IRON LION ZION - May in Canyon Country

Michelle and I stumbled into the world of canyoneering a couple years ago on a trip through Utah’s National Parks.  We’d borrowed a rope, practiced some techniques at the local crag, then dropped over the edge into Zion’s Spry Canyon.  The experience was totally unforgettable.  The canyons inspired wonder, offered endless challenges, and rewarded us with some of the most uniquely beautiful scenery we’d ever seen.   Their technical nature made them feel exclusive, the privacy and quietude welcome after the crowds in the valley.  At the heart of the experience though, was the newness and exhilaration of trusting to the systems that made it all possible. Earlier this summer we returned to Zion in search of some of that same magic.  

I’m writing this trip report because of how much our experience evolved. At some point during the last few years of climbing, regrettably, the thrill of being on a rope must have worn off some.   Rappels were fun no doubt, but often felt like more of a chore than a highlight.  By the time we reached Birch on Saturday, the technical aspects of that canyon felt, well, casual.  It failed to define the experience as it had before.  It certainly didn’t register emotionally the way Spry had.  As a whole, the trip failed to be as progressive as many of our other ventures.  And It’s taken a while to make peace with that, since the rewards of this trip were so much more subtle.

The in-canyon problem solving has always been one the most satisfying parts of the adventure to me.  Because of the simplicity of the canyons we’d selected and our familiarity (rehearsal even) of the technical aspects,  few rappels qualified as “problems.”  Instead, the focus shifted almost entirely to other technical aspects like sequencing, efficiency, meat anchoring (my new favorite technique), and, the mother of them all - downclimbing.  A couple years ago, I dreaded downclimbing sections; this trip I relished them.  

One of the real standouts was Fat Man’s Misery.  Rachel Behmer joined us  and we made a day of it ( a long day of it!).  The narrow sections were nearly full, and it seemed like there was an obstacle around every bend.  We pressed through with some teamwork, a little bravery, and myself as meat anchor for whenever the bravery ran out.  The sun would disappear, the pools would deepen, and the familiar subterranean chill would set in.  But around the next corner would be hint of sunlight that would grow wider and more insistent as the canyon walls fell back.   And that would repeat, over and over through the most beautiful little slots - It was great!  Just when the downclimbs were beginning to get more serious  (the pothole section), the canyon offered escape and easy bypass.  

The last section of narrows was truly unforgettable.  A long, deep wade through a very special chamber of arches and light. Whatever sunlight found its way in became trapped as it bounced and reflected endlessly from water, to ceiling, to walls, until the whole place almost  seemed to hum with it.  It was so cold that we rushed through and didn’t get a single photo, but I don’t need one to remember it.   We kept slithering from pool to pool, until I dropped into one that felt like a warm bath. A dozen frogs were gathered there and thin wisps of sulphurous vapor rose from the surface.  Below the springs the canyon flora changed too, favoring the strange blue and pink algaes that could handle the new chemical environment.  Really magical down there at the junction with the Barracks.  

Shivering through Pine Creek on Monday was the low point for us both.  We were each suited up, but gosh that little canyon gets cold.  After Michelle made the first full swim, the mission became startlingly clear - we would get out of the water and into the open as soon as possible.  No time for pictures, no time for fun, no time to linger or savor.  It was strange to recognize places we’d easily walked through as we swam over them now.  We moved quickly and with urgency until we reached the sun for some lunch.  It was a good exercise to race downcanyon with numb hands and brains, but we had so much more fun on the last two rappels in the sun.  I’m not sure if an hour spent racing hypothermia constitutes a rest day or not.   

The next day we were both adamant that it hadn’t.  Everything hurt and we were happy to shuffle our itinerary around some more.   We packed up our BLM camp, and joined the long line of other earlybirds trying to get a spot in the park’s South Campground.  We made coffee and had leisurely breakfast out the side of the car, but still hadn’t budged in line.  I set up a mock belay station on the trunk and we talked through some multi-pitch techniques in preparation for the afternoon.  If breakfast hadn’t been a spectacle, I’m sure that breaking out the ropes and harnesses was.   Eventually we got a spot.  We slapped together some sandwiches then headed up the tunnel towards our first summit, Aires Butte.

