6:50 AM

It's a rare day that I happily wake up before 8:30 or so, and typically the only thing that may save me from early-morning-anguish is the promise of adventure. Despite how little of a morning person I consider myself, waking up early to go kayaking excites me. I don't have to set 20 alarms, or snooze for an hour--the moment I open my eyes I'm ready to get going, and knowing a personal first descent lies ahead motivates me even further, especially on a river like the Green. I'm nervous, that's for sure; but, it's a healthy nervous. I'm not trembling in fear, or running through every circumstance in which "stuff" could hit the fan; quite the opposite actually. I'm ecstatic, and make sure to spend some quality time visualizing all the clean lines I'm about to hit. I've watched so many youtube videos and read so much beta, I felt as if I already knew the river. I felt nervous, but I felt damn good.

Throughout the process of loading my buddy Nathan's car with boats, gear, and the like, I can't help but to think about perhaps one of the most famous rapids in the world: Gorilla. All the water in the river is stuffed through a crack just over two yards wide (the Notch), then proceeds a frothy ten or fifteen yards before dropping somewhere around 18 feet into a churning foaming mess of either chaos or sheer whitewater bliss (typically dictated by the orientation of your boat at this time-- being upside down or sideways flushing into "Speed Trap", the hydraulic immediately below the drop, isn't the most joyous of experiences). Most Green Narrows first-timers run what is called "Green Light", which is simply the Narrows section but you walk the "Big Three"-- three intimidating and highly consequential class V rapids that really take this river up a notch. Gorilla is one of the big three, and while it may not necessarily be the most consequential (which is absolutely not to say that it isn't seriously consequential), it is definitely the biggest. I knew everyone typically walks Gorilla their first time (with many Green boaters opting to walk the rapid every time), but I couldn't help thinking "Man, wouldn't it be badass if I ran Gorilla my first time out there? What if I freewheeled it and didn't even warn anyone? That sure would be cool". My unwarranted sense of pre-river confidence was through the roof, and though I knew these were probably mere fantasies, it was still fun to tinker with the idea.

7:56 AM

Really Nathan? Burger King, for breakfast? Better yet, Burger King at all? I don't know exactly what I was looking to fuel my body with that morning, but not-so-good ole BK just wa-- wait, two sausage egg and cheese biscuits for four bucks? Burger King works for me.

8:33 AM

Driving down Interstate 26 Nathan and I find ourselves with East Flat Rock to our West, and the mighty Green River Gorge to our East. Getting my first glance down into this massive ditch of sorts was humbling; I don't really know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't quite as aesthetically impressive as the gorge before me. Other similar areas in North Carolina like Linville Gorge and even perhaps the Nantahala Gorge gain a lot more attention due to factors like accessibility and a more broad array of recreational opportunities, but despite these factors, it still surprises me that the Green isn't more hyped than it is. In the kayaking world it's huge--paddlers from all reaches of the earth flock here to compete in the Green Race the first weekend of every November. Outside of the paddling world, though, it doesn't seem to be that well known (relatively speaking, anyway). Unfortunately, it's becoming more and more rare to find a beautiful and pristine area like the Green River Gorge without the commercial baggage that humanity inevitably taints it with. Aside from a few houses and a handful of quaint fishing access points, most of the region remained untarnished by man's greed.

Not only in this brief moment did I consider all of the above, but my armpits began to sweat profusely as well (partially due to an episodic case of hyperhidrosis and partially due to the intimidatingly boulder clogged nature of the tiny little trickle at the very bottom of this vast crack in the earth that I'm staring down into).

My dad was a talented whitewater kayaker back before I came around and gave him something else to do with his time, and he talks about the Green like it's for crazy people. Granted, it is a different era, and reaches like the Narrows get paddled with a lot more regularity today than in, say, the 90's--that fact did little to ease my mind.

