with flat ground and a soft undergrowth. It was starting to get dark, and we had been going all day. We emerged at the bottom of the portage only to be confronted with a river wide, fifteen-foot waterfall. Should we stay or should we go? We didn't have much time to make a decision. The group decision was to go. If we hurried, maybe we would make it to the campground.

So in a read and run format, we went and went quickly, probably taking more chances than we should have, but we made great progress. We got to another corner at twilight, and Scott and John were getting out to portage. Should we stay I asked? "It looks like it goes," John said. I agree, and I can see another eddy. So I went for it, and indeed it was clean, and continuous class IV.

We kept pushing all the way until it was just too dark to see. "Bummer!" I thought. Now we are screwed. With no choice but to drag our boats up on shore, we found a slanted thorn bush-strewn riparian zone high enough that the river wouldn't wash us away. It was cold, and I couldn't imagine spending the next 12 hours here. But that is precisely what was going to happen.

Two hours after dark, it was still raining; 45 degrees, and we had all our wet gear on. Collectively, we had one space blanket, one Goretex bivy sack, two hats, two long sleeve wind stopper Salomon jackets (that absorb water), two short sleeve poly pro tops which John and I used for hats, two apples, 10 cliff bars, four cliff shots, and 10 macadamia nuts. Scott only had shorts on his bottom and we all had short sleeve paddle jackets on.

We situated the boats in a square faced down to block the wind and huddled to conserve heat and energy after an exhausting day. It was cold, and we joked about how we could be at a reggae concert right now. By 11pm, my cramps started, and I was immediately joined by moans from Paul. My quads were rebelling because of the punishment I had put them through during the day, and then to be kept cold all night. We had turned our skirts around so as to sit on neoprene and not the ground to conserve heat, but my legs were not satisfied, and the cramps continued for the next several hours. By 1am, I had both of my arms wrapped around John and was trying to keep from uncontrollably shaking. My lower back was cramped and wanted to be horizontal so bad that I had to lie down.

We saw the moon briefly and then it started pouring again. We moved the bivy sack from over our shoulders to over our faces as each rain drop felt like a frozen bullet piercing my skin. This meant that the brisk wind had an open entrance to our torsos, and every time I moved my legs, I was reminded of the prickle bushes underneath us. In and out of consciousness, I could do nothing but concentrate on not moving to conserve heat. And finally, light slowly entered the canyon. At first I thought I was hallucinating, but then I was certain, another day had come.

by Sam Drevo
Sam has been paddling since the age of nine and competed in his first World Championships at 15. Now semi-retired and based in Portland, Ore, he operates Northwest River Guides, a kayaking school and rafting multi-day outfitter. To learn more about Sam, read WetDawg.com's recent interview with him.