For the last month I've been working on an online magazine I've come to call "The Dirtbag's Guide to Whitewater." With the help of several contributors and lots of free time, I managed to pull it all together.  Truth be told, it's got be more nervous than most big rapids. Future issues will depend on reader's reception, so if you like it, let me know and a new issue will follow sometime near the end of May! Comments are welcome, as are emails to the address on my blogger profile. 

Big thanks to all the contributors,

we hope you enjoy!

Happy New Year!!!

Looking back at the year, I feel incredibly blessed for all that I have been able to enjoy. Great new friends were made both far and wide, relationships have grown, and I got to experience an entirely new corner of the continent. I crossed a few things off my bucket list, had (many) great adventures, and spent more time with my family than I have in a while.

So the year was a good one. Christmas yielded just about everything that I wanted (including a sweet new RVR Apparel tshirt!), and due to the freakishly mild winter we've been having, it was warm enough for a lap on the Indy. I don't like paddling in the cold very much, but having a drysuit has mostly nullified that excuse. The only real things stopping me at this point would be ice and gas money. Since it was Christmas (and that the Indy is only 10 minutes away), the gas thing wasn't an issue, and the Indy was ice free... at least in the important parts.

Merry  Christmas!

Bobb was my swim coach from the time I first showed interest in swimming so many years ago. He guided me through the Pee-wee program, nudged me towards modified, and finally directly coached me in Varsity. He taught me far more than how to swim fast though... he is directly responsible for my sense of dedication, determination, and drive for self improvement. He fostered the growth of my self esteem as I struggled to find my place in high school, and his influence will always be remembered in my life

Bobb was a great teacher, and a better storyteller. He had more stories of misguided adventures and memories that he shared with us than I can count. Every time he gathered us to speak we listened intently, whether it was a story we had never heard before about a fight he had when he was a bouncer, or one of the old favorites like the time he rode a bike across the Adirondacks stopping only to sleep and drink beer. Even the familiar stories were always changing, adding or losing details, but it didn't matter what was said; Bobb had a way of bringing his words to life.

He listened, too. I remember coming to him whenever something was really bothering me, whether it had anything to do with swimming or not. Swimmers were always talking to him, whether they were just joining the modified team, or had graduated several years ago. People just kept coming back to him and that pool deck.

I don't know if he ever saw this picture, if he did, he would have called me a twit and swatted the back of my head

I never took a serious photo with Bobb because I could never imagine not being able to find him down at the pool or in the shop. He was a figure larger than life, with a personality to match. Humble, but fiercely passionate about the things he loved, and there were few things he loved more than his swimmers and that pool. He invented his own religion, Bobbism, in which the first commandment is to make someone smile every day.

I don't know who put it up, or when, but among the wallpaper of newspaper clippings and photos of swimmers (seriously, it covered almost every surface) that coated his office, large printed words read "Here, Bobb is God."

Nothing could be more true. We lived and died to make him proud, nothing went unseen or unheard on that deck by Bobb, and his presence there is truly immortal.

What follows is a paper I once wrote for a college English class. The assignment was a 5 page doublespaced creative nonfiction piece on someone we knew. Bobb was the first person I thought of, and no one else could have been more appropriate.

Here, Bobb is God

             “Here, Bobb is God.” One of the many stickers that share space with the newspaper clippings, postcards, and team pictures that crowd His office walls. And it’s true; here, Bobb is omniscient and omnipotent. No lock stands in His way, no ill deed goes unseen. As the most devout Christian attends church on a Sunday, so do we attend swim practice. But our god demands from us our penance all week. Even when we escape from the green-tiled pool deck and record board looming loftily over head, we are haunted by the stomp of His steel toed boots and jangling keys throughout the week.

