As a follow-up to Art’s fantastic post, I figured it would be best to now share with you, dear readers, the pictures that I took while on our Next-to-Last Descent of the Romaine River.  That’s right- word has come through the grapevine that another group, shortly after our trip, managed to make their way into the third gorge under the cover of darkness.  I am not sure how they got away with that; it sounds unbelievable, but this life I have lived has given me plenty of chances to see or experience the unbelievable.  So hat’s off to those mystery boaters who could not be told “NO!”  No names are known and cerntainly would not be shared on the internet, but, if they happen to read this post: GOOD WORK, FOLKS!

Enough of that: this is my supplemental content post, so it’s time to cut to the chase!  Here are the foggy, misty pictures of our trip that I managed to snap with a temperamental point-and-shoot that couldn’t quite cut it in the constant cold rain.

We had a lot of short portages around big holes. Lowering the boats or throw-and-go action was occasional.

Boreal forests and granite walls were the standard view in the long pools...

..as were waterfalls cascading down the cliff faces...

...which, of course, was spectacular.

The bog we crossed when the headwinds on the lower river became too strong

The bog was beautiful itself, but grueling to hike across and full of carnivorous plants like these Sarracenia.

It was a remarkable trip to the (former) end of the line: Haver-St-Pierre and beyond.

In my mind, our trip was done with direct inspiration from the “Down the River” chapter of Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire: we had a notorious river, a thing of spectacular beauty, that we knew was doomed.  Days numbered, we felt it was absolutely necessary for us to go and see this river before it disappears for the remaining length of human existence.  It was just as we expected, our journey best described as bittersweet: the scenery and whitewater were spectacular, the difficulty of the logistics and enduring the weather was a wonderful challenge.  However, seeing the construction site and being faced directly with what we loose as we seek “progress” was a major bummer, as I could casually understate.

Back in my hometown, the questions are being asked about what price we pay for our energy consumption as shale drilling moves ahead full-bore.  The cost is more evident and easily understood in our Appalachin case:  We already have had the potentially upsetting connections between climate change and fossil fuels drilled into us as vigorously as any oil company sinking their wells.  The spectre of spills and gas migration contaminating our water supply is, of course, an immediate perilous prospect that anyone would take notice of; it is even easier to notice when it is in the middle of your neighborhood, down the street or up the hill, another virtual street corner dealer supplying the fix of hydrocarbons our developed world is addicted to.  But this was different!  On La Romaine, we were confronted with the ugly side of “green” energy.  Hydropower is frequently lauded as a major source of what is perceived as cheap, plentiful, zero-impact energy.  With the Romaine Complex, our group had the fortune of seeing what is destroyed to make these billion dollar projects.  Almost our entire trip upstream of La Grande Chute will be inundated by the dams once the project is completed.   Roads bulldozed in what was formerly pristine wilderness and thousands of square kilometers of boreal forest submerged.

To what end?  As I understand, Hydro-Quebec supplies 40% of all energy consumed in Quebec, successfully meeting the domestic electric demands of the province.  What is left is a surplus to sell to the United States.  Are these new lakes to just, in the short term, help the residents in New York City turn on their air conditioners?  In the long term to facilitate the utilization (exploitation?) of natural resources in Nord-du-Quebec, a region of wilderness significantly larger than the state of Texas that remains almost entirely undeveloped?  To those in Pennsylvania and West Virginia, shale gas is in our faces and people find it very easy to find a way to oppose it- this is different.  Instead, we the public find it very easy to accept or even embrace these changes when they are somewhere we can’t see, somewhere no one we know has likely been.  The questions now brought to me from our adventure are of the very value of what we know as progress.  Do we need this electricity?  Is it worth it to trade away the wilds to keep the juggernaut of progress moving forward?  Our lives are immeasurably more comfortable than those of our predecessors- do we really need more?  What of those in the developing world?  Do they not deserve a slice of the same pie that I eat from?  If we were to renounce modern life, what would replace it?  Could any of us be satisfied by that?  What would that even mean?  The sight of the Romaine #2 Complex excavations raised nothing but questions and provided no definitive answers.