The route is known as “Led by Sheep.”  It’s about 800 feet of less-than-vertical slickrock, most of it barely fifth class, but with the occasional blank section that climbs at 5.6 - 5.7 friction.  These cruxes are protected by bolts, but that’s about the extent of protection available on the smooth rock. 4 pitches, bolted belays, 3-4 bolts per pitch.  This one had been on my mind for while, that last detail giving me fits.  I was nervous wreck on the way up. Imagining sandbagged 5.7 slab moves above horrendous runouts was making me sick.  Having not yet laid eyes on the climb, my imagination made due with the subjects at hand - namely the spectacular, sheer walls of the East Temple.  No longer beautiful, the valley’s big walls felt fearsome and threatening as I imagined taking that fall from each of them.  Neither of us were in a good place.

Despite our state on the approach, the afternoon turned out to be such a highlight and marked a huge step forward for Michelle.  A cold wind was whipping up when I started up the first pitch, but we were each psyched and went for it.  The climbing was secure and I felt silly for all the scardiness I’d felt in the car.  I brought Michelle up and, without hesitation, she took the lead.  The first 30’ of her pitch was probably some of the headiest, but she held it together even amidst the swirling wind, sand, and raindrops.  By the time I’d gotten to the top of P2 the weather was really nasty.  It was colder and much windier, but the sky didn’t look terribly threatening either.  We talked it over and pressed on, swapping leads to the top.  On the summit we found the register and little place out of the wind to sit down with it.  Very cool to read how different the experience had been for other parties.  We signed, took the necessary selfies and panos, then started the double raps back down to the car.  Great day of “up-climbing”, as I caught myself saying later that evening.  

Still psyched on summiting and lacking a canyon permit for next day, we started up the old trail to Lady Mountain.  From the valley floor it’s utterly inconceivable that such a steep peak can be climbed with so few technical challenges (hats off to the early trail engineers!).  Nerves were pretty high as we started the first chimney.  Our last scramble in the Rockies had involved a dangerously shifty boulder field that really did some work on Michelle.  Gradually though, the rock quality and Moki steps won her over and scrambling was fun again. The trail was not difficult to follow: well worn and sandy on the benches, deep Moki steps up the exposed spots, and painted arrows or cairns where the trail changed direction.  We roped up for the two technical pitches and I set a couple nuts because  wasn’t about to carry them all the way to the summit in my pack.  The technical climbing was far from special, but an appreciation of “trad hiking” did begin to grow on me.

The summit was terrific, with sweeping views both up and down canyon and the famous view dial to help name it all.  It’s amazing how a simple matter of perspective can change everything.  Up there it was just us, the canyon wrens, and views you’d want, but never get from a picture post card. Down below was the usual hustle - only half a mile below, but a world away. We took in a as much as we could before pointing our boots downhill.  Michelle was apprehensive about a couple exposed sections, but I’d lead and she’d follow closely enough that I’d obscure most the empty space. We rappelled the two technical sections, and though I’d promised a rope for a couple of other spots we never used it.  A great outing that I would heartily recommend.

On Thursday we hiked the West Rim Trail, then over the pass to the first rappel of Behunin Canyon. We were apprehensive about the weather and had been paying close attention to the dark skies and to any increase to the morning’s gentle rain.  We were waiting for things to improve when a tremendous clap of thunder shook the canyon. Hail and big fat raindrops began pelting the the rock.   We dashed for cover, but got thoroughly soaked in the process. Soon water was pouring down the slickrock runnels and waterfalling onto our heads.  Disheartened, wet, and chilly, we bushwacked and climbed our way back out to the pass.  I was grateful that we’d spent the last few days on steep slickrock and had gained our slab feet.  A couple moves were tenuous, wet, and high above the canyon floor.   Michelle’s mantra “I am a slab queen, I am a slab queen” seemed to work, because more than once she dashed past the place where I’d frozen, too scared to move forward, unable to retreat back.  It got better though and by the time we reached the final slabs, even the wet rock felt secure enough to enjoy the exposure climbing out.  The canyon looked beautiful its stormy grey palette of colors, but smelly fleeces and defeat soured the long hike back down.  