9:05 AM

Pulling into a small parking lot called Fishtop—a mere speck on the bottom of the deep, forested trench that is the Green River Gorge—the magnitude of what I was about to do started to sink in. Fishtop was the humble take-out for the Narrows. This peaceful little access point made perfect sense for fishermen; the immediate area was gently graded and a 50-or-so yard trail led down to the (at this point) tranquil creek that was the Green. If I didn't know any better I certainly wouldn't guess there was class V whitewater at any point on this creek. I couldn't decide whether the contrast between the amiable character of this section of the river and the convoluted mess of a cascade that lied upstream was comforting or daunting or somehow a mix of the two.

Nathan and I met three friends of ours that morning who happened to have upwards of a combined 400 Green laps under their belts-- there would be no shortness of beta or safety out there which certainly gave me confidence.

9:29 AM

We drop by the gas station in Saluda and I think to myself, I'm not starving, but I should probably grab a snack for the river. The final rapid of the "Big Three", Sunshine, is a 15 foot drop onto a massive rock. There are narrow lines on each side (water level depending), but missing them could mean bad news. On a much lighter note, my friend and coworker Tara (who just so happens to be a badass kayaker) happily informed of a rock situated just below Sunshine that is much friendlier, and apparently just begs you to sunbathe on it, so I figured a snack would complement that beautiful moment quite nicely--Sierra Trail Mix Clif Bar it is.

9:49 AM

We turn onto Gallimore Road, at the end of which is the Green put-in parking lot, and I get one of the strangest feelings. Imagine the butterflies you get when talking to your crush, but while also blazing downhill on a roller coaster, and when you get off the roller coaster you get to go to sleep on Christmas Eve--an intoxicating blend of euphoria, nerves, thrill, and perhaps even a bit of anxiety for what's to come. Moreso now than ever, I wish I could skip the whole gearing up process; all I want in this moment is to be nice and snug in my boat at the put-in; but, we must walk.

9:56 AM

Following an episode of half-frantically searching for Nathan's keys (if Nathan doesn't lose something, you didn't really go kayaking), we set off on our .6 mile trek down to the river. I followed Tara as she told me about how much worse of a hike this used to be, and I quite half-assedly listened. It's not that I didn't care, but I had far more important things on my mind. I superseded her as she stopped to transfer her boat to her other shoulder--I had no time for shoulder-switching, for it was no-stops-til-the-put-in for me. After probably a 10 or 11 minute walk (despite feeling like an eternity) I lay eyes on the river and the inviting fire ring that inhabits the bank next to it.

10:04 AM

"Man, this sure would be a cool place to camp", I think to myself. "Ahh, camping. So relaxing and cozy. It would be nice to be warm and dry, sitting by a fire right now. Instead, I'm gripped, about to paddle myself down a creek that drops over 400 feet in less than a mile and a half. What a life.

I can't help but notice that the gradient at the put-in is nearly as lack-luster of that at Fishtop. It blows my mind that in this massive gorge, the entire river maintains a slow, reserved nature, save the almost 3 mile section ahead of us. Where I stand and where I stood almost an hour ago, the Green looks incredibly suitable for more humble watercraft--inner tubes, perhaps. Between those two places, though, all hell breaks loose. There are steep holes, narrow lines, boulders, undercuts, rock shelves where you don't want rock shelves to be, and all types of other natural obstacles allowing ample opportunity for either southeastern whitewater nirvana or some serious geology-for-lunch style chundering.

10:05 AM

*Nervous pee break*

10:08 AM

Going through the check list in my head was when it really sunk in. Shoes were tied, float bags were filled, dry bag and water bottle were secured, backband and PFD were tightened, and the helmet and sprayskirt went on--it was game time. "This ain't the Nantahala no more", I think to myself as I splash water in my face to "awaken the senses", per se.

10:17 AM

I'm feeling good through the boogie, which doesn't say much in terms of what's to come but certainly isn't a bad thing. I'm visualizing Frankenstein-- the first rapid of note. Weave my way through these boulders then pull a fat righty and boof the right side of the rock, skipping out underneath the looming undercut. English translation: take a hard right stroke, pulling myself off of the lip of this four-or-so foot drop pouring off the right side of a pyramid shaped rock. When I land, I should be pointed left and be able to paddle my way underneath a massive overhanging boulder. This rapid epitomizes southeastern-style creekboating and I couldn't wait to get a taste.