In my ongoing effort to provide new content while I have some downtime, I have a quick follow-up to the last post about Webster Wildwater Weekend.  As I made my way back to the Ohiopyle area, I received a phone call from my friend Don Smith, whom I’d hit up on my way to the Blackwater the previous Friday, with the message on my voicemail being:  ”Winter has returned to Tucker County.”  No news to me; I figured that much out while I was sliding off of SR219 Friday night.  What was news to me was how much snow had fallen (official Canaan Heights weather station total: A CRAPLOAD.  Okay, the dude with the weather station didn’t record that day.)   Moreover, there was a warm snap coming as part of another front.  I had some work to attend to at home, but two of our buddies from Ohio were already on the scene and getting ready for the action.   According to the records at Canaan Heights Weather Station we had 14″ of snow melt on us over the next day. That’s more than an album by a wack Canadian rapper, for real.  You know I got my ass down there as quick as I could!  We had a little cookout on Don’s porch; Kyle ate Don’s last hot dog.  Ill move by an raw dude.  What’s worse is that he blamed it on me, that jagoff.  If I was Don, I woulda kicked his ass out in the rain.  Then we screened Close Encounters of the Third Kind, discussed the role of the “French Intellectual” in movie archetypes, and kept watching the radar to see how much more rain was coming.  Eventually, it started to snow, but we knew we had enough water, for sure.   Something was in.  When dawn broke, the decision was made:  Red Creek!  Red Creek is a hard-to-catch creek that drains Dolly Sods Wilderness Area above West Virginia’s Canaan Valley,  approximately 7mi or 12km long and dropping in the heart of the gorge at about 250ft/mi or a 5% grade.  We mobilized, using local yokel Curtis Heishman for shuttle and a successful infiltration to our secret winter trailhead.  We started grinding out that two miles in booties through the slushy snow…

Long walk, cold feet- but you know you'd do it in a heartbeat if you were there.

Will we ever feel our toes again?

After an hour’s walk, we arrived at the put-in on the Left Fork of Red Creek

Left Fork Slush and Scrape! All downhill from here

We paddled hard that day- because that’s the only way to stay warm on days like this!

Kyle Wingler boofs off of Clapper

Shawn Yingling running Double Clapper

The thing about Red Creek, besides the fact that it drains the absolutely beautiful Dolly Sods Wilderness Area of Monongahela National Forest, is that it boats fast.  Not that I ever boated anything slow with Don.  But soon we were past the 3 Left Boofs (protip: there are 4 left boofs), past SuperSlide, past Hammerfactor, and below that other rapid I don’t know the name of.

Shawn Yingling below the rapid I don't know the name of where you go far left

We portaged Mood Ring, and found ourselves on the paddle out.

No more than a few weeks later, I was back at Red Creek with some friends who had never run it before.  I told them that it was too low.  They refused to listen.  I brought up the fact that the North Fork of the Blackwater was running.  No, they wanted to do Red Creek.  They heard the ZoneDogg had done it that low before.   Picture me rolling my eyes.  Well, they were my ride.  I went along with it.  When the guilty parties read this post, they will be indignant.  They will shake their fists and defend their decision, but, in their hearts, they will know it was true:  Red Creek wasn’t running.  It wasn’t so bad while we were in the rapids, but the paddle out was hell.  Oh, and there was carnage.  Low-water carnage, and two of us walking out.  Really, though, it was an adventure and a good time with good friends, and everyone got to see what a magical place Red Creek is.  Here’s a pair of videos edited by some guys on that trip- they make good videos:

Fast Tube by Casper

John Stephen’s Red Creek POV vid

and if you ever show up to the bridge in Laneville, and are looking at the takeout, wondering “Is this enough water to run??”

This is too low!

It’s been a long, hot summer- at least for my boating.  I got some free time on my hands, nevermind why, so I figure I oughta share some goodies with ya, right?  Let’s reach back, way back, to the first weekend in April of 2011: Webester Wildwater Weekend! Yeah, I am going to post about Class II boating- and Class V partying!

