Off the Couch

The Couch. "I don't know man, he's off the couch... Maybe we should go to a more couch-friendly river." It may be spoken of with a stigma, but the reality is that we are all in-between couches. Like alcoholics off the proverbial wagon, at some point in the season we reach apogee and commence the slow downward descent into atrophy, landing squarely on the couch.

Sinking deep into the cushions, I begin my off-season cross-training regimen. I update the Netflix queue. I toss fake mice for the cat until he looks at me with disdain. I darkly refer to ski-resort passes as "country-club memberships," as my friends head off to the mountains, embracing the changing seasons like well-adjusted people.

I check online gauges as though they will tell a different story than the clear sky streaming through the windows. As though a localized micro-cell has parked over Nevada County, unleashing hell from the heavens. In case seismic activity has re-routed a great aquifer into a riverbed somewhere. In the off-chance that Lake Spaulding is getting drawn-down for maintenance, filling the South Yuba with the rumbling roar that sends the Ninja Turtles scampering out of the sewers. And then, I find myself poring over other kayak blogs, as though it would bring me comfort to know that somewhere, somewhere far away, stouts are being slayed (or whatever the young people are calling it these days). Soon my best friend catches me in this compulsive behavior and redirects me to some useful task.

Thank heavens, the South Yuba actually ran quite a bit this winter. Even so, when I got to the steeper and wilder Upper Middle Cosumnes, I felt as though I was off-the-futon at best.

The hike-in sweats out some couch toxins, the welcome sight of the put-in slide sends a flush of nerves to my extremities. I do a roll in a pot-hole and peel-out, so far so good. Then, starting the Phony Hawk portage, I slip and fall off a boulder, racking up one shore-injury for the team inside the first quarter-mile. The tip of my left index finger is flapping like the head of a PEZ dispenser. This may be a slight exaggeration, but it bleeds so much that I don't see how tape will stick to skin. Thankfully, Kevin is there and has seen far grizzlier things in his time as a paramedic, and sits through my histrionics to coach me through some decent first aid.

Rivers help me forget my earthly troubles, and soon I am re-focused by splashes from such greats as "battered beaver," "brace for your face," and "Lars' Falls. Relieved yet stoked to be through them, I boat-scout the line at the last rapid in the first section, "A Little Maurier Left." As I make the screaming left-hand turn, my paddle-blade snags on a rock. To stay upright, I let go of my paddle with one hand; it releases and I recover. Hanging onto my paddle with one hand and doggy-paddling with the other, I shoot through the nozzle and onto the slide. I manage to get the band back together before the hole at the bottom.

We floated on a great flow through the in-between section to one of the best stack-ups in El Dorado County, "blue angels," "mini-blue angels, and "cheese-grater." When Thomas pulled over to dump out his boat in the pool below, he happened upon the skeleton of a 6-point buck. This proud beast either fell off the cliff or drowned in the rapids, ending up on the bank with grass poking up between his ribs. Thomas traversed the cliff to place the skull on a fitting spot over-looking the set. Cold water enlivening the mind, communicating without words amidst the roar of rapids, random stuff happening- this is the world beyond the couch.

I'm gonna scrape myself off the couch like the spare change and snack scraps collected in the cushions. I'm gonna get back in that boat and be thankful that this kayaking thing even exists. This time, things are gonna be different. I have goals, I have a plan, and most importantly, I have a support network. This time, I'm gonna stay off the couch.

(Sorry for no pictures, but I'm in between cameras as well.)

Deep in the Trenches

Alex Wolfgram captains his ship in a bottle-neck.


The mountains that form the Middle San Joaquin loomed above me as I first sized them up. We were driving out of the South San Joaquin canyon, and I could see where the South met the Middle. Scanning back and forth from the depth of the canyon to the height of the Middle fork headwaters in the Postpile Minarets, I could plainly see the precipitous drop the river had to make. It did this in a stupefyingly short distance. The awe that struck me then was of a scale one feels when first taking in the Yosemite Valley, its sky-scraping granite, its dizzying falls.

