This past weekend the Saint Francis received substantial late-season rain and reached its peak flows for the year. Normally, a big rain event like this one draws out nearly all of the area’s best paddlers. It’s a rare blessing when we get Grand Canyon style big water here in the Midwest and the opportunity is not to be missed. I know local boaters who will skip school, call in sick to work, even flake out on anniversaries and family milestones just to catch flows half this good. When big water lands squarely over a beautiful weekend, everyone and their dog shows up.
I hopped out of my boat, stretched out, then went up to the parking to find some company before taking on the roaring mile of big water IV+. My usual crew of young up-and-comings were scattered all over the country. Levi Rhodes and Ben Ford had just left for West-by-God to run Scouts down the New and Chris Ward had packed up weeks ago to sketch himself out on Idaho’s big water classics all summer. I was a little bummed that they weren’t around to shred, but I was optimistic and happy for the opportunity to get on the river with faces I usually just see around the takeout.
That optimism didn’t last long. There wasn’t a soul around. Not even a vehicle parked there. I was in utter disbelief. I sat around, stretched some more, ate, drank, pissed, and waited. I got bored and threw rocks. Then waited. And waited.
An hour passed. Meanwhile the river was rising like mad. This was the pulse now, some 2-3 feet per hour. Even from the parking lot I could hear the roar of the Tiemann Shut-ins growing louder and louder. And still no one around save for one family of hikers who stood around gawking in disbelief at me, my little red Dagger Centrifuge, and the brown, frothy mass building behind me.
I was in a bit of a pickle. My car was waiting at the take out and I was waiting at the put-in, about 4 miles upstream. The obvious solution began gaining traction. An old promise to my mother began ringing in my ears. I don’t think there were any real details in that promise, but I’m certain that this is precisely the kind of situation she had in mind. Besides hers, there was also the collective voice of whitewater community: boating challenging water alone is taboo. If there is a gold rule of whitewater paddling, it’s that it’s not done alone.
I had a lot of time to kill, so inevitably I got to thinking on this stuff.
I’ve got this theory that there’s a critical number of bad judgments one can make before the trouble starts (groundbreaking, I know). Of course one never knows how many, as sometimes even a single bad decision can spell disaster. Anyway, I consider paddling solo on challenging whitewater a bad decision (just for the record). I’m not going to say that it shouldn’t be done, just that it leaves less room for other bad decisions.
I didn’t feel the need to scout, but I did so anyway. I’ve been running the Saint just about every weekend for the last 5 seasons. Paddle any river a couple hundred times and its beta eventually just becomes part of you. Low water, high water, surf sessions, moonlight runs, pitch-dark runs, etc. - eventually it all adds up to a pretty cohesive understanding of the place. Standing above big drop, I could see the the shutins were running about 6.5’ over the bridge (a little shy of 10,000cfs?) - my favorite surf wave was just starting to green out. Scouting was a good decision: the rocks hadn’t moved and the rapids were free of wood. Anyway, I didn’t think there was enough margin not to.
“Hell, this is nothing compared to paddling with Ben” I thought. He was still pretty green a year or so ago and could barely even look after himself at 2.5’ over. It was just the two of us one evening after work, not enough daylight to scout, barely enough to run. No one batted an eye about that run, but I couldn’t rely on him for anything. That was riskier no doubt - but culturally was a-okay. What I was about to do was really no different, save for the judgment it would incur. Whitewater is so much about self reliance and one’s individual relationship with risk, that it surprises me paddling alone carries so much stigma.
Truthfully, I think that the climbing culture is much better adjusted in this department. Safety is understood to be more of a moving target and individual skill is much better calculated into the safety equation. In older trad circles, you’ll hear the adage, “the leader does not fall.” Meaning that entirety of the belay, the complexities of all that rope and all that gear is just a backup - just in case. There’s a very important admission hidden here - focus, skill, knowledge, and sound judgment are one’s primary line of safety.
Nowhere is that reflected more clearly than free-soloing - climbing unroped, unprotected. Even if it’s only a handful of elite climbers free-soloing routes of consequence, the image is so vivid that it captures the cultural imagination. It’s an essential part of the sport’s history and progress. On a well rehearsed route, under perfect conditions, and well within your abilities, why not? And if you climb with perfect control, what real risk is there of falling? How different is that really from “the leader does not fall?” It’s a radical idea, and an unmitigated risk, but I don’t think it’s foolhardy. And the general attitudes within the climbing community reflect that: Yosemite free soloist Alex Honnold is seen as a posterchild, not a maniac.
Unmitigated risk. Perfect control. The old math doesn’t work.
Perfect control, if maintained, means 0 risk.
Perfect control it would be. I said a quick prayer and shoved off.
I’m writing about this experience because it was so dramatically different from others. And because it was quite possibly the best I’ve ever paddled. 10 foot exploding waves, holes so powerful they rattle in your chest, and honestly I didn’t even need a brace. Perfect control. Five years of rehearsal and every aspect was flawless.
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