My homie Brenton, being the sick-ass dude he is, was sick of studying.  He was sick of work.  He had a couple days free, and, of course, decided to convince me that we needed to get our boats wet!!  Thankfully, the second thaw of the year had just hit WV the week prior, and we high-tailed it to the Blackwater River to catch what flow we could.  I made a few phone calls to my Tucker County friends, but it looked like it was just gonna be us catching a low flow on the B for Brenton’s much-anticipated first run on one of the most CLASSIC of WV’s runs.  We knew we had to move fast, as another storm was moving in:

the snow started falling before we even reached Tucker County

The river was running about 200cfs- an undoutably low level, but beggars can’t be choosers.  We needed our whitewater! By the time we were halfway down, we had not just whitewater but white-air, too; the snow was coming down!

Fat flakes were falling as we banged our way down- a lot of people shy away at low levels, but when it’s the dead of winter or the middle of summer, I don’t see any reason to not take what you can get!  I need my whitewater; soon enough, not only was the water white, but the air, too.

We hiked out, got some food, and hit the road for Webster Springs to meet up with some of our friends.  The drive was harrowing, with 4″ of slush covering SR219 as we dropped off the mountain.  At one point I turned the wheel only to get no purchase…I slid helplessly across both lanes and off the berm on the other side of the road.  Luckily for me, the next vehicle to come along was a truck carrying 3 generations of good ol’ boys.  Did they have a chain? HELL YEAH THEY HAD A CHAIN!  The youngin and me were on our bellies in the snow lickity split, wrapping that chain around my frame and they dropped the truck into 4-low and gave it a mighty yankin’- out I came.  Hands shook, appreciation given; people talk shit on the folk in WV, but I wouldn’t trade ‘em for no one else.  I was back on the road just before Johnny Law rounded the corner, no doubt seeing my tracks and smashing his hat like Roscoe P. Coltrane in his frustration to miss out on catchin’ me on a reckless driving charge.  We got to Weston and dropped Brenton’s not-so-trusty CRV at the Super8 motel I practically lived out of the winter before and proceeded forthwith to the beating heart of West Virginia.  We arrived, after some discussion with the local constabulary about the velocity of my vehicle (thankfully not the odor coming from Brenton’s breath or the color of my eyes), late in the evening- just in time for Brenton to tie one on with our friends Brian Bridgewater and John Quigley- great pals, solid dudes, and partners in other adventures.  These guys were champs, stepping up the next morning for the annual downriver race on the Elk River.  The Elk is a friendly class II run that can be had in the spring- we were hoping to ignore the race and catch some of the better class III whitewater in the area, which I have never done- classics like the Cherry, the Cranberry, and the Back Fork of the Elk.  Unfortunately, despite the snow we had in Tucker falling as cold rain and sleet in Webester County, the rivers hadn’t risen- yet.  I decided, of course, that I was going to race, too.  I signed up for the sub-3m boat class and headed upstream to shiver at the starting line. I jogged back and forth about a half mile at the put-in, did some stretching to warm up, and put on.  A true mass start, everyone bunched up on the opposite shore- I thought this was the starting line.  NO! We had a rolling start under the bridge. I was starting from the back of the pack!  No matter- a few elbows in the faces of the club boaters from Indiana and a few strokes off the chests of the folks falling behind me and I was in the lead group…but with a guy in a longboat closing in behind me.  Eventually he overtook me, but I kept stroking….and stroking..a few miles later and we were at the biggest rapid of the run, PX Falls, and I could see the singular wildwater boater and the 3 leading longboats out in front of me.   Caving to temptation, a glance over my shoulder revealed the other shortboats lagging almost out of sight behind me, victory in my class locked up.

Brian Bridgewater on the way to first place in the longboat category

John Quigley feeling the burn and staying safe with the elbow pads on

Your author with his eyes on the prize, crushin' out the shortboats over 8mi of shallow riffles and short ledges

some dude on his way to win the inflatable category..no lie!

taking an interesting line to get ahead of the other sit-on-tops

Opps, I meant "Leading the swim-besides!" Did I mention that it was about 36°F that day?

