PNW mountaineering

This essay describes a 10-day mountaineering expedition in the North Cascades of Washington State in 2002. We drove into the Cascades in late May for a mountaineering expedition to the Dome Peak area, a very remote glaciated mountain in South Cascades National Park. The Pacific Northwest, notorious for extreme weather conditions, steep mountains and rugged forests, offers climbers many environmental and terrestrial challenges. Also, the relatively young mountain range also offers drastic elevation differences and, consequently, a diverse and contrasting ecosystems. From our trailhead at Downey Creek, myself and a handful of instructors for the National Outdoor Leadership School hiked all afternoon to the confluence with Downey Creek. Our packs were extremely heavy, containing everything we needed for a self-sufficient ten-day expedition. Besides basic camping gear, we carried maps, 22 pounds of dried food each, climbing ropes, snow pickets, crampons, ice axes, and various other assorted climbing gear. To reduce weight, some went so far as to ditch top loaders from their packs, drill holes in toothbrushes and remove the tags from shirt collars. Ounces here and there quickly amounted to pounds. Despite jettisoning all superfluous items, our packs still tipped the scales at 75-85 pounds. At the stream confluence we looked for a suitable campsite among downed trees and vegetation. We avoided patches of Devil’s Club, a large awkward plant with a thick spiky stalk containing thorns not unlike stinging needles. Huge Douglas Fir trees provided a canopy above the forest floor, which kept out the sun and also trapped in moisture. Because of such a moist environment it was difficult to dry out clothing and created cool moist air in the evenings. The moist environment also created a lot of decomposing tree material, making a soft cushion upon which to sleep.

The next morning we hiked up to an elevation of 5400 feet. This effort lasted eight hours up steep, thickly vegetated, uneven terrain for a meer 1500 feet of elevation gain. Sweat dripped into my eyes, branches whapped us in the face and I hurdled fallen trees as we bushwhacked up the steep hill. A "trail" existed the previous day up Downey Creek. My plastic mountaineering boots quickly became soaked with sweat. Under the weight of my pack I cursed mountaineering and questioned my motives. Mountaineering has been labeled the "art of misery" due to the myriad of discomforts one must endure; extreme hot, extreme cold, fatigue, hunger, sun burn, heavy packs, wet feet, disgruntled mates and smelly socks to name a few. Climbing guru, Yvon Chouinard, realized that "It is only through the extremes of our comfort and leisure do we willingly return to adversity." I think there is a part of us that can deal with discomfort as an accepted ingredient in the mountaineering feast. To me, being away from my loved ones was the greatest discomfort.

Our route to camp three took us up and over a snowy slope. We were still below treeline. A steep slope with some exposed cliffs encouraged us to exercise caution here. We tied a "fixed line" through the troubling spots by tying our rope to trees, attaching cordage from our harness to the rope, and sliding it along with us as we descended. Two hundred feet below the ridge the snow became more exposed to sunlight due to fewer trees. The snow turned into a granular unstable snowpack, or "spring corn." As our boots plunged into it, the snow crumbled away like tiny bits of styrofoam. This rapid change of snow condition startled us. We considered the angle of the slope as well as the unstable snow to be a red light on avalanche street. Because the runout ended in an icy lake, we opted to not fix a time-consuming line through this area. Rather, we made haste one at a time, down and out of the potential debris runout. Looking back, we considered managing the move differently, possibly getting an earlier start to pass the area before it became so warm or by roping up together through the sketchy snow. A couple more hours of climbing took us around and over snowy boughs, hills and valleys. We avoided slopes that poised avalanche hazards while still trying to negotiate the path of least resistance. A few pitches of steep snow took us up and past a breathtaking view of the valley below and the icy blue lake we had traveled across earlier in the day. Our route then topped out on a corniced ridge with a spectacular view of the snowy peaks and the ravine floor to the south.