We limped into the showers the next morning.  Feet hurt, quads hurt, pride hurt worse.  We used be athletes, I thought.   I picked up some 3.2 and we headed for the hammock with the book we’d been reading out-loud all across the plains.  We would not be shivering through Echo Canyon today.  This would be a real rest day: espresso at the cafes, Springdale souvenir shops, afternoon siestas, and visitor center video courses. We got out to the emerald pools in the evening, but it almost too crowded to think about much else.  We began to realize just how spoiled we’d been so far.

Saturday morning we were up early and on the North Fork road for the sunrise.  It was a good 10 degrees colder up there and it took a while to warm up as we dropped into Birch Canyon.  I found it really strange to hike through the shallow uglies of Birch knowing such a spectacular system of canyons was just around the bend. Before the first sections of orange sandstone I couldn’t have told you we were in Zion.  Definitely not Missouri, but not Zion either.  Michelle braved her first fiddlestick rappel and we were on our way down.

Birch was a funny experience for me. I loved pale colors of the rock and the smooth scalloped cuts, but desperately missed the obstacles.  Canyoneers love to say how our sport isn’t just rappelling, but Birch really was just rappelling!  There was nothing to discuss, nothing to deliberate, no question about how to best proceed. I didn’t realize that those elements meant so much to me until we reached Orderville without them.  Oh well, our day was just beginning.  We turned downstream and headed for the the river.  

Orderville began as a slog under relentless sun, but soon enough the canyon narrowed and the water turned on, creating the most magical playground.  We suited up and played through the drops for the next few hours. The walls soared, the water bubbled and frothed, there was something fun around every corner: balance beams, water chutes, chilly swimming holes, slippery portages, you name it.  The perfect narrows experience, we realized, once we reached the Virgin River and the Memorial Day crowds.  

Sunday we’d spend on the road but not before one last hurrah - Keyhole!  I absolutely loved this canyon.  Being unencumbered by packs and logistical worries allowed us the freedom to wholly experience the place we were moving through.  What a pretty little canyon, too!  Such great striations and narrow, curvy walls. Cold water, favorable stemming, some exciting wetsuit friction on the downclimbs, just great.  All the magic without any of the hard work.

The Golden Rule

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.  

Technical Holler'n: The Shop Creek Odyssey

"Good judgement is the result of experience, experience is the result of bad judgement" - Mark Twain

It wasn't a first descent, or even a second, but I get the sense that Michelle and I added our names to a very short list of people who've been through the canyon-proper of Arkansas's Shop Creek.  I'd been itching to get down it ever since I stumbled upon Rick Inlo's mythic trip report on the Canyon Collective message boards. And after all, the canyon is right next door to Horseshoe Canyon Ranch where Michelle and I were camping and climbing for the week.  Nearly impossible to resist, right?

Around noon on Tuesday we decided to go for it.  That morning we'd gotten out on the rock before the crowds, but were starting to lose our early bird advantage. Also, the forecast was as good as we were likely to get for the week: high 70's and sunny, no storms in sight.  Stuffing almond butter and jelly sandwiches as we worked, we scrambled to switch gears from climbing and pack all the canyon-specific gear into daypacks: the neoprene and wool paddling clothes, loads of webbing, retrieval line, quick links, 10 essentials kit, etc.

We dropped the car at the takeout, where the Buffalo River Trail (BRT) crosses Camp Orr Road and started hiking up to the top.  One thousand feet, give or take.  The looks we were getting from all Boy Scout families on the road were priceless.  I suspect Michelle's getup and mountaineer's coil were to blame.  Half an hour later we were working our way through some thorn patches, down through a steep powercut, and eventually to the origin of the canyon.

This is Michelle.  She likes espresso and rappelling down waterfalls.  

Staging our descent was pretty tense.  Although the canyon is almost entirely included in the Buffalo National Scenic River boundary, the access to Shop Creek does fall on private property.  Rural Arkansas private property.  Michelle and I kept very low and very quiet while we changed into our cold water gear and I rigged our first rappel.  Something about the atmosphere of secrecy, the black neoprene bodysuits and technical gear, and the fact that all of this was taking place in backwoods Arkansas was really funny to me.

R1 (35'): Just to the side of the first waterfall we found suitable tree to ghost in on.  Ghosting is the canyoneering technique of descending a rappel without leaving any anchor materials behind.  Not only is it good Leave No Trace ethics, but can also be useful to conserve anchoring gear when venturing into a wild canyon.  We had the thing rigged in no time and were on our way down. About 10 feet below the lip, a small spring comes gushing out of the cliff, directly in the path of the rappel and totally unobservable from the top.  Very cool and very cold!