At the sound of loose change shaking in a pocket, team members jolt upright in their seats and begin furiously scribbling notes from the blackboard, fearing that their God may be passing. His demands transcend our physical devotion; He expects our best intellectual efforts as well.  Report cards were shown to Him before our parents even got to see them. His never satisfied gaze rests even more squarely on my shoulders: I shovel His parents’ sidewalk. “I heard my father had to break out his snowblower last weekend. Where were you? Skiing?” Utter devotion, that’s what He expects, and to risk injury in silly pastimes like skiing is blasphemy. Walk into the locker room at 3:20 any day of the week and it’s easy to see; Bobb’s reputation precedes Him.

“Shut up! Everyone shut the fuck up!” The Seniors’ urgent whispers are passed through the stale, dim air. In the silence of our held breath, we hear the jangle of keys and heavy, steel-toed boots pass by. Just before they fade away into the distance they halt. The wet floor squeaks beneath the rubber soles. A Jangling of keys, the squeak of the doorknob on the diamond-plated steel door twisting. And finally, the sharp, short whistle that sends a shiver down our spines to our still damp swim trunks. We file out one by one and race through the tunnel of showers to face our coach.

The first day is always terrifying, especially for the freshmen. The upperclassmen never try to help, either.  In the confines of the locker room with the rusting lockers bearing down on us all, horror stories were exchanged. “Remember the time that He was so angry He snapped the clipboard? Or when He screamed at us for half an hour on the bus after the meet at Holland Patent? Or when…” and so it was. The new members got glimpses of Bobb during the shared meets between modified and varsity, but to them, He is a mystery referred to only in whispers. So for them, the first real interaction with Bobb is one characterized by hesitance and reverence. But over the course of the next week they become accustomed to His scrutiny, they become comfortable on the deck and in the pool. This is their first and most egregious error.

I must admit, I also let my guard down. Somewhere between the seemingly infinite parables He relates and the ever-present support during meets, we all lose sight of the truth. “Here, Bobb is God” and He is a wrathful one. Every skipped yard, every loafed lap; they all pass before His judgment. We are given time to atone for our sins, given time to recall His omniscience, but only the wisest of seniors slave away at the miles of yards we are assigned. After our most stunning lack of enthusiasm, His wrath is let loose upon us in a tirade of sprint laps and Pac-Mans.

These are the worst. Pac-Mans pit the fraternity of team-members against one another and drives us to prey on the weak and abandon the sacred brotherhood of teamwork. The team is divided and sent to opposite ends of the pool. Segregated, we await our fate.  After a brief, but effective reprimand, we are instructed to sprint to the other end and back, but as we return, the other half will dive in and chase after us. When they reach our end, they’ll perform a flip turn and sprint away, at which point we are to chase them. And so it will continue, until the retreating team is overrun. One may think it would be simple enough for the retreating team to slow down and allow themselves to be overrun. And one would be correct, except for two critical details. The first, and least important, is that Bobb knows what we are capable of and slacking will be rewarded with more sprints.

More important is the kamikaze sense of honor we all feel we must uphold. This is imperative to us all; it’s the reason we fight the wrestlers in the locker room and sneer at the soccer players that trot by in the halls. We can take any abuse, and we do so without a word. To give up would be to dishonor ourselves and our God. I always rationalize it by telling myself it will pay off during meets when I drop time, but deep down I know it’s only my honor that keeps me reaching for more water while my lungs scream for air and my muscles promise sweet revenge in the morning. We only realize our sense of honor at the hands of Him, our coach who inspires such a pride and tenacity in all that we do.

But more than a God, more than a coach, Bobb is a storyteller. Some practices the entire team gathers around, sitting on kickboards and starting blocks, to listen to Bobb recount the story of how he biked across the Adirondacks one summer stopping at bars to pick fights with members of the Hells Angels for the fiftieth time. It doesn’t matter that we’ve heard the same basic plot before, the details always change, and it’s far better than swimming laps. His fiercely opinionated nature is rampant in His storytelling. He tantalizes His listeners with half-remembered dialogues, detailed descriptions of copious use of alcohol and drugs, and glorious sports victories of long disbanded teams.

