Since I left the west coast roughly a month ago, I've spent the majority of my time in Canada or Northern NY, which is almost Canada. Despite the widespread belief that our neighbors to the north live in a cold and barren tundra, there's actually some reasonably good (REALLY FREAKING AWESOME) whitewater up there.

Now don't get me wrong, I won't be making poutine a regular part of my diet and saying "eh" at the end of every sentence any time soon (that's almost as bad as "y'all"), but I think it's safe to say that my passport is going to get a good deal more use before the summer is through.

First up was the Cheticamp. Ben Schott, Mike Mainer, and I had planned on getting a source to sea first descent on this one, but low water thwarted our attempt in the last 6 miles or so. Nonetheless, it was a huge accomplishment to get as far as we did, and I'll have a full TR with more supporting photos after I find out if I'm going to be famous or not. Until then, feel free to salivate over these shots...

After a long 3 days of hiking/hucking and another 2 days of driving, I headed back to "Almost Canada" for something a little easier. I settled into a routine of safety kayaking and raft guiding on the Black River.

Before long, the river had reached dismally low levels, and Tony G and Chris Morelli convinced me to seek water elsewhere. And where better to seek it than one of the largest rivers in the east?

So we loaded up some Pyranha Jeds and rallied to the Ottawa after our respective rafting trips. The 4 hour drive turned into a 5 hour drive while Tony experienced some "difficulties" crossing the border. Nevertheless, we made it to a campground under cover of darkness, and woke up in a field full of tents and playboats. After a breakfast of fruitloop-peanutbutter sandwhiches and some help from the locals, we were on the river and headed to Garb...after a short detour.

All told, I spent $30 on the trip. There's a reason I'm chief dirtbag...

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!

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!