10:30 AM

I boof my way through "Bride of Frankenstein", the entrance to Frankenstein "proper" which lies probably fifty yards downstream. Being that I'm the only first timer out there, everyone naturally asks me if I want to scout it. While I did plan on making a day out of this-- taking plenty of time to scout, grabbing some pictures, having a snack, etc.-- I wanted to get this one under my belt first.

"I know the line, it's in the first twenty seconds of any Green Race video you watch", I explained to an understanding bunch. They agreed a read and run wouldn't hurt,

You're supposed to boof two small rocks that are mere millimeters above the water's surface at the 9 inch level we had that day. I boofed the first one, but slid off the left side of the second-- though I worried initially, I was relieved to find it didn't throw me off in any way. I took a left turn, gave it a good lefty then pulled a right stroke like my life depended on it, only to find myself land bow-up in the most bubbly and inviting waters I had ever seen. I was even shaded from the sun, thanks to the undercut I was admittedly quite afraid of 10 seconds prior.

10:39 AM

Man, does that ease the tension. With the first rapid under my belt and in good fashion, my confidence soared. I finally felt like a Green boater. I felt like I belonged out there. My hips were loose, my head was on straight, and I couldn't wait for what awaited me downstream. Any and all apprehension had flown out the window. No more first time jitters, no more questioning myself, no more of anything that would hold me back--just good old fashioned soul-boating in one of the most rugged, humbling places I've ever been. It was time to have some fun.

10:54 AM

"So this one's called Whale Tail, real easy, just a nice little slide with a three foot ledge at the end. Super chill, just don't go left", Tara explained.

10:55 AM

As I'm serendipitously sliding off of the "Whale Tail", I look to my left and see why I was instructed not to go that way. There's a two foot wide crack between the end of the rock shelf I'm sliding on and the gorge wall, and all types of water is pouring into it. The feature creates this frothing, churning confusion of water contained within this slot that simply doesn't look like it would be a fun place to go for a swim. It's such a simple rapid, but the geology of the Green River Gorge never ceases to remind you that even the most beautiful, seemingly harmless of rapids could potentially kill you if you aren't careful.

11:03 AM

I'm told that we're coming up on Boof or Consequences, which Coty gleefully informs me is "the beginning of the goodies". This should have told me something about what was to come.

Coty loves mank. What is mank, you may ask? Mank is shallow, technical, low-volume creek boating. Bouncing off of rocks and boulders, making quick, tight moves, and never really going all that fast. Tara showed me the line, and it immediately became apparent why Coty was so fond of this rapid as well as what lay beyond. It seemed as if the river dropped off of the face of the earth past this point, and I'd be lying if I told you the gradient wasn't a bit intimidating.

I watched Tara run it, then hopped in my boat and followed suit. Rather than bouncing myself forward off of this rock, I found myself sliding sideways towards what looked to me like a disgustingly undercut rock shelf. Tara said it wasn't anything to worry about, but considering the circumstances, I was worried about it. Fortunately, I was able to squeeze by, but this not-so-great line was enough to remind me that even the slightest miscalculation could mean trouble.

11:06 AM

The thing that I admire most about the river is its indifference. Growing up playing team sports, I grew used to this back and forth you'll inevitably see when you tune into whatever game may be on any given night. It's all about momentum. Score two touchdowns in a row? That's momentum. Throwing three shutout innings while your offense puts five runs on the board? It's safe to say you've got the momentum. Style the hardest rapid you've ever run? Have three of the cleanest lines you've ever had, back to back to back? Throw a new trick on that drop you've always been scared of? You don't have shit. The river doesn't give a damn if you're having the best day of your life or if you've swam three times by the first rapid. You let your guard down on the field and you might just lose a ballgame. You let your guard down on the Green and you might just lose your life.

