Riding the Shiulo Photo by Ed Kashi

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Eric Hertz motions me into his room at the Camelia Hotel in downtown Kunming, China. A towel is draped over the floor lamp, the blinds drawn though it is nearly noon. The room is dark and dank and smells of sweat and the tang of pesticide spray.

"I'm scared," he says, "truth is, I'm very scared. I wish this trip was over and we were already safely down the river." Tomorrow we set out for the headwaters of the Shuilo-He, a wild 75-mile long, never-rafted, little-seen tributary of the Yangtze. Paralleling the Tibet border and set amidst the folds of numerous 15,000 to 20,000 foot mountains, should we have trouble on the river, getting out will be extremely difficult. Rescue is out of the question. Hiking out is a possibility, but probably more difficult than running the rapids. Finding a road would require bush-wacking up and over several 15,000 foot peaks. We've brought several hundred feet of climbing rope, assuming that if we are forced to climb out it will require scaling sheer rock faces. We're not even bothering to carry radios because we're too far away from any potential receiver.

Hertz, a 40-year-old former playwright turned river-runner, looks like he slept in his clothes. He learned about rivers guiding for a dozen years on the Grand Canyon; this is hardly the first time he's organized descents on big rivers. I have joined him often, on the first top-to-bottom descent of Chile's Futaleufu, as well as the first commercial trips down Peru's Colca and Apurimac. Since 1990 his specialty has been putting together trips on some of the world's most-endangered rivers -- usually threatened by hydropower dams -- and inviting politicians, environmentalists, indigenous natives and journalists along in order to draw attention to the natural resource. That he appears so nervous today, makes me nervous too.

What we know about the river is far outweighed by what we do not know. We've got only muddy, photocopied maps and no scouting report. We know the river drops 2,000 feet in the first 45 miles; we don't know if the bulk of that might come in a couple 200-foot waterfalls. Our Chinese teammate Zhang Jiyue is China's most-experienced whitewater rafter, a member of the first team to attempt a descent of the Yangtze. He has seen only the spot where we will put-in. Two of our guides, Joe Dengler and Beth Rypins, just kayaked the Yangtze, and saw where the Shuilo He drains. Their report: "It's very big."

"It means the river is running at roughly 20 miles an hour. The faster flow means it will be easier for us to get swept into rapids we'd rather avoid, and tougher to paddle out of trouble..."

Until just a few years ago this countryside was completely off-limits to any visitor, Chinese or otherwise. Except for the few hundred Tibetans who live in small communities near the river, this is unexplored territory. The Shiulo He is one of only a few rivers in the world that has not already been explored. We're here partly because true "firsts" are almost a thing of the past. But as I leave Hertz to re-pack my bags, he announces "this is definitely the last first for me."

We reach the Shiulo He at noon, four days of hard-driving after leaving Lijiang. From where we put-in, the Yangtze is 75 miles away. We're not sure how far down the river we'll get. We're carrying enough food for ten days, which means we'll have to average about 8 miles a day. Very doable, if the river is flat. But if we run into road blocks, we'll run short on provisions.

Thirty-year-old Joe Dengler is the on-river leader of the trip. He and I walk along the Shuilo He for half-a-mile, trying to get a feel for what's to come. I ask if he is nervous. "No, I'm excited," he counters. The great-nephew of a scout on the Lewis & Clark expedition, the sinewy Californian quietly aspires to a life of big adventure. "Do you know how lucky we are, to be out here, doing this stuff, leading this life? I don't feel scared or nervous, I feel lucky?"

Studying the river as it flows past rocks and trees on the far bank, Joe's calculation is that the river is running at about 1,200 cubic feet per second (cfs) -- quite a bit faster than the 800 cfs we'd hoped to find. It means the river is running at roughly 20 miles an hour. The faster flow means it will be easier for us to get swept into rapids we'd rather avoid, and tougher to paddle out of trouble. Gazing at the aquamarine river Joe is quiet, his silence an attempt at downplaying the fact that he wished the river was slower. The reason for concern is that within the first ten miles, according to our 1948 Russian maps, we should meet a sizable tributary, which could double the river's flow. "It's quicker than we'd hoped," Joe finally admits, "but I was also concerned we might get here and find it nearly dry. Too much water is actually an easier situation to deal with than too little water."

From where we unroll and blow-up our boats we can see the river disappear around a corner into a tall, steep-walled canyon. Eighteen of us will be carried by a flotilla comprised of two safety kayakers, two 14-foot rubber rafts, a cataraft (two 16-foot long yellow pontoons attached by an aluminum frame), and a pair of Shredders (two ten-feet long black rubber pontoons connected by a thick rubber floor). We will carry two big bags of ropes and climbing gear, plenty of first aid (and two doctors), 10 pounds of personal gear per person, a propane tank and stove and several water-tight bags of food (mostly rice and freeze-dried casseroles). All of the gear will be packed in the two rafts, which will also carry five people each.

A big, square Tibetan house overlooks our scene and a small crowd of women sit in a row on a bench, dressed mostly in red, watching us pack. Jiyue reports they are as astonished and amazed by our colorful gear -- wetsuits, pile, life jackets, helmets -- as we are by theirs. One local man tells Jiyue that he's hunted in the region for years and that there is a sheer-wall canyon and waterfall not too far downriver. We're not intimidated by the report, figuring that what might be a waterfall to him could be a simply-run rapid for us.

As we pull away from shore the sun has dipped behind a trio of sunlit peaks. A dirt trail runs alongside the river for a couple miles, and a small band of kids runs after us, following until the trail peters out. Prayer flags -- rectangles of white cotton cloth hung vertically on tall poles planted in the earth -- line the river.

We warm-up on some gentle Class III rapids and make camp after just two hours. Already there is concern -- the river is too calm, not dropping fast enough. That guarantees big waterfalls ahead. Somewhere.

Up at 6:30, a quick breakfast of coffee and rice, and we're on the river by 8:30.

It's not long before we meet our first big rapids. Midway through the intial, broad, rock-choked rapid the boat guided by Beth Rypins, one of the best whitewater guides and kayakers in the States, bumps a sizable rock head-on. Harvard lung specialist John Reilly goes backwards out of the boat, but is quickly pulled back in. Thirty minutes later, another big rapid, and Reilly is out again, as are New York City businessman David Larkin, and Beth, who is washed over the back of the boat. Pools of calm water separate these big rapids, so self-rescue is pretty easy. Beth ends up stranded on a rock in mid-river, ahead of her boat.

Then, just before noon, the river begins to narrow, as tight as 12 feet across. Fortunately after we push through a tight section the canyon opens up again. Then narrows. Then opens up. Finally we reach a spot where the river is split neatly in two by a line of rocks; the only way through is a slender slot on river left, barely big enough for the rafts to press through.

Though much of the powerful river is pushing through a thin groove, the bigger problem is that on the right border sits a giant boulder, its top edge razor-sharpened by years of slicing river. Making it even more dangerous, we can see a torrent of water being sucked beneath the rock. Avoiding this obstacle -- which could slice a boat, or sever a head -- is key. But there's little room to manuever in the 15-foot-wide gap.