R1: "Hole in the Wall Rappel"

R2 (80'):  The best rappel of our trip was just downstream.  There the creek drops over a steep ledge about 10' or 15', then cascades down a some VERY slippery, tiered Arkansas rock for the remainder of the rappel.  At the lip there was a nice tapering bottleneck for a knot-chock or a stopper, but we opted to sling a huge boulder on the opposite side instead.  Michelle rigged her first 'biner blocked single strand rappel and dropped in over the edge.  Midway down she stopped, and just beaming shouted back,"I'm so HAAAAPPY!!"   Just priceless to me.  Meanwhile up top, I had managed to fall through small sieve that was concealed by some twiggy debris.  Kind of funny that while she was having a moment of pure waterfallin' joy, I was struggling to pull my leg out of a miniature Burmese tiger trap.  

R3 (35'): Around 150 yards downstream you enter the canyon-proper.  As the gradient steepens, the canyon outgrows its narrow, boulder-strewn creek bed and starts cutting aggressively into the rock below it. We found another party's anchor on some deadfall, but opted to use a standing tree nearby.  The rappel ended in a chest deep pool formed by a rock that had wedged itself into the narrow channel.  Under normal circumstances I would have called this the first committing rappel...

Into the Pool at the bottom of R3

Unfortunately, that's where the good beta ends and where our day really begins to get interesting - the odyssey part.  I climbed out of the pool and onto a little ledge to check out our next move.  There was a sturdy tree to anchor for the next rappel, but that was the least of my worries.  I tethered myself to it and looked around. This was the heart of Shop Creek, and the next few moves would be full on.  The creek really just plummets at this point.  It's steep, narrow, twisty, and altogether spectacular.  I've been running around the Boston Mountains of Northern Arkansas since high school, but have never encountered or imagined anything remotely as severe.   

The View from R4: Shop Creek's Canyon Proper

There was a big decision to make.  The drop into the pool immediately below [R4 (35-40')] was very straight forward, but 100% committing. That wasn't the problem.  Anchoring the the fifth rappel at the end of that pool would have required some creativity and probably a chockstone that we would have thrown down from our ledge.  That wasn't the problem either.  The fifth rappel itself would have been a real gamble though.  Just beyond the pool, the bottom drops out and the creek dives and twists its way down to the canyon floor.  I'd guess there was about 80' of rappel to the bend, then who knows how much beyond the bend and out of sight. We were perched about 200' above the canyon floor, and it looked tauntingly close.  But, we only had 100' of rope.

In case it came up short, I'd have a set of nuts and all the webbing necessary to build a traditional climbing anchor midway down R5.  The thought of hanging down there in the cascade though, trying to build a worthy anchor on slimy, chossy rock just terrified me.  Almost as much as the thought of not finding any placements or sticking the rope....

Michelle came down R3, made the swim, then climbed up to where I was and tethered herself to my tree.   We left the rope on R3, ate a couple energy bars, and I explained the situation while she shivered.  I've come to the conclusion that Michelle has an unhealthy degree of trust in me.  She was totally unperturbed by the nightmarish sequence I just explained. And I was the one to bail.  Hearing myself outlining the plan was all the convincing I needed.  

So, Plan B: we do our best to climb out river right, traverse down canyon across steep talus, then rappel tree-to-tree back down to the first pool below R5, and continue along the creek. 

The climb out was really nasty. Probably only 4th or low 5th class terrain to the first sizable tree, but all on shifty talus, and a "game-over" tumble through the next rappel if I was unlucky enough to miss the pool.  Put myself back on rappel and used an autoblock to capture progress.  The pendulum would have been really bad, but it would guarantee that I'd swing back into the pool, and not do any "unroped descending." (as an afterthought, a belay from Michelle would have made things easier and achieved the same result).  

The whole hillside was just falling apart beneath my tevas and fingertips.  Even with all four points of contact, I'd be steadily slipping as the shale and dirt broke free from the canyon walls. It was the diciest thing I've done in a long time.  I reached a tree, teathered myself to it, pulled the rope, coiled half of it, and tossed it cleanly to Michelle.  She tied in, and I belayed.  We repeated this sequence for a few more pitches: I'd climb unprotected, tether the first available anchor, toss the rope, belay, and so on...