11:09 AM

We come up on "Go Left and Die", the first of the Green's "Big 3". Running this one isn't even a consideration of mine, so I gladly follow the rest of my crew (save Curtis) down this bumpy yet manageable slide to the right of the main drop--the sneak route. From the pool below, I watch Curtis drop in over this two foot ledge, skip five yards across a frothing pile of whitewater, drop eight feet into a two foot wide slot between two profoundly unforgiving boulders, where he proceeds to drop another three feet between said boulders, sideways. He flips between the boulders, and it looked as if he might have eaten one of them. Fortunately, he rolled up in the pool below with his face intact. One thing was missing, though--one of his paddle blades. His paddle snapped between the rocks, leaving him with no option but to use the hand paddles he brought in his boat for the remainder of the river.

"Dude's got balls," I thought.

11:16 AM

"Every rapid is a new one", I remind myself. "Zwick's is coming up, and if I don't bring my A game, I'm going to get thrashed. Stay sharp. Focus on your strokes, see the line, then execute it with precision. Be confident, but be prepared for shit to hit the fan. That's the name of the game out here".

11:19 AM

We stop above a rapid called "Reverse Seven Foot", named after "Seven Foot Falls" on the nearby Chattooga River. It is basically the entrance to"Zwick's Backender", a rapid named after Mark Zwick (and his back ender in the sticky hydraulic the rapid's known for). We could've run reverse seven foot then scouted Zwick's, but I was told that A) it's better to run Zwick's with some speed, which putting in right above the rapid doesn't allow for, and B) it's far more fun to link the two rapids together.

As I'm staring down into this hydraulic that looks like it wants kayakers for breakfast, I think of all the stories of Zwick's lines gone awry. I have friends who have gotten tossed here, and I've read many accounts of stuff generally not going as planned in this rapid. What's a bit unsettling is that most of these stories' subjects are better kayakers than me. While this obviously wasn't a comforting fact, it's something else the river just doesn't care about. It doesn't matter if so-and-so who's run this-and-that got worked here a month ago-- I'm here now, and if I execute the line, I'll be in good shape, period. Tired of looking and becoming a bit anxious, I buckle my helmet and head back to my boat with a newfound motivation.

11:23 AM

Reverse Seven Foot went smoothly, and just as planned I was heading right for Zwick's in a hurry. Tara leads the way--I see her pull the left stroke of her life, then she abruptly falls off this ledge, her head being the only remaining appendage I see beyond the horizon line.

"Strong left, pull the knees up, lean forward. If you're on line, ride the lightning. If you're too far right, bang down the race line. Too far left, ride the curler and boof against the wall, just don't go in the seam. Charging for the top hole of Zwick's, I've got plans A, B, and C in my back pocket.

11:24 AM

*Biggest boof stroke of my existence* "I'M PAST THE HOLE", I mentally scream to myself as I lift my bow up and over the hydraulic, skipping across it in even more graceful fashion than I had hoped for. Zwick's isn't over yet, though.

I'm coming in hot on the second drop but angled just a bit too far right. I fall off the 6 foot drop sideways, landing and immediately flipping in the foamy runout of one of the most fun rapids I've ever ran. Maintaining my composure, I simply set up and roll, returning to the land of the breathing. When I roll up, I find myself still underneath part of the drop, floating towards an inviting pool that briefly housed four friends of mine, and they were all smiles--it's truly hard not to be in places like this.

11:26 AM

Despite flipping at the bottom of Zwick's, I felt really good about it. I absolutely greased the crux move, and I think if I had been pointed five degrees further left I would've been just as successful on the second drop. Noticing small things like this and constantly micromanaging is key when you're running something as technical as the Green, so I made sure to make a mental note of that one so as to fix the line next time. For now, though, on to "Chief's"-- one of the most dangerous rapids on the river.

11:33 AM

I already knew a great deal about Chief's from reading the American Whitewater write-up of the Green, but received a few more vital pieces of information as we scouted.