We were finally above treeline. Yes! We began to traverse this ridge on the windward side, as huge snowy cornices loomed over the leeward side like droopy soft-serve ice cream cones held by an inattentive child. This ridge continued for a quarter mile until it ended at a flat snowslope. This was a strategic camp for us because it overlooked the south facing snowslope and we could visually strategize tomorrow’s route. We began the task of digging out a seven by seven foot platform in the snow where our tent would lay while others fired up the stove, heated water for dinner and produced hot drinks. It was nice to be in the alpine areas of the mountains now, offering unhindered views of jagged peaks jutting out of their wintry snow blankets. This was a truly beautiful place. Our tents, pitched atop a knife-ridge of rock and snow, looked out into a realm unseen by many, a vast expanse of open air and mountains interlaced with permanent snow. The next day we traversed several snowfields to gain Dome Glacier. I alternated leads across avalanche debris from the previous day, rock rib to rock rib. I led an exhausting pitch, kicking step after step into the snow, up a couloir and finally at the top I found a good resting place. Another push brought us to the saddle of Dome Glacier and the base of Dome Peak, elevation 7500’. The splendor and remoteness of this mountain were its consolation of having relatively low elevation. This would be our base camp for the next three days. I snapped a few pictures of the striking scenery.

The next day was spent exploring the serracs and icefalls on the glacier. This unique feature is caused when the glacier flows over a convex section of the mountain terrain, causing it to crack and splinter as its enormous weight flows over the topographical hump downward. Boxcar sized ice chunks, some precariously perched and others fallen over, lay heaped upon one another. I led our three-person rope team onto the side of the glacier and off of the snow. We were able to obtain firm purchase on the blue ice as our crampons dug into it. I chopped away some black ice, found good, hard ice underneath and placed an ice screw for protection. I screwed in two more 17cm screws at 50 foot intervals and the last person on our rope cleaned them out as he passed the running belay. It felt good to be ice climbing again, stepping over the smaller cracks of ice, and climbing into and over the bigger ones. The ice climbing I did in Salt Lake this winter was paying off. Eventually, the ice slab ended in some gnarly snow so we moved back up onto the glacier proper, probing for hidden crevasses under the snow all along the way.

Once on top we worked north, "echelon" style. We traveled in a "V or Z" formation to better manage our rope team when parallel in crevasse terrain. We now wanted to find a big crack in the glacier to practice some crevasse rescue. We found a large crevasse on top, built a snow anchor, padded the lip with an ice axe and I was lowered into it. It was about 40’ deep and 200’ feet across. After I was lowered in I began to ascend the rope using two prussiks, one tied to my harness and one on my feet, alternately sliding them. Once near the top I evaluated my situation. There was a three foot horizontal lip at the top of the crevasse. The bad thing here was that the lip was melting and caused a constant rain to pour into my lap as I looked skywards. It was necessary to scrape the snow away from the rope, which had cut into the lip half a foot deep, so the prussiks could slide up. This was a cold task for my fingers, but afterward I was able to reach a hand over the top, grab the buried axe and haul myself over. Sunshine again!

The next day our group split into three teams to climb various parts of the peak. We wanted to experience as much of the mountain as we could. My group first spent the morning scouting the route down the north side of the glacier. Cirrus clouds appeared the previous night and the barometer had been steadily dropping for a couple of days. If we were caught in a storm we wanted to be able to have a familiar route with a footpack already made. Sure enough, a storm slowly moved in throughout the day and by the afternoon we were completely socked in. Wind blew fiercely and visibility was very poor. We dug our kitchen lower into the snow and piled the snow blocks above it to act as a wind barrier. A windy night ensued. At camp seven the storm that took so many days to blow in finally hit us with full force. Storms gathering over the Pacific Ocean moving east slam into the Cascade Mountains quite regularly. It is amazing to see the extreme temperature differences. We hiked down Dana Glacier and traversed northwest to a haystack shaped rock spire marking our intended pass we needed to take to South Cascade Glacier. Cornices posed a danger on the rock band to our left and we spent the morning traversing over previous debris slides. Thanks to our reconnaissance mission the previous day we knew a large cornice loomed low on the right side of the drainage. By 9:00 am we had traversed off Dana Glacier and the snowslopes to the haystack rock drainage. By now a thick fog crept in and our view quickly diminished. As we climbed up to the ridge, kicking steps in the slushy snow, climbers trailed off into the mist like The Lady of the Lake into Avalon. It was not long until we gained the snow ridge. What lay beyond was a steep incline on the windward side of the slope. When peeking our heads over the top we were greeted with a blast of wind in the face. Now full winter conditions existed with hard blowing winds, pelting snow, poor visibility and cold temperatures. Due to the bad storm conditions, the steep slope and rocky runout, we built a snow anchor on the leeward side of the slope and prussiked down the other into the torrent. Stepping over the saddle was like stepping into a whirlwind of white. As I reached the end of the rope, I detached myself, yelled up 150 feet to the next person informing them that they could descend. I looked below me and could barely make out some steep rocks through the blowing snow. I self-belayed using my ice axe and kicking steps with the fronts of my boots. I did this with a diagonal descending/traversing angle until the slope mellowed out a little. My glacier glasses were completely iced up by this point. We found a large boulder and grouped up there to escape the wind and discuss our next course of action. We could either dig in and bivy where we were or continue on to the less exposed glacier. We opted for the latter. We down climbed some 4th class rock and snow, spotting each other as we descended, then continued past two small crevasses and up another rock band to South Cascade Glacier. We knew the easiest route to the glacier from a detailed examination of our topographical map. We finally made it to the glacier, through the whiteout, roped up again, walked onto the vast white plain and probed out a 40 foot area. We found no hidden snow bridges or crevasses and decided our perimeter was clear to camp. We began the arduous task of building our snow shelter, kitchen and latrine area. The important thing to remember was not to wander outside the probed area. Falling into a crevasse by walking outside the perimeter, to go to the bathroom for instance, could be costly mistake. It took us two hours to build a five foot wall of snow blocks, to protect us from the winds, and a pit upon which to erect our tent. It felt like Antarctica as I cut the blocks with our shovel and handed them, fire-line style, to the mason. After the wind wall was built it actually was a quite cozy home. I cooked some spicy curry/pasta soup that night which warmed our bellies and our spirits.