Well, that line worked for the ducks...

Though, I think as locals they knew the lines better than the rest of us...

Once we were done, Brenton and I headed back to camp for a quick nap before we hit the party.  Yes, that’s what Webster Fest is about- the party.  Class II whitewater, Class V partying.   They have this gazebo/amphitheater thing with an vented roof to allow for indoor bonfires.  There is a stage, too, for the bluegrass band.  And then there is the pizza. And Beer.  It’s a good time.  Especially if you are obviously rollin’ on molly like this the sweaty, red-bearded maniac foot dancing in the picture below or the man known as Orange Crush (you will know him when you see him in real life, trust me).  Characters, I tell ya.

Dude was like a Gucci Mane lyric: "Bitch, I might be!" Kids, don't do drugs. But go ahead and jump fires.

Brenton and I spent a fair amount of time working our connections throughout the evening, trying to find something we wanted to paddle the next day.  We weren’t going to be satisfied with another run on the Elk.  No way.  Finally, the next morning, after breakfast, we had it: a rendezvous at at Mason’s Branch to run the Lower Meadow.   The Lower Meadow looms large in East Coast boating lore- Eister and Davidson’s Wild Water West Virginia refered to it as “for the Kamikaze Kanoe Klub” and a great article about the second descent in an old American Whitewater I read as a child was titled “TRAPPED IN AN UNDERWATER CAVE!!”  This river is nothing but hollowed out sandstone boulders piled on other worn sandstone boulders- a plethora of sieves, a symphony of siphons, more undercuts than you can shake your paddle at.   I don’t know why, but I left my camera in the car.  We packed into the truck and headed to the put in for my first time paddling with some dudes plus John Moore, who has since become a regular partner-in-crime and is always good for getting me fired up to run the stouts.   It was a sunny, nice day with water in the mid-800’s and the Lower Meadow, with a guide, was a ton of fun.  Solid class IV, but giving a sharper, more invigorating experience than the difficulty of the moves would suggest, as there was always a death trap looming just beyond the correct lines.  We hit the Upper Gauley for my third run on that whitewater standard at an ultra-low level.  Yeah, I know- can you believe I’d only run the Gauley twice before?  Weird.  Iron Ring at about 1 grand is ugly.  I shoulda brought my camera…shoulda, shoulda, shoulda…  At the takeout, we said goodbye to our new friends and chilled by a creek for a little bit, Brenton and I taking a moment to enjoy the bounty that Jah provides and to reflect on the nature of exploring the great, wide world around us.   Then we hit the road, another great weekend behind us….

Well guys….this is my first post for River Left, and I am positively delighted to be on board.  I have plenty to share with you from the past couple months….we’ve had a lot of fun out here in the wild and wonderful woods of Appalachia, and I have even made it to a few other places besides.  I have a few throwback joints to share with you as well.  I wasn’t sure where to start, so I’ll just leave you with a video that illustrates the slogan with which I titled this first post of mine….My good friend Rich Yester edited a video of us running a creek very close to my hometown.  A creek with a long hike to the put in.   A creek where you have to guess how much water is at the put in from a spot far downstream.  A creek that is pretty darn small, besides.  We walked in, and the water level was- well, one person who watched this video exclaimed “THAT’S SOME ROWDY ELFING” and, yes, they are right.  So here it is: Glade Run of Dunbar Creek.  If you are wondering, it drains the same swamp as Ohiopyle’s famous Meadow Run.  Anytime Meadow Run goes high, real heads think about running this instead of nearby Fikes Run.  Heavy riffs on the soundtrack by Golden, CO’s CircleNunberDot, and watch halfway in for a classic Scotty D moment and a no-water run by me of the cave-and-seive portage.  I promise I’ll post something with real paddling instead of lubricated rocksledding soon enough, folks.

Fast Tube by Casper