I knew Chief's was the last rapid before Gorilla, the big one. What I didn't know was that there were maybe 20 yards between the two rapids. In addition, I wasn't previously aware of the size of the eddy you must catch if you're looking to walk Gorilla-- it's small. You have to make sure there aren't already several boats in the eddy before you run Chief's or you're not going to catch it, and you're going to run Gorilla whether you want to or not. I did not want to run Gorilla blind my first time down, so you better believe I made sure there was room in that eddy. To get to the eddy, though, I must first successfully run Chief's.

There isn't a whole lot to the rapid. All the water drops three or four feet off of the left side of a boulder--simple enough, right? Not so fast. Unfortunately (or fortunately? depending on how fond you are of inherent danger) there's a rock right in the outflow of the drop, and that rock is just begging the weary paddler to run into it, get stuffed in a small cave on the left, and drown. Isn't kayaking fun?

In all seriousness, though, it is a very dangerous rapid. Counterintuitively, what may add to said danger is the fact that when done right, it looks so easy. Green boaters routinely make Chief's look like a class 3 rapid despite how unpleasant or even fatal an imprecise line could be, but it's absolutely crucial to remember that a screw-up here could cost you big time. Despite the risks, I finally peel myself off of the bank and get in my boat--it's time to run this thing (and catch that eddy!).

11:37 AM

Everyone styled it, and now I'm up. Man, it sure would suck to mess this one up. I'm too young to die; perhaps even too young to get stuffed in a waterborne cave (I don't really know at what age you get the OK to start getting stuffed in waterborne caves but you get the idea). I peel out of the eddy and start paddling, longing to feel that boulder slide under my boat as I ride up on it and over the other rock that wants me to die. Approaching it quickly, I put in three more good strokes, that final lefty bringing me home. My bow glances the boulder, and I glide right into the calm water below, only to begin frantically paddling once again. I make it to the eddy and breathe a great sigh of relief-- I'm officially not running Gorilla blind.

11:44 AM

At this point I knew I probably wouldn't be running Gorilla, but I figured giving it a look wouldn't hurt--who knows, maybe I'll see it and really want to fire it up.

'Twas a halfhearted scout at best-- as soon as I saw the Notch I was out. It wasn't my day to be a hero, and a funny little plaque on the ground comforted me in my moment of perceived weakness. You know what, Jerry? Maybe I will run it next time. Maybe.

11:48 AM

I walk down to take a look at the main drop of Gorilla, otherwise known as "the flume".

"Freewheel this?!", I thought to myself before chuckling at my own naivety. If the notch wasn't there, I'd consider running it. If the notch wasn't there and there weren't two menacing slides (one of which is named "Scream Machine") immediately downstream, I'd definitely run it; but, there are, so I shall take a break from all this kayaking and go for a pleasant stroll to just below the Flume, where I'll slide off a ten foot high rock shelf and run the slides.

11:56 AM

One by one, I watch Curtis, Coty, and Nathan precede me, dropping in and riding the slides down to an eddy that's probably a good fifty feet below where I stand. After Nathan shows me his line--just far enough right to miss the meat of the hole but not so far right that you're scraping rock the whole way-- I get in my boat and take a second to just visualize. I see myself punching the hole below scream machine, taking a couple good strokes to work right, then skip out of the second slide, laughing and smiling like a kid in a candy store. The next 30 seconds were going to be a roller coaster, and I was thrilled for it. Time to go fast.

12:00 PM

Sprayskirt on, helmet buckled, PFD tightened, head right--it's now or never. I begin sliding down the massive stone, gaining speed until I push off with one hand and skip right into the water. As soon as I land, I lay eyes on one particular point on the horizon line before me, and I charge for it. Within four seconds I find myself at the lip of scream machine, and only a second and a half after that, I find myself at the bottom of scream machine... stuck.