He takes us back thirty years to the sunny summer days spent riding bikes and playing tackle football without pads in the park across from my house. In my mind the stories all play back as if through a film of golden syrup, emanating a sweet nostalgia of simpler times. Sepia tone sunlight filters through the window of the family dining room in my mind’s eye. Bobb and His siblings, scraped and dirty, gather around the table. Their father, Ed, sits down at the head of the table and takes off his UVM Athletics cap and places his coaching whistle beside it. June, his wife, places a beer beside his plate and sits next to him. If it weren’t for Bobb’s masterful weaving of detail and characterization, it would be hard to imagine the frail old couple that lives next door ever being young enough to command the respect of so many troublemaking kids.

Bobb was especially troublesome. He experimented with drugs, scorned His father’s alma mater, and failed out of three other universities. He continued to clash with His family as He held various jobs as a bouncer, a bartender, and band member before taking a job at the local high school as a janitor. Shortly afterwards, He began assistant coaching for the varsity swim team and has gone on to claim more victories than any other coach in the league. Despite these mistakes, Bobb is fiercely proud of His past, arguing that the choices He made shaped Him into who He is today.

I’ve never been one to argue with the gods.

Rest in Peace Bobb, I can't thank you enough for your presence in my life...

Dylan came up to visit last week, but with cold temperatures and not much running, we didn't expect to be boating. We spent the first day praying for rain and scouting a few creeks I haven't looked at in a while.

 First up was Whetstone Gulf, a constricted gorge with some steep drops. I hiked the whole thing about 3 years ago, and didn't think it was possible. Coming back with more experience, however, it very clearly is.

As you can see, the major action takes place in the first mile or so...

The first drop is steep, bouncy, and probably around 20 feet tall.

That would be this one...

The next significant one is a slide that wraps around a corner. And the final drop is a 6-8 foot ledge immediately followed by a 90 degree turn. The series is very committing, with vertical walls and no real eddies to speak of, but the drops all go. The final drop has a bad habit of collecting wood, and there's no great way to scout it, so it's best to hike in at low water before sending her.

Looking upstream from below the 90 degree corner.

(Rumor has it that Scott Busch has run this, but I can't confirm. Anyone?)

Another creek we checked out was Mill Creek in Turin. Although Dylan doesn't like walking, the prospect of seeing an unrun(?) 60 footer got him moving. Once again, this was a river I checked out a few years ago, but perspective has changed a great deal. Guessing from the lip, the drop looked closer to 45, and the pool at the base looked much bigger. Other scouters have measured the depth at only chest high, but high water might back up the pool. 

If you don't plan on running that drop though, you may as well park at the bottom and walk to the base of the falls. The good gradient is there, and rope work to portage the falls would be a pain.

The next day, Ed rallied to the Lowville area for some Mill Creek action, and we all got on a new (to us) tributary that starts on the Gardner Road. It was definitely the minimum flow, but still very enjoyable. It drops something like 200 feet in three quarters of a mile, which leaves very little room for flatwater.

A quick lap on Mill creek rounded out the day.

Check out some footage!

This may or may not mean exactly what you think it does.

Brokeback Gorge is a section of river I am proud to call a backyard classic. After several days of scouting over the course of nearly a year, I got on this committing classic with Taylor Krammen shortly after Moosefest 2010 for what we believe to be the First Descent.

The moves aren't all that difficult, but there's a bit of added intensity. Most of the time the walls are just under vertical, and the rock isn't quite as strongly bonded as it may once have been. 

Ok, so you probably got the picture as far as the commitment is concerned. The main point here is that there's a bunch of wood jammed in there, and the real problem is that I'm not positive on exactly where it is. I hiked it about 3 months ago and saw 4 logs in places that were portageable, but we've had some high water since then, and they very well could have flushed into the crux.