The next day we decided to not move due to the weather. We cowered in the tent all day as the snow pounded outside. Occasionally, the clouds would break, exposing the vast expanse of rock spires and snowy peaks that surround our glacier. It was surreal to comprehend camping on a dynamic moving expanse of ice. The USGS monitors the glacial creep by placing wands and visually recording the distance of travel over time. Some glaciers slide several feet in a single day! Two days later the storm lifted and we were able to begin our descent of South Cascade Glacier. We walked out of the clouds 1000 feet lower and could see the boundless valley of Cascade Creek. Another 500 feet of elevation descent and we were off the glacier. Temperatures warmed and we again switched into beach mode, donning shorts and t-shirts. Our packs were lighter, having eaten the majority of our food, but the continuous downclimbing over loose scree eventually wore on the knees. One more day of bushwhacking and stream crossings brought us to the end of a forest service road. Walking on flat ground, what a joy! Wet plastic mountaineering boots came off! Another five miles brought us to our vehicle and the end of our journey. In hindsight, our group agreed that exposing ourselves to the dangers and harshness of the mountains was well worth the experiences. The costs of mountaineering can be high, but well worth the fruits of labor when combined with experience, good expedition behavior and conservative judgement. If someone were to ask me "why," I suppose I would have to refer back to old Henry Thoreau: "I went into the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front the essential facts of life, and not, when it came time to die, discover that I had not lived."

Middle Fork Feather (Devils Canyon) pt.4

DEVILS CANYON

The first few miles of day three were some of the most enjoyable class IV rapids I can remember. There were many great boof drops of low difficulty with the usual recovery pools interspersed between. However, after a great hour-long warm up, the river tightened again through a narrow limestone-walled canyon. Around mile 28 the Middle Fork entered dramatic Devil’s Canyon and massive granite walls rose abruptly from the river. The gradient was “only” 80 feet per mile here, with most of the major rapids formed by huge chunks of granite that had broken off the walls and dropped into the river. Side streams had now significantly increased the river’s flow, adding a new element to this final stretch.

As the granite walls once again closed in, we soon were faced with our first unportageable drop. There were sheer cliffs on either side and a portage would be time consuming and possibly dangerous. We gave it a quick scout and an obvious line presented itself down the left side. Most of the water went river left at the entrance, and then turned 45 degrees to river center. There was a small hole to punch at the top of the line, a large rock on the right side of the chute where the river turned to the center, a lot of diagonal currents, and finally, a flush of whitewater at the bottom. The line seemed fairly straight forward. I picked out the nuances of my line carefully, looking for the most gentle currents that would take me down and around the corner. However, we really just had to paddle into the white maw of water and hope for the best.

