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RAMAPO'S HIGH.... 11/22/03 Yesterday morning after a long week of on and off rain, Jim and I met as planned by fax messages the night before, at a deli in Oakland where we could sit down over a cuppa tea and eggs to plan the day's adventure on the high and swollen Ramapo River. This is the week before Thanksgiving, when Winter is coming - but not there yet and besides Indian Summer is a wonderful time for kayaking adventures. His car and my pickup truck were pre-loaded the night before with kayaks, lifejackets, spray skirts to seal the kayak cockpits so we could "eskimo-roll" back upright if capsized, and with all the odds and ends kayakers take for a few hours paddling in frigid waters, packed into plastic bags sealed against the water. That equipment includes a propane burner and metal pot to heat tea, cocoa, and/or soup for quick warmup somewhere down the river, together with quick-energy food bars. Jim is a trim 5'10" 80-year-old man who loves whitewater kayaking as well as frequent paddling alone or with me, on rivers, lakes and ocean. During the long winter he and his wife walk, hike, cross-country ski and generally keep pretty active. In season he hunts and is a pretty good shot, sometimes even bringing home a deer. I'm his "baby brother" at age 72, although I'm 6' 2" and several pounds heavier. It's an effort to keep up with Jim and "keep him out of trouble". I remembered back to nearly a quarter of a century ago, when three of us blew up our inflatable canoes...Jim with his tire pump, and buddy Dave and me just blowing up the 9-foot plastic boats that took about 6 or 7 minutes of puffing before rigid enough for paddling. We sat back afterwards and laughed that it took longer for Jim to inflate his with the tire pump than we took just puffing into the tubes. That time, we put in the water from the NY/NJ State border where Route 17 crosses the Ramapo, and rushes (high water) or trickles (low water) to join Pompton Lakes, some twelve miles south downstream. Well, this time Jim and I planned to spend a leisurely hour paddling the five miles from the Glen Gray put-in to Pompton Lakes, leaving one car downstream and the other at the put-in, as usual. The Ramapo was turbulent high above the rocks, drowning trees along the banks, but not yet flood stage, ideal for a fast, exhilarating run. The sun was bright with not a cloud in sight, promising warmer temperatures by noon... As we unloaded the kayaking gear from the upstream car, we were laughing at what we remembered to bring, and the inevitable "whoops! I forgot..." This time, it was my "skirt" that keeps water out of the kayak cockpit. Unknown to us at the time, we'd also omitted to give each other spare keys to the other's car, which we ALWAYS do in case of emergency, if one of us should be knocked out, injured, or drowned and the other has to get to one or the other's car quickly to get help. Nor had we, in our overweening confidence, bothered to bring our helmets, unused the past few years. At our ages, 80 and 72, stroke or heart attack without warning is more and more a possibility. In a capsize, the killing shock of cold water immersion can stop a heart or render movement so slow and lethargic that survival seems IMPOSSIBLE, and the quick retrieval of boat and gear from the rushing turbulent waters and immediate changing into warm, dry clothes ridiculous to even think about. One day we MUST retire from adventures like this, but not right now, please... The two rigid polyethylene kayaks were placed on the riverbank, paddles tethered placed alongside, waterproofed bags loaded with trail food, water, teapot, camp stove, bagged matches, spare clothing for possible capsizes, all stowed compactly and tethered to the kayaks so all gear stays with the kayaks even when capsized and swirling in the surging waters. The upstream car was checked and locked, we settled ourselves in the kayaks, Jim carefully stretching and securing his "skirt" to seal his kayak cockpit, our lifejackets were wriggled in place, sunglasses adjusted, and off we went, me snapping photos with my instant camera (cheap enough so no loss if capsized and soaked). Just as I left behind Jim, I heard a sudden crack! It must've been really loud, well over 120 decibels as I'm so deaf from birth I cannot hear anything below 120 decibels. I look frantically about, but see nothing. I glance into the bottom of the kayak and see no water pouring in. There's no time for any further investigation as the flood grips my kayak and there's no room for any other thought but paddling. The storm waters immediately swirled us swiftly downstream and we hitched our hips within the kayak cockpits to center ourselves so we were bobbing evenly, tilting neither to one side or the other with the waters surging almost into the cockpit. The threat is enormous...gallons can pour in and the kayak immediately becomes waterlogged and yaws one way or the other, rolling over with the next surge, and the kayaker has to roll and kick free without becoming entangled in the tethers, yet hanging on to paddles and boat for a surfboard-like ride back to surface, then taking a life-restoring breath of precious air. After that, it takes an eternity before the kayaker can sidestroke himself and 350 pounds of waterlogged, yawing kayak to the nearest shore. It's not easy heaving oneself and drowned kayak out of the rushing current, and every landing spot has its own dangers. At least in late November the waters are not as cold as in true whitewater season: Spring floods after a long Winter, with ice still melting upstream. Also, in flood waters the capsized kayaker doesn't have to worry about banging his head and face on the rocks below with the speed of the current adding incredible force to each hammer blow. Who thinks of all that when the sun's shining brightly upon the sparkling waters and the air so clear and sharp that one can see details of houses far up on the hillsides rushing past?
Another snapshot or two, of Jim's smile as he watches the ducks stupidly flying ahead of us when disturbed, not thinking with their birdbrains of flying up and over us to bob placidly behind us, instead being herded further and further downstream in short flights, gathering more and more ducks ahead of us. Jim's eyes gleam as he sees a patch of turbulent whitewater and heads directly for it and a momentarily exhilarating whitewater thrill while I tuck my camera into my lifejacket and steer alongside. This is what we came out here for on this glorious morning just before Thanksgiving. We can see downstream as far as the next bend of the river channel. It's a thrilling sight to see a great egret clumsily flapping up from some hidden perch by the water, to soar away to another hiding spot. Also herons, turkey buzzards, and even a rare eagle.