Today, I headed in with my dad to free this sucker up, but recent snows have the walls coated fairly well, and there was much more water than I expected down there. This is especially bittersweet. It's very inconvenient that I can't get in there to remove the wood, and I probably won't be able to until after Spring Moosefest. Snow, water levels, and temperatures just won't allow it. On the other hand, if there was that much water in there with what little snowmelt we've had, it would appear that this stretch takes less water than the Independence to pop into a runnable range. 

I've got a super clean 30 footer, and instant classic creek in my back yard that runs multiple weeks per year. If I can just get it to stay wood-free, I think we'll have something pretty cool on our hands.

Bottom Line: Don't go in there (unless you plan on cutting the wood out) and let me know if you have any tips on keeping this clean in the future!

Shoulder seasons are always rough on me. 

Temperatures usually aren't ideal for any of the things I really enjoy, and the weather tends to do some wacky things. In my last post I mentioned that there was a foot of snow in the southern Adirondacks. Although I can't confirm, I wouldn't be surprised if they had bare ground now... we certainly do up north. 

For the past few weeks, the weather has been in a holding patter of "chilly gloom." It's been rainy and cold, but not rainy enough to bring any rivers up, and not cold enough for that rain to turn to snow. Such things do not bode well for a kayaker and snowboarding enthusiast. So I made the most of what I had to work with.

Dec. 3, 2011

Ed Moorhead (of Demjoez fame) rallied the troops to make a modern descent of the upper upper (upper upper) Black River.

This is a section I've been wanting to do for a while, but with horror stories of flatwater mixed with huge unrunnable rapids and a suggested flow that would have other high quality runs going for sure, it was always difficult to get a crew together.

The last time we had heard of anyone paddling this stretch was in the late 90s (AKA back in the day!) and the first descent party was driven half crazy by several miles of flatwater. Some never recovered...

Acme Mapper, a critical tool for internet scouting, gave us a pretty good idea of where the big rapids started, so after an early (we're talking pre-sunrise) drive to the takeout, we decided to hike in a short ways just above the good stuff. The only problem was that the good stuff might not even be good, it could just be a waste of gradient, since not one of the original explorers decided to give them a go.

We hiked in from a pull off on the right side of the road 2-3 miles south of North Lake. By the time we got to the river, we had forgotten the cold and began eagerly paddling downstream.

The slide was pretty straightforward and a ton of fun, with a great lead in rapid and an equally great boulder garden right after. The only concern I would have is the hole at the bottom with more water (which would greatly improve the rest of the river). It looks like it could get pretty sticky, and it's backed up by a rock on the left. Definitely worth a scout if you find yourself on this river.

With a great section behind us, we were eager to see what else the river would toss up, but relatively small rapids made up the majority of the river. After several miles of class II boogie, we floated past the Farr Rd. Bridge, the typical take out for section 1 of the Black.

Section 2 stretches for 8 miles of meandering class I and II.

Not quite what we were hoping for, but some paddling is better than no paddling. At about the halfway point, the sun was getting distinctly lower in the sky, and we doubled out pace til the Enos Rd. Bridge, the take out for Section 2 and put in for Section 3.

Here, the river picks back up again, starting with some class III leading into a rather large horizon line. Ed had told me there was a good rapid just after the bridge, but I wasn't anticipating something quite this big. Best Judgement took over once again, and I dropped in blind.

The cascade was great! I started center and moved left and back to right to pick my way down. It's probably easiest to just scout from the bridge, that way you can just stick right down the biggest and most fluid section. Ed say's the rapid just gets better with more water!

With high hopes for Section 3, we rounded the bend in classic class III whitewater and were greeted with... more flatwater. A few riffles here and there led to Crandalls Falls, a fun slide, and our take out. 

The whole trip was ~14 miles and took something like 6 hours with a lunch stop.