We watched Ben go first. Ben punched the left edge of the top hole, braced on a frothy diagonal wave on the left, executed a few more strokes and cleared the boulder on his right. He then negotiated the rest of the flume and was through. It was a clean line. I attempted a similar line, but punched the top hole more towards the center. Even so, I was doing okay until a diagonal wave pushed me farther right than I wanted to be. Halfway down, just above and left of the big boulder, I was sucked into a boiling, frothy eddy. I was only in it for half a second, but that was long enough to capsize me. When I flipped I was washed back into the main current and down the remaining flume of whitewater. I tucked close to my boat to avoid hitting any rocks on my way down, but a rock still managed to graze the back of my helmet. I rolled up in the pool below. Chad came down next taking a similar line. He must have seen my mistake and stayed farther left. Once we were all through we paddled 100 feet or so to our next scout.

We were again faced with another horizon line with boulders lining the top. I floated up to the side of one of the boulders and peered over the edge. It looked like a straight shot down a six-foot-wide rush of water on the right side. However, I couldn’t see all of the rapid, so I got out of my boat (again) to scout. The pillow of water at the end of the drop looked quite a bit meatier from this vantage point. The water thundered down with great speed into a large boulder that deflected the water into the center. It looked like we could shoot down the spout, with a slight river center angle and brace off the foamy pile and into the pool below. Ben didn’t like the fury of the hole that the spout made and suggested we opt for a shallow eight-foot huck off the left ledge and into the pool below. That suited us fine so Ben and I made the move while Chad shot photos.

The most obvious portage we were looking for was called Granite Dome (mile 29). I had read about the arduous and steep portage of Granite Dome in guidebooks and seen pictures on the internet. A mile into Devils Canyon we came to a big pool where the river bended right and a huge granite dome towered over the left bank. We paddled slowly across the pool assessing the severity of the falls below. The portage was .3 mile and could be longer if one chose to put-in further down and not run a steep drop only 50 yards below the class VI falls. We were convinced that walking this rapid was mandatory and our feelings were confirmed once we climbed high enough to see Granite Dome in its entirety. Granite Dome Falls consisted of a staircase of class V drops that climaxed in a lethal jumble of boulders.

The air temperature was brutally hot and we began sweating even as we shouldered our boats for the walk. Chad immediately stripped down to nothing but shorts. I left my gear on. The trouble of taking everything off only to put it right back on again seemed like too much work for me.

There was a well-used “trail” that led up and to the right. On the trail, some places were so thick with foliage, a tree trunk provided a well-received footbridge over it. Towards the end of our hike, we climbed down a blocky rock slope, passing our boats down one at a time, fire-line style, to a rocky protrusion 15 feet over the river. We were downstream of the worst of the falls now. We walked out onto the rock overlooking the river and examined the deep pool below. I placed my kayak on the lip of the rocky shelf, got in my boat, and seal-launched myself over the edge. Ben and Chad followed with whoops and cheers.

We had paddled barely 50 yards when we came to another very steep drop. Initially, we wondered if we had completed all of the portage. Luckily, however, this just turned out to be a runnable class V below Granite Dome. A few paddle strokes took us up to the lip of the drop. One by one, we cruised over the falls, almost having to boof the far river right wall. The landing seemed deep enough, but we each grazed a rock that was slightly submerged.

The river was unrelenting in its consistency. Another 50-yard paddle took us to yet another horizon line and scout. Many of the rapids blur together in my memory save the largest ones. By now, it was well into the afternoon and I was becoming both physical and mentally tired. We scouted from atop a high boulder on river right. From our high perch we spied some very large boulders with a powerful flume going through just left of center. Back in our boats. Again, clean lines had by all.

Towards the end of the final day we came to Milsap Bar Bridge and our take out. With mixed emotions, the last day wasn’t really that long. We were only on the water for six hours, but the back-to-back class IV and V made it seem like we had just completed a major expedition. Rounding a final bend in the river we spied Kristen, our faithful shuttle bunny, who lay sunning herself on the rocky bank waiting our return. Aside from driving the monstrous shuttle for us, she had spent the last three days painting and other artistic endeavors. A big thanks to her for the logistical support. Greetings and celebrations ensued, and then we were off to Oroville, CA for a well-earned celebration dinner.

