Falling

The modern world with all its traps is hard to escape, smartphone by my bed beeps and I am awake. It is far too early. An email has arrived. Long time white water pioneer Doug Ammons is talking of the Stikine again, of the bridge that roars and the feelings. He wants to know about my fall at Zed and more.

Its over a year now and I still think of the place, glad that the magnet pulled and so pleased to have fallen in with a crew, at the right time. Seems I appreciate them more now, how we all fell together, without words. 

How do I talk about the fall, I cant- is it strange to have blocked the negative from my mind, perhaps the team can- I cannot. Although I will try, I will be succinct and do a small piece on it.

Parts of the trip, the negatives- wake me from sleep, missed moves and tiredness.  Same with the two failed attempts, now they seem like the stories of a different man that I have woven into my own fabric.

Doug you asked me to think about my fall. Which I've not done before. And only an hour ago didn't think I could, but then the words just came. Its 6am UK time, in bed, wind blowing outside writing this on my phone. 

Over a year now. Lots of things passed. The moments in the canyon don't fall easy in my memory, its not a linear story board, but just fragments. Mostly its first person views, but sometimes like watching a cheap vhs movie. 

Previous choices to walk away, I know left a chip on my shoulder, one of my doubt- one forced by anothers hand. Perhaps that made me stronger? You be the judge as required. 

Parts of the descent replay in my mind with ease, the paddle in the entry, feeling like a choir was singing all the way. Vee drive, from the scout to paddling the line, so vivid - I can even tell you the number of strokes I used, or so it seems. 

Then I have memories that are harder to remember. The missed eddy at Wassons and running blind, this always melts into the portage at Zed. Where I was tired, beaten and at the back of the pack. What happened on the portage, a tale so close to the terror of a boys own adventure novel, of my slide and fall. That's blocked. Although pieces of the jigsaw appear now and then.

It felt late in the day, beaten. I have no words for how tired I was. We shouldered our boats that night, leaving our supplies at camp. My ankles are badly damaged from previous kayaking incidents and the uneven rocks do me no favours. I am struggling behind the group. Slowly I watch the placement of each foot. First left, then right with all the weight of my shouldered boat. It seems long and painful. The group are not in my vision, when I lift my eyes to find a route. The splintered maze of rocks- I go right, the high road. 

Easy at first, then not so much. My foot slides, I forget which one, like it matters anyway. And I am falling. A few feet I could cope with, but this, this is more. I've kayaked smaller waterfalls. I force my kayak in front and wait for it to jam. I can then use the cockpit as a ladder.  

Too late, steady at first, trickles of dust and gravel run down to my back.   I'm falling faster now, but as always in these times, its replayed in cinematic slow motion. I crumble on to my feet, and stop, still. Then it happens the trickle of rocks become a stream, the stream a river a growing rock infested river - alive.

I hunker down close to my boat, not looking up. I can hear them rolling. Twack, thud, twack, thud. Time and again rocks bounce off my boat, the odd one deflects from my shoulder and helmet. My arms cover my face and they too take a beating. Perhaps this was why I had put my elbow pads on when we left the bridge and yellow sign -  I was the only one to do so. 

The dust takes some time to settle, as I lay on the cold boulders, a beaten heap. I try to stand, to walk. Even with all he adrenaline my ankles cry with pain. They are not broke, just twisted bad. I sit and reflect.  10ft to my left the giant roars, Zed all hungry.  

The dust has settled by the time Max is retracting his steps. I know he thinks I'm just resting. I try to explain, but Zed has turned me into a child again. I fumbled for words, stutter, stammer. Like I did at school. It takes some minutes for all the team to congregate. Then the truth appears. As falls go, it was big. As consequences go, it was big. A broken leg or worse and things would have got interesting. 

Max looks at me, I remember now that I couldn't hold his gaze. Without a word he shoulders my boat and carries it along to join his. Its a hard walk back to camp, harder still in the morning. Scouts and portages for the next two days hurt. Ankles still click.   

That's about all I can remember. The rest is blocked. It hasn't stopped me thinking if I want to go again. 

Risk

Following on from the Stikine post that I made in in 2010 and its publication in Ceufad magazine. I feel it is now time to look at briefly at personal risk.

The Stikine river is perhaps the one river that burns in my heart as the bracket of experience. This is, for me, the place where all my passion lay bare and raw for all to see. It is more than the river alone. It is more than the memories it gave. For many this river, which has been put on a pedestal, holds no clues-no passion. Instead, others do, these are the places that prepare you to challenge. Implicit in these situations is the notion of personal risk. How we, as thinking organisms, perceive these risk situations is key. It is not simply a question of can we do this? But is the question, should we do this?