Overall, the top 3 sections of the Black are worth a trip if it's warm and you're more interested in great scenery (and probably fishing, too) than whitewater. It's an interesting area because most paddlers capable of paddling all the rapids will likely go elsewhere because of the flatwater, but most class II-III paddlers may have trouble getting out before the bigger rapids. It's a beautiful section of river though, and everything is portageable, so the best option I can give you is to check it out above 1100 cfs, and go with someone capable of boat scouting class III+.

Dec. 4, 2011

Since no one really wanted to put their slightly damp dry gear back on after such a long day, I opted for the always classic hike to Gleasman's Falls. Naturally, this hike served as an opportunity to correlate flows with the gauge far downstream and as a final scout. Newfound comrade and expert novel editor, Cody Updike joined in.

Everything looked runnable and fun that day except the top drop, which definitely needed more water. Fortunately, it looks like everything except the two holes in the above photo would just get better with more water. The Donnattsburg Gauge on the Independence read about 180 cfs that day, but I think flows closer to 300 would be ideal. Keep in mind, the gauge is located several miles downstream, after many tributaries come in.

After a short fire and a walk out in near darkness, the excitement of my weekend was replaced with ramblings of half sane professors and the completion of my Non-Western Lit class. Check out the melodramatic short I made as an interpretation of T'ao Ch'ien's The Peach Blossom Spring!

To wrap all of this up, I'd like to say that the snow must have heard me. In the time it took me to write this post, close to an inch has fallen with no signs of letting up. This is good news, because it's supposed to warm up on Monday, and I've found quite a few rivers to check out with a new web based tool called usgs streamstats.

It's fairly user friendly program, but I'll leave you with a few tips.

Seriously, check this program out! You won't be disappointed!

Best of luck to all during the difficult, rainless times of the shoulder seasons!

But not in that order...

As a few of my faithful readers know (Hi Cory!), I went to Burlington, VT for a few days to celebrate my... the...well, just to celebrate really.

The whole thing was inspired by a Phantogram concert at Higher Ground. I've seen 3 shows there, and the artists always seem to really enjoy the scene. Exitmusic opened the show with a chill and melodic blend of post-rock and pop. In other words, fine music for listening to while reading a book, but not the kind of stuff that will get you pumped for the rest of a concert.

Fortunately, Phantogram brought it back with some pretty incredible beat drops. Their best song live is without a doubt Futuristic Casket, and When I'm small takes a close second. The best part of the show was finding out we had stumbled on the last show they plan on playing in quite some time. Oh, and it was 13 bucks!

Most of my time in Burlington was spent catching up with friends, but Cory opted to multi-task, so we went for a hike to Milton Falls.

The first time I'd heard of this place was from Scott Gilbert who has a photo with probably 20 times the flow shown here. Seriously.

This huge set of cascades is just north of Milton and can be accessed by turning off Rt. 7 onto Ritchie Ave. There's a small gravel lot about halfway down the hill with a lookout over a small piece of the falls. Better views can be accessed by canoe or kayak by driving another 0.2 miles and launching into the pool there.

The following day I finished my novel for nanowrimo, although that's using "finish" rather loosely. I hit the target word count and the whole story line is completed, but no editing or revision has been done. If anyone wants to take a look and put in some serious editing time, drop me a line!

When I decided to head home, Winter struck.

Between 11 pm Tuesday night and 6 am Wednesday morning, 4-5 inches of snow fell in Burlington. Snow continued to fall as I drove south behind a line of flashing redlights as far as the eye could see. Tractor Trailers were stuck on hills, snowplows hadn't been out yet, and a slippery layer of extra wet snow was on the pavement beneath the ever accumulating snow. I was going 10 mph, and I WAS GRIPPED.

Not only were there Massachusetts license plates both in front and behind me, I also didn't want to come to a complete stop because my poor front wheel drive car probably wasn't going to be able to regain the momentum necessary to start moving back up that slick hill. I mean, I was in Vermont after all...