Random videos of Brad kayaking in WA:

Wind River: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dL3uIrrLj40

Tieton River: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qb7I7A9Q2No

Middle Fork Feather (Franklin Canyon) pt.3

FRANKLIN CANYON

Below Horseshoe Bend were several miles of class II-III. I noticed about four other sizeable campsites including a Forest Service campground for hikers complete with firepit and picnic tables up the bank on river left. At mile 14.5, Onion Valley Creek entered on the left, adding a bit more water to our liquid roller-coaster ride. Also, the Pacific Crest Trail footbridge crossed overhead at this point, one of the few external access points to the river. It was a huge monstrosity that looked like someone could drive a car over. The bridge seemed almost out of place to me. In our wilderness of solitude it was an unwelcommed trace of civilization. To me, it seemed a little excessive for Pacific Crest hikers. It was the opposite of a flimsy rope bridge that one might expect to find spanning a river in Nepal. A disgruntled hiker had written “Why This?” on the upstream side of an iron I-beam. Nevertheless, it was the obvious landmark we were looking for that would alert us to the entrance of Franklin Canyon. Most of the class V+ drops were below this point in Franklin Canyon, a metamorphic bedrock canyon with extremely steep rapids, including 12’ Franklin Falls.

Soon the geology tightened up and the river narrowed abruptly. Franklin Canyon was a long stretch of turbulent class IV and V rapids with a gradient of over 100 feet per mile. There was also at least one big portage that we were on the lookout for at mile 15. When we paddled up to the first really big rapid, all we could see was a jumble of boulders below a horizon line with mist and spray spewing up from below. We got out on river left to scout and determined that it must be Hole in the Box rapid. It had a narrow flume of water that dropped 12 feet into a big hole studded with boulders. It didn’t take us long to decide to walk around this one. Clamoring over the uneven rocks, while at the same time dragging our loaded kayaks, was a chore. At some points we had to lower our boats down into a rocky crevasse, climb down in, and heave the heavy boats up and out the other side. We quickly learned that portaging was much more work than running the rapids. Positioning our boats on the rocky left bank below the falls, we seal-launched back into the current.

Then, we immediately encountered another horizon line downstream. We got out on the left side again to scout. Here the river split around a bedrock island, with the left side pounding down a narrow chute. We ran the right side. Very busy water continued downstream.

At mile 15.5 Dogwood Creek entered on the left high above the water’s edge. It was a beautiful waterfall that plunged down a thousand feet over smooth, glistening granite. Green moss studded the watery braid throughout. The cascade reminded me of scenes one might expect to see in Yosemite National Park. Around mile 18 we rounded a corner where the river widened out for a spell. In the center of the river a house-sized rock extended up and out of the water. On top of this rock, about 15-20 feet above the water, was a lone dog. The dog started barking insatiably once he saw us. At first I was perplexed. I thought, “How did a dog get all the way down here?” The sound of the bark wasn’t one of fright or the sound one might expect from a dog in a life-or-death situation. Rather, it was an urgent bark of helplessness; like the dog was trying to warn its owner of approaching people, but couldn’t (or wouldn’t) come off it’s high perch.

On the other side of the river, across from the rock, we came upon a man standing knee deep in the water. He appeared to be a rugged frontier type with a bushy gray beard. He was wearing a neoprene suit and held an iron bar in one hand and an inner tube in the other. He had other tools on the side of the river that were within easy reaching distance. I saw a pickaxe, sifting pan and other hand tools. We paddled into the eddy to talk. He spoke as though he was pleased to see us; as if he hadn’t spoken another soul for many days. He explained to us that he had spent several days working a small vein of rock in the riverbed a couple feet under the water. He tied off the inner tube to the shore and used it to float him above his work area. He told us that he had extracted several pounds of gold out of this river over the years. To me, it seemed like a very cold and hard day at the office.

We paddled up to yet another horizon line with the sound of thundering water below. We scouted river left. There was a strand of rock in the middle of the river as the water flowed around it and down over an 8-10 foot vertical drop. The falling water created two river-wide holes, on either side of the rock strand, extending out to the riverbanks on both sides. Upon initial inspection, I thought the line would be to gain enough speed to launch over the lip of the falls on the left side, and hopefully, have enough momentum to clear the hole below. With further inspection we noticed rebar sticking out slightly under the water’s surface at the top lip of the drop. This was, in fact, an old dam build into the rapid that looked as if it had crumbled away over the years or, perhaps, was only partly constructed long ago by the dam builders. This man-made hazard seemed worthy of mention and I was surprised and alarmed not to have read about it in any guidebook. It was late afternoon, around 4 pm or so. This time of day was know as the “witching hour,” a time of day where mistakes are more likely to happen due to people’s fatigue or inattentiveness. Ben expressed no desire to run a big hole at this time. Chad looked as if he still hadn’t ruled out the option of running the right side of the rock strand. When I pointed out the rebar and the fact that we didn’t know how much more rip-wrap could be under the water in the landing zone, we all shouldered our boats for the portage.