12:01 PM

I don't get my bow up and over the hydraulic at the bottom of scream machine, the first slide, and the front of my boat sinks deep into the water. By the time my boat regains its buoyancy, I've had time to consider a thousand things. There's no way I was too far left. I came in pretty straight. This hole shouldn't hold me, at least not at nine inches considering the line I took. It shouldn't hold me, but it is. As soon as I realize that my stern is about to get eaten by this hole, my heart sinks; but, there's no time to be scared.

Sometimes in kayaking you get scared. It's natural. Approaching a big drop, scouting a new rapid, etc.--there are innumerable instances in which it is totally reasonable for a kayaker to be scared. One way you can always tell if something is going seriously south is to pay attention to your fear, or perhaps more importantly, a lack thereof. When the hole stopped me, I was scared. When the hole began to suck me back in, I lost all traces of fear and my only thoughts became rational and instinctive; it's an intriguing phenomenon.

I feel myself creeping backwards, and try to throw my hip around in an effort to maintain a controlled side surf. Much to my consternation, I throw my hip a bit too hard and experience the most intense window shading of my life. So, picture this: I'm upside down, I've still got half the rapid to go, I'm getting churned by this massive hydraulic, and I'm on the steepest and quite possibly most daunting section of whitewater I've ever paddled. I have to get out of this hole.

I try to roll, and miss. I try another roll, and miss again. I switch to my offside, roll, and window shade once again, hard. One more missed roll, and I press the panic button--I have to come out of this boat.

12:00:19 PM

I pull my skirt and the force of the hole sucks me out of my boat with an aggressive immediacy. The orientation of my body which had at this point been reduced to a ragdoll is beyond me, but if I had to guess, I'd guess I got sent deep; it felt like minutes before I was returned to the surface. When I finally saw the light, I swam for my life.

12:00:29 PM

At the bottom of the second slide, a healthy 70% of the water in the river heads right for a massive rock on river left. That rock is undoubtedly what concerned me most about this swim--I was for some reason under the impression that it was undercut. Above the second slide, I'm fighting to get right, just hoping I can bang and tumble my way down the dryer side of the slide, so as to miss the oh-so-pleasant experience of being stuffed under a rock ten feet underwater. While I swim, I'm bargaining, swearing to the River Gods that they can send me down this slide on my face as long as when I reach that horizon line, I find myself right of the undercut. The River Gods showed no mercy.

I reach the lip of the second slide only to find myself staring into the soul of this rock that I was fully convinced I would be stuck under just seconds later, and the slide didn't allow time for adjustments. Before I could even think, I was ten feet underwater with my hands on the rock. Despite such a chaotic turn of events, this moment was a brief victory. The rock wasn't undercut. I was in front of it, as opposed to underneath it. I was still underwater, and the fighting had just begun, but I wasn't going to lose my life under this rock today. Hooray.

12:00:38 PM

I eventually pop back up to the surface one final time, and find that the oxygen I'm taking in is insufficient. Usually that first deep breath when you surface gives you "new life" so to speak, but this just wasn't the case. I felt just as useless as I had three seconds ago when I was ten feet deep.

I knew Power Slide--another massive drop that was probably as tall as the previous two combined with an even more impressive hydraulic at the bottom--was next; yet, I almost let myself swim it. I was so incredibly drained that I couldn't make my body swim. I was running on reserves, and I was running low.

As I'm floating there, trying to muster the energy to get myself into the eddy an oh-so-distant fifteen feet away, Nathan paddles up behind me and absolutely lets me have it.

"SWIM, F@#%ING SWIM! GET TO THE F&%#ING EDDY!" He screams at me in full-on safety mode, along with Curtis and Coty who had paddled in front of me to assure that I didn't wash over the next slide.

Apparently that's exactly what I needed, because suddenly I was able to lift my arms and swim. It was no Michael Phelps performance, but it got the job done. I found myself in the eddy & out of harm's way, but I had been absolutely defeated. When I finally clawed my way onto dry(ish) rock, I simply collapsed. I tried to control my breathing, but it was in vain. At this point I was fully convinced I'd never catch my breath.