Roads improved greatly in NY, although only briefly. I dismissed my better judgement which was fearfully pleading me to take the roads that weren't covered in snow and didn't go through the mountains. Instead, that's exactly what I aimed for for these important reasons:

• Re-routing would cost a lot of gas money.
• Re-routing would be really boring.
• And most importantly, driving on terrible roads in the middle of the mountains sounded like an adventure, and I love adventures!

So, with solid reasoning (or at least mislead priorities) behind me, I turned onto the not-recently-enough plowed road and began my tire spinning ascent up the first mountain pass. By now I was probably going 25 mph and way less gripped. These are good things. Every once in a while I stopped to snap a few pictures.

Well, as promised, there is an accident in this story. Suffice it to say that I got a little too pleased with myself about defeating Better Judgement. Taking this route almost seemed like it was better than Better Judgement. That's right, we're talking about Best Judgement.

Unfortunately, that's the common disguise of Bad Judgement, and the little voice I thought was Best Judgement told me that I didn't need to slow down too much for the turn that had a suggested speed of 35. In fact, if I just slipped into the other lane for a second I wouldn't need to brake at all.

Well, that worked out great, but what I forgot was that turns can come in pairs (sometimes more, but that's not important). So even though I sailed through that first turn perfectly in control and without needing to brake, I was approaching the next one a little too quickly for my taste. 

Now at this point there was probably 2 inches of fresh snow on the road and another 10 in places unplowed. Such a layering of snow is not conducive to stopping on short notice, nor is it conducive to maintaining traction in a sharp turn.

As the tires locked up, I also noticed the oncoming snowplow that would soon be entering the same turn. At this moment, I recognized that Best Judgement was indeed an impostor.

 There was no good way for this to end. 

Fortunately, I ended up in the ditch. This was preferable to being the snowplow's new hood ornament, and also better than skipping the ditch and hitting the giant boulders just beyond. By the time the snowplow stopped, the logging truck behind me had caught up and also got out. They spent a brief moment good-naturedly chiding me, then talked about the rather large number of other vehicles that have gone off the road in that exact spot, and then mentioned that they could help me out. I was happy to wait for them to finish their chat before they decided on this. Besides, it's not like I was going anywhere.

The (very nice, super awesome) trucker dude tied a giant piece of webbing to his truck while I hooked it  onto the convenient eyelet in the back of my car and he dragged me out. I thanked him and continued on my merry Thankful way. It was the day before thanksgiving, after all.

I stopped for a quick hike up Bald Mountain, between Inlet and Old Forge.

And as soon as I passed Old Forge the roads were bare. Which is better than the roads being Bear.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

This year I'm thankful for truckers and chains!

(and of course all you readers out there as well)

In an interview with Jeff McIntyre of In Between Swims, Doug Ammons says "It's going to become perhaps more local, but there's an infinite number of other [first] descents."

Whether you're still figuring out your roll, running class 3 for the first time, or a seasoned paddler with a few of your own, you've probably at least heard the term First Descent. It's the subject of dreams for some, and a source of much contention on message boards and around campfires.

Simply defined for our purposes, a First Descent is a river or drop that no one has ever paddled before. I was one of those who dreamt (and still do) about paddling such a river, although now the dreams are of the next one.

These rivers are, by their very nature, mysterious. They add an expeditionary feel to the undertaking; little things like where to set safety and finding ways to scout become incredibly important. It's never easy to tell if you actually are the first paddler to slip between the gorge walls or emerge at the base of a waterfall unharmed. Many of the iconic pioneers of our sport made several first descents and never told a soul. Sometimes they ran all the rapids, sometimes they walked everything but the flat water. Some even did this solo.

So it's hard to say when attaching a name to this "First Descent" became important or what even qualifies as a true "Descent." Personally, if someone is going to claim a first descent, I'd like to see at least half of the runnable drops being run, but that's purely conjecture, and I encourage you to develop your own opinions. Ant this is the exact reason the "FD" words are such a hot term in the kayaking community. Everyone has their own opinions on what it means, and more importantly, there's always some old codger who is way better than we are that seems to know someone who did it before us. Well, almost always...