Sharp eyes can spot the unique hanging nest of the Baltimore Oriole, coming back after near extinction. In flood waters, fish stay deep instead of occasionally breaking the surface leaping after prey, as in more tranquil waters. We can smell so much better on the waters, getting occasional sniffs of woodsmoke, marshland, or gagging whiffs of cesspool effluent from the developments increasingly lining the Ramapo River, or oil and gasoline fumes when the river veers near Route 202. The rushing Ramapo River is taking us swiftly past homes built down to the water's edge to enjoy the picturesque view. The river sweeps past each bend in the wide channel gouged out by eons of floodwaters, and sharp eyes check out the dangers revealed upon rounding the bends. Sometimes rocks, floating logs, trees sticking out out of the flood and, most dangerous, a fallen tree still rooted in one riverbank but with its branches ahead on the rushing waters, ready to screen kayakers out of their boats into the maelstrom. Usually an alert kayaker can pick a path either outside the branches on the downed end, or under the overhanging trunk on the rooted end. Rarely can a path be picked out between the branches, and sometimes there's NO WAY before the current rushes us into the "screener" and almost certain death, pinned and smothered in a few agonizing minutes. It's a big job for rescuers to extricate a body pinned among the branches.
When Jim saw the danger, he paddled hard for open water beyond the branches and hurtled through the branch tips, successfully smashing downstream without capsizing. He's good at that.
I waited a little too long to open up paddling room between us and had to shoot for the overhanging uprooted trunk end, ducking under the trunk, which would not be good for the head that suddenly remembered it forgot to bring a helmet (not that a helmet would help when hitting with irresistible force against an immovable object). A sneaky half-submerged root was in the waterway, flipping the kayak up and over on its side to dive into the storming waters like an ungraceful submarine. The icy cold water shocks the body heated by furious paddling and now gripped in the depths, frantically kicking free of the kayak without losing hold of the tethered paddle that is all that keeps the swimmer connected to the kayak. It seems like an eternity before surfboarding the turbulent waters to the surface for life-restoring gulps of air. It would be so easy to lose consciousness and "let go" into eternal sleep. But survival mode kicks in, and I grip the kayak and the paddle with one hand so I can side-stroke toward shore. Just then, my feet touch the bottom and I find I can hold position in midstream next to bushes submerged at the end of a small island splitting the river current, creating just enough of an eddy within which I might possibly pick up the kayak, drain it, and continue downstream. After all, there's a furious whitewater where the two currents crash together further down, and who wants to float into that? Another MISTAKE, as I soon found out. Lifting a kayak filled with about 350 pounds of water to drain it out is not easy in the best of circumstances. With flood waters sweeping around my body and legs, it was nearly impossible and I fell over several times. Finally, I did it and popped into the kayak to be swept downstream again. I paddled the waterlogged kayak through the whitewater toward the shore where I last saw Jim heading, and got it up on the bank. I was so exhausted that it took me another several minutes to heave the kayak out, flip it over and drain it. It would definitely have been better judgement to relax when capsized, grip the kayak and sidestroke through the whitewater to that same spot without life-threatening exhaustion. Jim rejoined me and we checked each other out. No damage, no injuries, ok to resume a mile or so more whitewater before reaching the downstream car, warm dry clothes and a "hot pot" of food/liquid. My kayak was still slightly waterlogged and unresponsive despite my having drained it completely (I thought), but seemed to be no problem for the next mile. The paddling warmed me up as I stroked alongside of my brother, talking of what had happened, and what to do in the future. Then we hit the next whitewater and I surged under again! I sidestroked the whole mess toward shore yet again, and Jim made the mistake of trying to help by pushing his kayak against mine. The current swept us into a stand of submerged small trees, and HE went under! Another eternity before we washed up on shore and wearily beached the kayaks, barely having strength enough to drag them out of the torrent, still survivors. Then we found Jim had lost his paddles! He hadn't tethered them to the kayak. There were houses near us, and a resident was eating his lunch by his back fence overlooking the river. Jim talked with him and found we were near the road, not far from the downstream car. He told me to stay with the kayaks while he walked to the car to bring it back. I said I'd have the kayaks by the side of the road waiting for his return. He returned a few short minutes later, just when I'd gotten his kayak near the road and was going back for mine. So what was the problem? It was MY car downstream this time, and if I had the keys, could I get it? Sure. You can sense we were so exhausted and cold we were having trouble thinking straight. No problem. The walk, less than a mile, warmed me up by the time I got to the car and I was soon changed into warm dry clothing, including a dry pair of socks and shoes that were not filled with sand and gravel from the river bottom. Jim was changed into warm dry clothes from his waterproof bag by the time I returned with the car. It didn't take long to load the pickup with the soaked clothes and gear, and we drove back up river on Route 202 to the upstream car, discussing the accumulation of mistakes and chalking it up to experience.
Later, he let me know he had sore ribs the next day, most likely from crashing into the overhanging small trees while his attention was on trying to nudge my kayak toward shore with his. I think that's the last adventure we'll have this Fall. If I know him, he'll be raring to go kayaking by the time his birthday comes around February 26th, unable to wait until April like other whitewater aficionadoes. |