At one point, my intention to run the river was in seeking the geographic sense of completion of "getting them done." The river is sometimes rumored more of a trial than a good run. The fact that the Devil himself is implicated in the river's origin may be disconcerting to some.

As I processed the power of landscape that gave rise to the San Joaquin, all of this propaganda was pushed aside. My desire to run the river became an aesthetic imperative.

The San Joaquin takes all the rivers of the Southern Sierra under its name, capturing them one by one as it flows north to the Sacramento, forming the Central Valley. Rightly so- it is the mightiest river and has characters of them all. Ominous and distinct gorges like Fantasy. Domes lining the banks of absurd slides like Upper Cherry. The magnitude and beat-down factor of the Kings. Portages like the Merced. The scrubby desert beauty of the Kaweah.

Charlie Center heads up the dawn patrol to ditch the tree fuzz.

Wolf.

Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Yes, those waterfalls are dumping into the middle of the rapid.

"It's... so... beautiful!" When I asked Alex what this rapid looked like from the scout, that's all he said. I debated whether to get out and take a moment to behold it, or run it blind so the scare-factor would etch it more indelibly into my mind's eye. I opted for the latter.

Portage while you still can. Mwahaha!

The MF San Joaquin provides lots of practice at seal-launching.

As ready as we'll ever be.

Caveman racquetball.


The Postpile gave me clarity and focus, tested what I'd learned, and made me feel supremely alive. Big thanks to Alex Wolfgram for having the drive, Shane for driving shuttle, and Charlie for declaring entire gorges "good."

Special note: Now that California Flood Safety founder Alex Wolfgram has run the Middle San Joaquin, he has completed every High Sierra river including Grand Canyon of the Tuolomne and Headwaters of the Kern. Hella Sick!


Find more videos like this on Caliproduct


Shot by Alex Wolfgram and Charlie Center, edited by Charlie Center, courtesy Caliproduct.com

Kings River Triple Crown

On Saturday, July 18, Luke Liebsch, Macy Burnham, Chris Tulley and I completed what may be the longest contiguous descent of river in Kings watershed history, linking runs on the Middle Kings, Garlic Falls, and the Banzai Run in a hitherto unprecedented act of river-running. Though the additional 10 miles of the class 2-3 Banzai Run only added 300 vertical feet to the trip, they rounded out 50 miles of whitewater good times and crossed off a page on the guide-book check-off. Whitewater!

The Habitat 80 tracks nice and speedy through flat water, like this cheat-line one can take by crossing Saddlerock Lake on the hike in.

I call this rapid "the data archive," because it's so backed up. Macy launching into the bottom half.

If Tulley were a marine mammal, he'd be a gnar-whale.

Getting ready to launch off some smooth Ponderosa bark.

Luke smears that rock like he's waging an underhanded political campaign.

Afternoon T-storm advisory for the greater bottom 9 area. Tulley in the shadow of gloom.

But don't take my word for it!

A.J. and I wait our turn to portage down the middle.

Reading Rainbow host Lavarre Burton would close his book reviews with the catch-phrase, "but don't take my word for it!" One must go and see for one's self the relative beauty and worthwhileness of rivers. It is one thing to browse the gorgeous photos, saturated with color, taken from god's eye vantage points on jscreekin.blogspot.com, and another to experience them firsthand from the boater's perspective. And so it was that I went to the raved-about Upper N F San Joaquin. I think I was talking about trying to get in there weeks before the river was actually running at the right levels, just to make sure I didn't miss it. Eventually I got on board with a great group and had a sweet trip down this section. I almost could have taken Korbulic's word for it since he hiked the 10 miles, ran the river, hiked out the 4 miles, rode all the way up to Sac-town, and then turned around that same day to do it all over again with our group.


For all the rapids called "triple drop," there had ought to be at least one called, "quadruple drop." Brian Fletcher in the mix.