To me, a "First Descent" is actually pretty meaningless until you add another word to the phrase: Personal.

Frankly, I don't care if another person has paddled the river before me. The important thing is the experience I get from it and my personal interpretation of that. It seems foolish to get wrapped up on whether or not I was the first one to float down a stream in a big tub of plastic when someone probably took some boots, hammered some nails in the bottom of them, and stood on a log that they just cut down with an axe nearly a century ago as it floated down a river they were pretty sure ended up in town. Yeah, you want to talk about bad ass?

So we've got a new phrase: "Personal First Descent."

I like this quite a bit more for several reasons. 

First and most importantly, it's more accessible. Finding a river that nobody knows has been run is pretty hard. Finding one that actually hasn't been run is even more difficult. But finding a river you haven't run is probably a lot easier. In fact, there's probably one within an hours drive that you've never even heard of.

Secondly, all the conjecture and uncertainty is dispelled. No one can accuse you of false claims or say that you actually already did do that run. Besides, what difference does it make to them? I mean, really.

Another reason Personal First Descents are great is that they can be done with as much or as little beta as you want. For paddlers trying to get a taste of expeditionary paddling, they can drop in relatively blind with just a glance at a topo map; paddlers just looking for a change of scenery can talk to friends or read trip reports.

And finally, a Personal First Descent can still be a first descent. The best part of a pfd is creating your own definition of success.

All of this builds towards the newest facet of my paddling obsession; exploring locally. Even before I began paddling, I found a deep joy and sense of presence in hiking up streambeds. As I began paddling more, these excursions developed a duality. While I still enjoyed the aesthetic value of the rapids and waterfalls I discovered, I also began noting which spots looked like they would be survivable in a kayak.

And so began a long-held tradition. I would walk up an obscure riverbed, sometimes taking photos, and store some of what I saw in the back of my mind. I'd do a little research or ask around and drop my jaw when people told me they had run this section or that. Some of them seemed impossible, if not because the whitewater was too difficult, then because it never seemed there would be enough water.

Then again, I had seen them in the spring when the ground was shaking as tons of water cascaded downhill. Maybe it was possible after all...

Or maybe the rivers seemed too far off, encased in a roadless valley somewhere far from civilization. Boats are heavy, who would want to carry them 12 miles into the mountains? Oh, right...I would.

Scott Martin and I spent some time in Northern PA last weekend specifically to find some PFDs. They may not all be unrun, but there are definitely some good ones. And they're all PFD's too.

We checked out most of the tributaries to Rock Run, a local classic that I have yet to do. Scott seems to be the Rock Run liaison for those of us to the North, so if there's water, he'd be a good guy to contact.

The plus side to scouting the tributaries here is the gorgeous scenery, which has led several publications refer to it as "The Prettiest Stream in Pennsylvania."

It's amazing what you can find in your own back yard. A friend of mine put together this short video full of rivers we believe hadn't been paddled before. Best of all, they were all within about an hour from my house. Of course, if they have been paddled, I'd love to swap stories about our experiences.

So here's to first descents, personal or otherwise...

Now get out there and explore your backyard!

Two rather big developments in this post:

1. I finally broke my first paddle

2. I've reached the halfway point of my novel.

So first, let me just say that I've had my $170 AT for 3-4 years now. I can't say that I intentionally mistreated it, but I certainly didn't baby it either. But hey, everyone uses their paddle as a baseball bat every once in a while, right? ....right?

Ok, so I didn't ever do that, but I did toss it on shore, use it as a depth meter, and crank really huge boofs with it.

As those of you who have paddled with me know, it was really only a matter of time. The blades had been worn down at least an inch on the edges, and sometime last summer it started sinking in the water. It had a lovely tendency to fill with water and then leak out on dry clothes.  At some point I had this fixed with a little duct tape, but at Gauleyfest this year the problem returned. I noticed a little more flex than usual and began avoiding more committing runs (except the Oswegatchie, that's just too good to miss). In the end though, it happened on one of the rivers that gave it the most abuse.