12:01 PM

Everyone's checking on me and making sure I'm all good. Physically I was fine--incredibly fatigued of course but no injuries, at least that were immediately apparent (once the adrenaline wears off we'll reassess). Mentally, though, I had been beaten. What was once such a beautiful day in a beautiful place with some of the most satisfying lines I've ever hit had turned into a shit show. What was worse than the fatigue was the disappointment. I had let myself down, but more importantly, I felt as though I had let my crew down.

In actuality, they didn't care. One thing I've experienced in kayaking is that people swim--it's a part of the sport. When other people swim, I don't care. I'm not upset with them, or frustrated with them. As long as everyone is safe, I'm all good. Most kayakers share this sentiment. Despite knowing this, nothing feels worse than thinking you're burdening your crew. You're not, but when the river chews you up and spits you out, it tends to feel that way.

12:04 PM

"I can't run these next two slides; I'm not even sure if I can put my sprayskirt on" I thought to myself as I lay discouraged on that rock. I had to take a minute, or five, or ten, just to gather the strength to get back in the saddle. All the while, I got to sit there and reevaluate. Should I be out here? Am I putting my crew in harm's way? Did I just ruin everyone's day? These questions ate at me--I hate nothing more than being the weak link.

I can't thank Tara enough--she's the reason I still had a good day. She gave me just enough beta, showed me all the lines, and most importantly, hung out with me and encouraged me when I was beating myself up over the swim.

"You've looked good all day dude, so what if you had a rough swim? Just the way she goes sometimes", Tara reminded me in my darkest hour. She has the most calming, simplistic demeanor about her, and I needed it. She told me to take my time and reassured me that I wasn't making a mistake by being out there that day.

"I've paddled with a lot of people on a lot of rivers. I've paddled with you plenty of times--I know how good you are. If I didn't think you were cut out for the Green, I wouldn't be kayaking with you right now", she explained, and I believed her. She was never one to sugar coat things.

I've been in over my head before. I've been in the middle of a run and had the horrible epiphany that I wasn't cut out for it. That wasn't the case today. I had the tools, and felt confident all day. I knew I was ready to be out there, but I had to be sharper. Scream Machine showed me the consequences of failing to get my bow over a hole, and reminded me that it didn't give a rat's ass about how stylish any of my previous lines were. As much as I wished I didn't receive such an aggressive reminder, I had no option but to take these lessons in stride and peel myself off of that rock--it was time to go kayaking.

12:10 PM

As soon as I peel out of the eddy, I'm headed for Power Slide. Though mentally I was feeling better, my body remained feeble. I still felt physically useless, and prayed that I was allowed passage (upright) through the next two rapids because after Rapid Transit, it was Clif Bar o'clock. All of that Burger King energy had been spent.

If loose lips sink ships, loose hips save them. As afraid as I was of flipping on these slides, I knew that if i did the natural thing--tighten up and paddle timidly--I'd likely find myself upside down. All I could do was keep those hips loose and hope for the best. Before I knew it, I was in the beautiful pool below Power Slide with just two more rapids standing between myself and the delicious Clif Bar and bottle of water that inhabited my dry bag.

Rapid Transit is massive. You drop thirty feet over a span of what I'd guess to be about thirty yards. On youtube it doesn't look bad. In person, though, this thing is steep. Not particularly difficult, but certainly intimidating. I had a perfect line, and was overcome with relief when I reached calm water below.

12:16 PM

"Isn't Groove Tube between us and Sunshine?" I ask Tara, confused as to why we're getting out of our boats.

"Yes, but if you mess it up, you could wash over Sunshine", she warned me, at which point I gladly stepped out of my boat and began the trudge down and around Sunshine, the final rapid of the big 3 and generally accepted as the most dangerous. There's lines on either side, but they're slim, and I mean slim. Sunshine has seen a number of back injuries, including paralysis. It's about as sketchy as it gets.