For all the rapids named "pin-ball," there should be at least one called "ping-pong." Stookesberry stares it down.


The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, but that sh*t was still 70 ft. tall.

The other first-timers scout the "mini-crucible," one of the cool mini-gorges on the run.

The Fantastic Voyage

Self-portrait, 2007 hike out.

My friend David Maurier said of the North Mokelumne, "I went to Fantasy Falls in search of unicorns, and I found them." For myself, I would say that Fantasy Falls was my unicorn, my minotaur, my elusive fugitive that twizzled his moustache in mockery just as he made his get away.

In 2007 I put on with a patched boat, which opened up like a trout with its belly slit when I poorly piloted it down a manky sneak on day one. In the next rapid, my sinking boat free-wheeled over the crux and I initiated a sequence called "beat down to wet-exit." My kayak f-ed, and myself committed a good ways down the canyon, I faced the snow-covered peaks that stood between me and egress. That was it. My reality check that showed me that the granite domes and sculpted walls we float past are more than scenic wallpaper that scrolls by, they are the imposing and real parameters of wilderness. As a friend recently reminded me, these places- rivers, mountains, canyons- are always mightier than us; it is just that sometimes it is made plainly apparent.

The trail was covered under snow, so I straight-lined it to the road, post-holing through balls-deep snow and crossing over an exposed ridge. It was cold, kinda scary, and not fun. Even without my kayak, which I later returned for and removed, it took a day. It was an experience that has changed my approach to river running.

Last month Charlie led Thomas and I down a two day bombing mission, and I got my redemption. The river charged me for my passage however, sending me swimming not in any of the notorious mackin' holes, but out of an innocuous-looking but perfect undercut one rapid shy of the reservoir. Mmmm, boootie beeer...


Charlie bombs rapids, not countries.

Thomas gets barreled in the tube.


Oh, my.

I would also like to give a shout out to our trip expeditor and former world-record waterfall holder Paul Gamache. As Chuck put it, "It is always amazing given how many variables are in play on a trip like this when we make it out as planned." To you prospective European visitors, let Paul handle the variables by hiring him as your expeditor to take care of all logistics, shuttles, and permitting. . Contact him for 2010 High Sierra packages, made very reasonable by the favourable exchange rate.

Kayaking on a bottled-water label

Macy Burnham balancing his boat for a moment's rest.


Up and over Piute Pass, in the headwaters of the South San Joaquin, lies a creek that is fed by glaciers. Looking out over the Moraine as I cleared the pass, an unusual altitude headache throbbing and gusts of wind tugging at the kayak on my back, a single prosaic thought occupied my mind: what are we doing here? We were exploring a creek, going trans-Sierra ,East side to the West side (no-diggity), starting at the source, taking a gamble, and signing-up for who-knows-what. It was an awesome, cold, spectacularly-scenic adventure shared in good company. Enjoy the show.

Piute Creek from Taylor Cavin on Vimeo.

Flow Study v. Yuba Gap

Time slows down on the hourglass slide. Chris Korbulic enjoys it.

The Diesel 80 boofs well, resurfaces predictably...

...and is easy to roll!

Darin Mcquoid has a laugh over one of those moments where someone sees their line, goes for it, and eats it!

After the first rapid on Yuba Gap, all I could think was, "That was the coolest rapid I've ever run!" That it has easy access(Take the "Yuba Gap" exit off I-80), big,classy rapids(think East Kaweah size with Hospital Rock class), and a richter-factor that will push past what you may want all goes to show: recreational releases could give California incredible resources. I can easily say this was the coolest flow-study I've hopped on because it was also the coolest single-day stretch of river I've ever run. I say let's all fill-out some paperwork, and see what we can make off with here. Un-scientific statistic: I reckon that 30% of the 100 V+ kayakers in California made time to capitalize on this run during a 3-day window.

Photos 2,3 & 4- Chris Korbulic.