The paddle finally gave out on the Bottom Moose. It more or less folded at the joint on impact at Fowlersville. In this case, I think the tuck did more harm than my typical plug, but I guess we'll never know. Either way, I was glad it happened here instead of further down. For one, I was closer to the cars so I could drive shuttle if necessary, and two, I wasn't halfway down Powerline or Crystal trying to C1.

Fortunately for me, Jim was too lazy to take his breakdown out of his boat from our last paddling trip, and he had it assembled by the time I could hand off my broken paddle. It flexed a lot, but at this point it probably had more surface area on the blades than mine did. I finished out the day enjoying the unseasonably late warmth with good friends and a few new ones.

Ok, now for the boring part.

I just reached the halfway point in my novel, and because all of you are such faithful readers, you get a little sneak peak, inspired by the Moose!

Cobb was already sliding before he realized what Sam had talked him into doing. He had nodded and smiled and laughed his way up the steep slope to the narrow plateau and tightened the back of his seat so he was snug in the bright plastic. And now he was flying down the ocean of pine needles, rocketing through the gauntlet of tree trunks. He leaned forward and reached across the bow of his boat, minimizing the surface area left to slam into a tree branch. He breathed the soft scent of crushed pine needles. The rush of air and soft shifting of plastic along the loamy soil rang in his ears like an orchestra. In a moment, the dusky blur was blasted into a faint memory by the golden sunlight of the open river. He hung in the air for a moment and remembered those cold car rides wishing he could fly.

He landed in the dark, cool water with a slap that brought his focus back into the present. He grinned. He knew that was only the beginning of the day’s excitement. He began paddling downstream, eager for the next rush of color and sound. Sam landed in the water with a whoop and caught up. They were junkies drifting between the small boulders, looking ahead at the edge of the world, their next fix. Treetops and empty space. The black conveyer belt before them flowed onwards, indifferent to the blank space ahead. A yellow leaf drifted listlessly over the edge. Cobb followed, falling, accelerating, disappearing. He popped up in the foam and swirling pieces of driftwood at the bottom and paddled into an eddy. Sam followed soon after, and Cobb counted ten mississippis before he emerged from the grasp of the white noise, grinning. And then they were off again, weaving their laughter between boulders and over more horizons.

Cobb and Sam never once stopped to scout ahead and find the route. This was their run. They had a responsibility to know where the big holes were and at what level the ledges were still ok to paddle. Together they had over 200 runs on this section alone. It was their training grounds. Some might say their confidence was justified. The one rapid that still made Cobb’s heart rise to his throat was Crystal. There was something about that coliseum of sandy-orange rock and the cascading whitewater within it that resonated with his soul. Interacting with something like that never came as easy as he expected. Instead, it created a challenge that left him breathless, unnerved, and wishing it would never end.

 I also think the very middle word of the target word count (25,000 of 50,000) being "Rum" is important to mention. Some might say the entire novel centers around alcohol. Based on word counts, they would be correct.

And now the bonus material!

I managed to get outside between the terrible weather, paddling, and writing like a madman. I even got the family to come with. Well, some of them...

We spent some time hiking into a few drops on the West Branch of the Oswegatchie, which looks like a lot of fun, but also has a lot of flatwater. Here are a few shots.



 The biggest reasons to try and get along with fishermen:
There are more of them than there are us
They have more influence on access to rivers
They know about lots of sweet waterfalls we might not

Sweet waterfalls like this...

I found a piece of ice that looked a lot like Vermont, so I had Nicole snap a picture of me "In" an "Icy VT." The trails were all in really good condition and had some pretty sweet views at the end. They'd make some good picnicking destinations, and they're pretty easy to get to. I found all of them with directions here!