In kayaking and other adventure sports we can easily look at static risk assessments, the use of solid factual pieces that our bound to our public concept of risk. For example, we all understand that if we don't wear a helmet on a river the risk of banking our head if we flip is high. Similarly we all understand that if we paddle a river above our comfort grade then the risk of missing a line, not been in control is higher.

It is this second point that is never as solid as we think. We all desire to grow as kayakers and to do so we knock at the door of our experiences. We wish to door open and we walk through. To a garden of peace or an evil dungeon. We have all made choices that in hindsight are foolish, but at the time felt right. Often these have been linked to peer pressure and our own egos. This no one else fault but our alone.

Sitting in our own private place, a still mind, we can make our own judgement calls. We judge the possibilities of risk, possibly replaying the scenario in our minds eye. For some this is not a help- as they concentrate on the fail rate of risk with such gusto that the outcome is obvious. For others the fail rate is not even apparent. Confidence in the moment, in your own worth and your own moves. The line will not be missed. Whilst this is a positive affirmation of the self I still don’t believe that it is the end. In these situations, when things do go wrong the kayakers have no emergency plan no back up.

A friend of mine put on the Stikine, although could have been any river. He wanted to put on, he felt he needed to. Half way through day 2 he took a swim and was not reunited with his boat or gear. He hiked out to the rim of the canyon and waited rescue. These videos will show his situation. The second part starts off with the question 'WHY?'

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1UvUxUkhojc&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMafMwvQh8c&feature=related

I think that what happened here gives us a very succinct example of risk and personal boundaries. Although as he will say his self he 'failed' on the river he none the less managed the final outcome. He had come to the point, prior to the launching on the river, where he understood what a fail could mean and what risks were involved.

We can all discuss group dynamics of every situation we hear about and we can all look back at choices made - analysis is easy after the fact. For me this brief out line of risk and outcome has followed me for years. I continue to paddle, in remote gorges, rare rivers and in isolated areas. I understand the risks that I impose on myself but am also aware that one missed move on my local river and a 'worse case scenario' is just around the corner.

Whilst I understand this has been a short essay, it is simply a preface to further work. I welcome my own thoughts about personal risk and the ever changing angle of the mind. For without it I could not concentrate on the fact in hand.

STIKINE

Haunted shadows awake me, a serpent cuts the land. Burning with each beat of my heart. Cold sweats and startled sleep once more. Wounded, I had ached to dance to its song since I first had unstable beginnings in kayaking. As challenges came and went the Stikine sat proud, a giant into my pantomime of exploration.

11 Sept, a sleepless flight to Vancouver and a drive to the North Country, the magnet pulled faster and faster. 12th Sept as darkness fell-tired. The night offered promises in the morning light.

Confused conversations, like the drunkards plea, had drawn six together. We had one common thread, the morning light brought a clear cloudless sky. Packed and loaded we paddled down to the closing wall. Gray vaulted doors with shimmering threads, the Grand Canyon Of The Stikine.

Rapids came and went, with each wave friendships grew. The pull to put on had sacrificed my body clock. Portages were difficult and eddies missed. My body hampered with fatigue. But this band of brothers became solid.

Three days the canyon, all housed in isolated grandeur let us pass. Emotions the mental landscapes were pushed and pulled then set free in a world of boundless possibilities.

Framed in the walls, no hike out, no portage you stare-heart beating into the gut. All snarl and barks. All the demons of the heart. Your blades try to power through the water, slithers of chance form and disappear. Head down, you commit. Roll the dice, load the gun, dance with the reaper - but it means more than this.

Small but critical a 5ft crack ejects you from the canyon, the worst is behind but you know more is to come.

Gravel beaches and First Nation fishermen salute its passing. But the flame is still alight, its a place of magic and spells. Of silence and noise. Of the passion and grace. Of trust and chance. The majesty and honour envelopes you. I was numb both physically and mentally at the take out, no one tells you about this.

Without the unwritten bond, without the band of brothers,

The serpent could coil and crash at any moment. So its with respect that I take these memories and remember the path of the heart.

Its not about commercial gain, or funding. Its not about what kayak you ride or what paddle you have. Its not even about the moves you make. Its about more-much more. Its about the words that cannot be said, the truth that shines in the darkest hours and the salute to the river.

For this I thank you all, my friends. For the river, a thank you is not enough- a lotus to you- my teacher.