I was all smiles making turns at Alpine Meadows Christmas day. Steep, deep, and cold, the snow couldn't have been finer. Little did we know, it would all soon be in the river. Barely three days later, the rain began to fall.
From Hawaii, with love, the "Pineapple Express" raised temperatures and dropped rain. Storms were packed up over the Pacific like shoppers in malls before Christmas. The line started in Japan, went over Hawaii and ended over the Sierras, where it even rained on the very tops of the mountains themselves. The super-saturated snow spontaneously melted and headed West for the Pacific Ocean. Rivers rose radically and the rain continued.
New Years Day seemed like a good day to paddle the South Fork of the American at flood stage. What other California river can be paddled during a severe flood? That day, the rate at which the water rose was phenomenal. It ferociously rose: as much as ten thousand cubic feet per second per hour! Up and down the river people were gaping at the visibly growing hydraulics.
That morning the flow started at about twenty thousand CFS. Within hours it doubled to forty thousand. By the time we rallied at Chili Bar around one o'clock (boaters lag even in the event of a flood) people were guesstimating the flow to be around fifty grand! The gauge at Chili Bar was no longer functioning. The river was about fifteen feet below the upper packing lot at put in and still rising.
Surprisingly, many boaters were there carefully contemplating their skills and the river's ravenous rage. Even if you had caught the high water days over the past two years (twenty and twenty five thousand CFS), which I had, this was easily double
that
and all together different. The river was still rising too, like our heartbeats and
blood pressure.Rampant debris ripped downriver: picnic benches, propane tanks, coolers, logs, lumber, drainage pipes, parts of buildings, barncos, trash cans, and trees - trees, trees, trees - roots, trunks, branches and all. The debris was out of control, completely unpredictable. A swim in that flotsam would work you over; kill you even, possibly, maybe, hopefully not.
Deliberating our fate, it boiled down to now or never. We decided to put on. Years of anticipated quelled my nerves and controlled my fear as I robotically suited up. Seal launching from the parking lot, Brenda Ernst, Brooke and Ethan Winger, Thomas Baumann, Barry Huseby, Brandon Nelson, Grady Garlough, and myself took the plunge. We grouped together and discussed our game plan. Essentially, keep plenty of space between ourselves, look out for each other and always keep an eye on the debris. Speaking for myself I added, "It's a good day to die but I'm gonna try my best not to."
It was hella fast right from the get-go. The river's edge was a veritable grave yard. Small trees whipped wildly and large trees accumulated massive strainer piles, creating huge sieves. Eddies were rare and inhospitable. Debris would thud on your boat's bottom. Big logs and trees would pass you by like a tractor trailer on a narrow road. Everyone was big-eyed and paddling hard. We were all wondering: Is this sane?
Our first real test, beside putting on, presented itself quickly. Meatgrinder, every Class III boater's nightmare turned into a behemoth wave jamboliah. Waves were moving every which way. They would grow out of nowhere and push upriver. They would pile up beneath you and break with an awesome snap! that would sometimes launch you completely out of the water. Sometimes you would paddle up, up, up and over or, if not so lucky, you'd get crushed and momentarily surrender to the power. Brace for your life, to and fro, laterals would send you side-surfing ten and twenty feet instantly. It was hard to differentiate ourselves from the driftwood that was randomly tossed about everywhere.
The non-stop action hurled us into Racehorse Bend. I could see kayaks flipping like pancakes at the Coloma Club. Survival demanded bomber rolls. Chaos prevailed. Constantly changing, in flux, wild and random, you could not read the river. It was all unfolding and happening underneath us as we went. You could easily be fooled by what you saw ahead. Hydraulics would grow and form, munch and crush, and, just as suddenly, dissipate and disappear. It was frightening, literally we paddled for our lives.
Somewhere around Maya, we luckily spotted an unfortunate woman desperately clinging to an Alder tree in fierce current, surrounded by strainers. Her precarious position and rescue warrant a story of its own. Let it suffice to say this> She eventually let go, swam briefly, and attached herself to the back of Barry's Crossfire. He paddled her through some heinous stuff, even flipping and rolling. Through no will of his own, simply by sheer luck, he deposited her safely on shore. Good on you, Barry.
Other boaters that day flirted with death as well. Several rafts attempted the Gorge and all flipped at Fowler's, the first rapid. Overestimating your skills and underestimating the river can be a disastrous combination. Fortunately, everybody was o.k. Unfortunately, these incidents surely precipitated the "boating ban" that was implemented late New Years Day and lasted about a week. Punishable by confiscation of gear, five hundred bucks and a ride to jail. That was a bummer as the water dropped and the debris ceased.
Back to
the story I was tellin'.Rescue successful, we continued down the maelstrom. Ethan got the ride of his life on a massive breaking wave. Out of the wave came a massive tree that towered above Ethan and looked like it was going to eat him. It somehow got sucked out the back of the wave as Ethan went trough bound. He sure shreds.
Our final exam, Troublemaker, lay ahead. My wife and the Winger's dad (their shuttlebunny) were there watching and waiting. They had seen empty kayaks ghost riding down. A VW bus went through Troublemaker, going faster than it had ever gone under it's own power. The steel cable that normally hangs high above the river was swinging violently at decapitation level. We scurried as far left as we could go.
Minutes later, amidst spectators cheers, we passed under the Highway 49 bridge. Mentally and physically beat we cheered too, in relief and celebration. Surfing a few waves and congratulating one another, we spent the last of our energy. We took out at Camp Lotus, catching an eddy behind the bathrooms that are next to the store.
That day and through the night the river continued to rise. The valley was closed and people in range of the river were evacuated. Officials feared Chili Bar or Ice House Dam(n) might fail. January 2nd, the river peaked at an estimated sixty five thousand CFS at Chili Bar. It was perhaps eighty thousand down in the Gorge. At any rate, the river was big and, boats ashore, feet on firm ground, so were our smiles.