"Today doesn't seem like a great day to get paralyzed, so I shall walk", I thought to myself. All I wanted in that moment was to lay on a rock and soak up the Sun, so lay on a rock and soak up the Sun I did. Coty, Curtis and Nathan ran Groove Tube before joining me on the comfiest boulder I've ever come across. Thanks to a Clif Bar, water, and a few sips of a Dale's Pale Ale Coty had gifted me, my day suddenly wasn't so bad. Within twenty minutes I had some life in me, and not long after that I was ready to paddle. I wasn't just looking to survive like I was on the slides, but I wanted to tear it up. I knew that a successful end to the run would relieve me of at least some of my swim-induced frustration, and the motivation was there now more than ever. Feeling rejuvenated, it was time to get after the class 3-4 runout and grease the line at the final rapid of note, Hammer Factor. Ain't nothin' to it but to do it.

12:51 PM

I'm feeling good through the runout-- hitting every line and having a grand time doing it. After a number of class 3 rapids, some named and some unnamed, we reach the entrance to Hammer Factor.

Hammer Factor is an interesting rapid. You start in an eddy on river left, and drop down onto this rounded rock which all the water pours off the right side of, creating a sizable hole right underneath a huge, overhanging boulder, similar to the undercut in Frankenstein.

The setup eddy is only big enough to house two boats, so rather than joining someone else in the eddy, I hang out above the entrance rapid for a few brief moments, watching as the rest of my crew styles it, one by one. Finally, I'm the only one left, and I wasn't getting any younger. I drop down and catch the setup eddy, then take a second to catch my breath. This was it--after Hammer Factor my day is over. It's been up and down, to say the very least. I feel horrible about my swim, but great about everything else. It pains me how close I was to having the PFD of a lifetime, but there was no going back. My only option was to give Hammer Factor everything I had, and hope for the best... here goes nothing.

12:56 PM

I peel out of the setup eddy, dropping down onto the shelf. I don't get as high up as I would've liked to, but I'm set up pretty well nonetheless. From here, I've got two options. In the one second that I have between reaching the shelf and sliding off of it, I realize that I'm sliding right into the hole, sideways. Side surfing out would be manageable, but still suboptimal nonetheless. If I wanted to skip my way out from under this rock and end today on the best note possible, I had to lean to the left and throw a hard left stroke, flicking my bow up and over the menacing hydraulic; so, that's exactly what I did.

While making the instinctive decision to crank a lefty took mere nanoseconds, it felt as if the action itself was in slow motion--I watched the bow lift and glide right over the hole, water splitting around my boat as if I was parting the Red Sea. I gracefully skip out from under the rock, and breathe a great sigh of relief. As I come out from underneath the boulder, everyone begins cheering for me and congratulating me on such a smooth line. Though I shouldn't be, part of me is annoyed--I beatered. I don't deserve praise. I slowed all of you down, and put you all in a position I'm sure you didn't plan on being in when you decided to go kayaking with me. Why are you cheering?

Curtis has years and years of kayak instruction under his belt, and I suspect that he might've insisted on the group giving me some love after Hammer Factor--a confidence building strategy I'm sure he had implemented hundreds of times previously on the river. While I was irrationally annoyed, I was also immensely thankful. Whether planned or impromptu, the encouragement was appreciated and it simply felt good to be on the river with my friends again.

1:01  PM

We arrive at the takeout, a meager fifty yard walk from the Fishtop parking lot where we'd load our boats and gear then drive out of this big ole ditch. We shared accounts of our lines throughout the day and complained about our hunger (boating will do that to you) as we tied kayaks down.

I couldn't be more appreciative of the crew I was out there with that day. The experience and safety skills between the four people I paddled with were top notch; it instilled confidence within me and for that I am thankful.

1:16 PM

We begin to say our goodbyes before realizing we were all going to eat anyway, so might as well grab a bite together before we all headed back to the Nantahala (as if four of the five of us didn't live within 100 yards of each other, and the fifth just a six minute drive down the road). Thai food isn't typically my go-to post-river grub, but everyone insisted that Boon Choo Express was the spot.. If it's better than a Clif Bar you won't hear me complaining.