Day two was a long day. It was physically as well as mentally demanding. We had paddled a little over 12 miles and it took us almost 10 hours. The numerous scouts and the occasional portage became quite time consuming. Rarely is my mind so clear and focused than when I am paddling. Around each new bend, I was constantly on the lookout for any potential hazards as well as water features that would offer up a potential fun play spot. It became a Zen-like state of mind for me. However, maintaining such a focused and alert mental condition began to take a toll on my endurance. Near mile 22 we looked for the next and last footbridge spanning the river. It marked our camp for the night.

Hartman’s Bar had a nice white sandy speckled beach with polished granite rocks for us to dry out our gear on. It was a large expansive beach, suitable for a large number of people, with scenic views consistent with previous beaches we had seen along the way. As I extrapolated myself from my kayak, I noticed through the clear water a red salamander slowly crawling over the sand. I reached my hand under the surface of the water to pick him up. The salamander showed no signs of excitement and I could easily have snatched up a new friend. However, I thought twice about it and decided to let him be. Traces of previous use were found up among the trees. Off the beach, the camp looked fairly well lived in; there was an old wooden bench, discarded rations containers and a matted down sleeping area. Perhaps an old-timey gold miner had holed up here?

I woke up late the next morning, trying to get as much sleep as possible. I lay on top of my sleeping bag for a while contemplating my last day on this river. We ate a lazy breakfast and sipped hot drinks, enjoying the last few moments of our camp. Now, all our rations were gone except the peanut butter at a bit of gorp. As our breakfast settled, we eventually grew motivated and began the morning ritual of loading our boats. When I pushed out into the eddy, Ben was already surfing a wave downstream. Next, Chad and I caught the wave a had a good morning surf. It was a better wake-me-up than coffee. “Next stop, Devil’s Canyon!”

Random kayak video of Brad:
Tieton: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qb7I7A9Q2No
Wind River: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dL3uIrrLj40

Middle Fork Feather (upper canyon) pt.2

UPPER CANYON

Below Nelson Point the river begins to carve a deep, forested canyon through solid Sierra granite. For the first few miles the river offered us a gentle warm up in class III boulder drops. The air temperature was warm and the water was cool. Within a few bends of the river, signs of civilization vanished completely. After the first mile I was already gaping at the unexcelled scenery and solitude of this place. I paddled into an eddy along side the river to stop and soak it all in. I thought to myself, “This place is amazing!”

At mile three we entered the unnamed upper canyon. Tons of fun class IV ensued. Rapids were wide boofy drops with many routes to choose from. I was reminded of the upper sections of the Cache La Poudre River in Colorado. Gradually, the river increased in difficulty. The canyon walls narrowed and rose up and into the sky. Some rapids noticeably increased to class V. The rapids were wide bouldery drops with calm pools at the bottom of each one. We would soon learn that “pool-drop” rapids epitomized the nature of this run; meaning that still water pools separated each drop offering us a chance to gather our wits and time to get out and scout the next one.

As we paddled up to the next drop, we saw a narrow horizon line, about six feet wide, to the left of a house-sized boulder. The guidebook warned us of a six-foot ledge that “should probably be portaged” in the upper canyon between mile three and nine. We got out on the right bank to scout. The water pushed around the house rock on the right and funneled through a six-foot wide spout down a steep shoot and through a sticky hydraulic at the bottom. A large pool waited below. The drop seemed clean and we judged that we could punch through the hole at the bottom. Chad strategically placed himself downstream of the house rock for the optimum camera angle to shoot us coming through the drop. He also stood by with a throw rope if needed. After scouting, I peeled out of the eddy and ferried out into the main current. As I accelerated, I passed by the house rock. I got one more strong forward stroke in before dropping down. The tongue of water dropped out below me. I had enough speed so I was able to smack through the hole at the bottom. However, the recirculating currents of the hydraulic tweaked the stern of my boat and I flipped backwards and to the side. I rolled up and paddled over to Chad’s position and traded places with him as cameraman and safety. Next came Ben, who had a similar outcome as I, and then Chad, who seemed to have the cleanest line. By now, each of us was grinning like an idiot.