Except for one incident, and the constant fear of tumbling to the bottom of the canyon, our system worked pretty well.  I was about 40 or 50 feet directly above Michelle and tried to scamper over these two big boulders.  Both shifted.  I dug in and they ground to a delicate stop.  There was no way to advance or retreat without dislodging them, and Michelle was right in the warpath.  I tried not to budge, explained the danger, and told her to untether herself from the tree. Then simultaneously, I kicked one to the left and shoved the other to the right, and dove back into the wall to re-establish myself.  Both passed right by her and thundered down the canyon.  Really scary!

Now that we were off-course and trying to traverse downcanyon, we were loosing daylight rapidly. The terrain never made it safe to go off rope (at least I couldn't bring myself to risk it when we had it right there...) and advancing in 50' sections wasnt helping either.  I think we spent almost three hours on that wall.  It was at once the extreme low point and the richest experience from the trip.

We felt the low pressure wave of an oncoming storm front and watched the sky turn grey, then black, then tornado green. We were running out of daylight anyway, but the storm really accelerated things.  The wind was picking up.  Solid anchors were rare or nonexistent - tufts of grass were by and away the most secure thing on that hillside.  Of those countless rappel anchors, two (maybe three) passed confidence test - we just tried to keep the weight on our feet   There was very real, yet unspoken, urgency.  I don't think Michelle and I communicated in anything besides climbing commands the entire time. 

And yet, there was magic EVERYWHERE! Canyoneering in Karst topography is just unreal.  Think of the canyon as thousand foot cross section into that underground world of caves, springs, and seeps.   Water was pouring out of almost every pore in the rock and cascading down the walls from every height to join the creek.  What's more, the slope we traversed was covered in peppermint and the air was thick with the alkaloids from all the leaves crushed under hand and foot. Totally unforgettable.  

The storm blew over, only dropping a few fat drops on us.  The sky cleared just as it got dark and just as we made it back to the canyon floor.  We hugged and kissed and hollered with the sincerity of two people who've just cheated death.  Then the headlamps went on.  Thirty or forty minutes of boulder hopping and I spotted some stone stairs that could only be the BRT trail crossing.  Salvation!

Safely back at camp, the emotional weight of the whole odyssey hit us hard.  It was really late now, but we were both just revved from the experience.  We built a huge fire, knocked back some cervezas and tequila and just relived the entire thing. In the canyon almost all communication was tactical, but now we got to marvel at every other aspect of the day with the only other person in the world who'd been right there, right then. What it's all about anyway, right?  Pura Vida and safe canyoneering, friends! 

  

March 7th & 8th

Pretty fabulous weekend of general radness to kick of Erin's Spring Break.

1. I got a race lap first thing Saturday morning at 15".
2. Then we rendezvous'd with the SLU crew, Ben Ford, and Kelly Kasten for a run down from 72.  The upper gave no problems and was pretty tame and fun.  The SLU crew opted to run the lower, and all manner of things happened.  That will have to be another post.  Anyway, the day ended up with Ben and I bloodied, swimming, and violently shivering by the time we hit the takeout.

3. Moonlight run with the one and only Chris Ward. Level had come up to a rowdy 35" by around midnight and that run was all kinds of fun.  Seeing all the exploding waves in Cat's Paw by moonlight and already quite committed to the rapid was a great thing.

Then, Johnson Shutins!

We hit a lot of skills.  Single anchor rappels, single strand rappels via 'biner block, autoblock backups, AND a 3-point hanging belay which we later rappelled from.  Short walls at JSI, but very cool location with constant river noise, big rocks, tall pines, and all.

Return to the Saint Francis for 2015

When a hard 1.5" of rain fell the night before my birthday, it was pretty obvious what I wanted... I kid you not, 2 hours from checking the rain gauges and Ben and I were getting geared up at Millstream.  The river was up to about Bridge +1.5', perfect.

Made two runs of the Lower Saint Francis, and Ben nailed a descent of Mud Creek from the top.  Great day complete with big surfs, fumbled wavewheels, and boofs through the notch over the Silvermines Dam.  All in about 2.5 hours, thanks to Michelle who drove our butts around.

Ready for more!