Not far downstream, we encountered another significant drop. This one consisted of a jumble of boulders with a thinly navigable tongue through the center. The rapid ended with a five-foot wide launching pad of rock and projected the water out and over the gnarliest part of the rapid. After scouting, we each negotiated the boulder slalom and then styled the launching pad into the foam, five feet below.

The action continued nonstop through the upper canyon. The next great drop contained a large sloping rock in the center of the river with boulder sieves on river right and left. Water poured over a five-foot shelf onto smaller rocks below in the center of the river. This next line was an ultra-boof. The move was to ride up high on the center rock and gain enough momentum to drop down into the calmer water below. This time Ben was the photographer.

We had no bad lines, close calls or carnage of any kind that first day. This exponentially boosted my confidence on this river. We met several more class IV and V rapids that afternoon. We scouted some in detail and others we boat-scouted from the staging eddy above. They were all bouldery pool-drop affairs with large recovery pools at the bottom.

At mile nine the rapids eased to class IV for a time, and our thoughts began to stray towards camp. We had spent a long day on the water and we believed that we were making great time down river. We didn’t want to go too far that first day and unknowingly enter the next canyon; we would then suddenly be unable to find a suitable camp for the walls were steep and the river narrow. So, we scouted a few places and camped high above the river on a flat shelf on river left. While scouting for camp, Chad and Ben found the old remains of a twisted oar frame on the other side of the river. It was once a raft frame and looked as though it had suffered a pin against some rocks. It was wrung like a wet towel. Its owners must have pulled it off a rock after the mishap, abandoned the frame and paddled their raft the rest of the way out of the gorge.

I awoke the next morning feeling greatly refreshed. We ate a modest breakfast of granola cereal, milk and peanut butter. I unclipped my paddling gear from the nearby tree and hiked down the rocky incline to load my kayak by the river’s edge.

Soon we passed through a large turn in the river. We concluded that it was Horseshoe Bend, mile 10. This meant that we were two or three miles short of where we thought we were. It turned out that our conservative desire to camp early was premature. After floating another mile, our suspicions were confirmed. We spied two great camps on either side of the river, complete with large sandy beaches and flat sleeping areas. “This must be where people stay at the end of day one,” we exclaimed. Oh well, we just had to make up for lost time that second day. And we did, much to our exhaustion.

Random kayak video of Brad:
Tieton: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qb7I7A9Q2No
Wind River: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dL3uIrrLj40

Middle Fork of the Feather pt.1

The Middle Fork of the Feather in Northern California is a classic whitewater expedition. Many guidebooks claim "The Feather" to be the finest multi-day kayak run in California. It has it all: high-quality rapids, unsurpassed scenery, and remoteness-induced solitude. The gorge presents a host of technical challenges. There are many class III-IV rapids with 10-15 class V rapids spread evenly throughout the run. I have seen many kayakers drool with envy over their buddies who have returned home, bringing stories and pictures from the Middle Fork of the Feather River.

The Feather flows for 32 miles through a thousand-foot deep granite-lined Sierra Canyon. I’ve always been drawn to places of vast and breathtaking landscapes. Something in these kinds of places is replenishing to my soul. Over the years I had pieced together bits of information about the run. I had a general sense of its surreal beauty, the nature of the rapids, and the mandatory portage in the final canyon. It seemed like everything about the place was measured in epic proportions. Its grandeur combined with the challenging nature of the run was particularly appealing to me. In his classic guidebook, “Western Whitewater, From the Rockies to the Pacific,” Jim Cassidy claims that the gorge of the Middle Fork of the Feather:
“Is one of the most spectacular and difficult river in the West. Only teams of expert in kayaks or self-bailing rafts should attempt this run, and then only at low and moderate water levels. They should be prepared for a long, multi-day descent through pounding Class V-and worse-rapids in a remote, steep-walled wilderness canyon. (Cassidy, 1990)”

With a description like that, who could resist? I have wished for an opportunity to experience the Feather for a long time. However, coordinating a competent group of paddlers together with unconflicting schedules and ideal water levels proved to be an initial major obstacle. However, after we received the phone call invite from Chad, Kristen and I frantically feneggled our early summer plans, rearranged our schedule, and were off.

Chad, Ben and I were the only members of our group. Three was the minimum number of people we felt comfortable with for the run. Four people would have been nice, but two would have been too few. And anyway, three was just a nice intimate number of boats for this kind of run. Chad had been planning this trip for a few months. The expedition was to be a fitting end to his “singlehood” and a last “hurrah!” before making the quantum leap into holy matrimony. I thought it fitting for Chad to spend a week climbing Mt. Shasta and then paddling the most classic class V run in Northern California with good friends. What a great culmination before finalizing the tie of marriage to a great woman. I couldn’t think of a better place for a not-so-typical bachelor party.

The Middle Fork of the Feather is also one of the most remote rivers in California. Only a few footpaths and jeep trails reach the river at isolated points. In many places rescue would be virtually impossible in the event of a mishap. In the gorge the river drops at an average rate of 75 feet per mile with a peak gradient of well over 100 feet per mile in the middle of the 32-mile run. Upon further research, I learned of the long, unportageable rapids in the final canyon. It seemed like lost or broken gear could result in a survival scenario of epic proportions due to the towering walls of granite on either side of the river. This fact, combined with the river’s Wild and Scenic designation, made access points few and far inbetween. Trails were limited to a few steep, rugged footpaths or jeep trails at the end of each canyon. The remoteness of this run demanded an above-average level of preparedness. Water purification, extra food and rainy weather gear were prerequisites we stowed in our kayaks while still trying to minimize our boats’ weight.

The night before our run we spent studying topographical maps, organizing our food and inventorying our gear. We exploded all our gear out onto the floor for easier examination. We packaged the important items first (i.e. food). A couple dinners, breakfasts, a surplus extra meal (which we ate at the last camp), gorp and snacks for lunch were all divvied up among us. “Should we bring the peanut butter?” “No, it’s too heavy!” However, it went into the stow bags at the last minute anyway. We were careful to not pack any extra stuff we wouldn’t need. There was no sense carrying two spare paddles, etc. One tarp, one sleeping bag each, one tarp, and plenty of open sky completed our lodgings. Anything we didn’t really need was too much. If we did end up doing a lot of portaging, we wanted our load to be light as possible.

The Feather is generally runnable during spring snowmelt, but it should be attempted only when flows at the put-in are low. Numerous side creeks swell the river over the course of the run, doubling or even tripling the flow between put-in and take-out. I had been watching the gauge on the internet the past few days before heading down from Oregon. Three days before our planned launch date the gauge read 1800 cubic feet per second. Two days prior to our put-in date the internet gauge read 1700. If the river held this trend we should enjoy a perfect water level of 1500 cfs, the ideal water level for kayaks.

The Feather is the northernmost of the Sierra Rivers. It drains a lush, moderate-elevation watershed with forests that rival old growth forests in Oregon. The watershed’s heavy runoff attracted the interest of dam-builders during California heyday of dam building. Oroville Dam – the world’s biggest earthfill dam and the centerpiece of the California State Water Project – blocks the Feather’s main stream and backs water up all three forks. Luckily, the Middle Fork of the Feather was one of the first rivers to gain Wild and Scenic designation by the U.S. Congress. Now, only the Middle Fork of the Feather runs free above Oroville Reservoir, thanks to its 1968 designation as a charter member of the National Wild and Scenic Rivers System (Cassidy, 1994).

Ben showed up in his rental car the night before. An automatic transmission, to Kristen’s delight, provided her with stress-free driving pleasure. After constructing a make-shift kayak rack on top with discarded 2x4’s, it became the perfect shuttle vehicle. We woke early the next morning and ate a hearty breakfast. Then, we made a last minute stop at the local quickie-mart where Chad and I purchased the best $1.99 footwear we’ve ever spent; some yellow, light-weight flip flops. They were (and still are) quite a coveted item. A quick drive north brought us to Nelson Point and our put-in. We owe Kristen, our faithful shuttle bunny, all our thanks. Without her, it would have added an seven-hour and 125 mile one-way shuttle drive to our trip. Everything about the Feather seems to be of epic proportions, including the shuttle drive. We were anxious to start our journey so we methodically packed our boats, donned our whitewater gear and were off.

Random kayak video of Brad:

Tieton: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qb7I7A9Q2No

Wind River: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dL3uIrrLj40