Trip report: Summer Vacation by Elmore Holmes June, 2005      It all started with something I absolutely loathe: getting up at 5 o'clock in the morning. Prologue      My 1995 Chevrolet Astro was bursting at the seams with camping gear, paddling gear, clothes, and food.  On top were strapped my Isere wildwater kayak, my Superglide slalom canoe, and my bicycle, along with a Looksha III touring kayak belonging to my girlfriend, Martha Kelly.  Martha and I took the pilot and copilot seats and headed off over the Mississippi River.      The first stop was North Little Rock, Arkansas, for the third annual Arkansas River Canoe and Kayak Race.  The organizer of this race is trying to do the same thing on the Arkansas River at Little Rock that my friends and I are trying to do on the Mississippi River at Memphis: promote kayaking and canoeing as an ideal vehicle for staying fit and exploring the natural environs.      The race is about eight miles: from the start, racers go about two miles upriver, round a buoy, come back downriver past the start, and continue another four miles down to the finish.  I made the trek up to the buoy with Wim Nouwen, my fiercest competitor over the last year, on my stern.  I was feeling mighty sluggish and out of sorts

Elmore's columns appear monthly at the Outdoors, Inc.,website: www.outdoorsinc.com

I
     A front came through overnight, and we awoke to a delightfully cool morning.  We moved on into New Mexico, and over the next couple of days, during which we toured Santa Fe and the upper Rio Grande valley, I rediscovered a big difference between the West and the South: out West, the temperature in the sunlight can differ greatly from the temperature in the shade.
     Next we went up to Durango, Colorado, where the three-day U.S. Team Trials in whitewater slalom was taking place on the Animas River.  Cathy Hearn, one of the course designers, needed a lefty C-1 paddler to do a demonstration run on each day's new course, and I fit the bill.  I went out there and showed all the racers why they, not I, were competing for spots on the national team.
     I saw all kinds of neat people I hadn't seen in years.  I keep coming back to events like these because paddling at its core is a healthy activity whose participants are in it out of sheer enjoyment rather than some sort of avarice or lust for power.  I'm sure there are other activities that are the same way, but I'm in my comfortable place when I'm around a group of avid paddlers, whether it's the U.S. slalom hopefuls, the Arkansas-Missouri marathon racing group, or an assorted bunch of river-runners.

I particularly enjoyed seeing the younger paddlers--people I had known as kids several years earlier who were now maturing into fine adults.  I saw one kid who was sort of a whiny little twerp when he started racing as a pre-teen, but is now developing into a likeable, down-to-earth human being with a more solid grasp on what's really important in life.      I recall one incident during the trials weekend that sums up how I feel about paddlers in general and paddling kids in particular.  Each afternoon, before the demo runs started, I would paddle my wildwater boat from 32nd Street down to the slalom race site on Smelter Rapid.  The biggest snowpack in the San Juan Mountains in over five years had pumped Smelter up into one beefy piece of water, and during one of these wildwater runs I flipped in the middle of the rapid, couldn't hit my roll, and went swimming.

Gate 14 goes swingin' during demo runs at the U.S. Team Trials in Durango.  Photo by Martha Kelly.

     Eric Jackson, winner of multiple world titles in whitewater rodeo, was standing on the bank and saw me and my boat and my paddle being swept down the swollen stream.  Eric's eleven-year-old son Dane was paddling nearby, and as I crawled up onto shore and a couple of other guys corralled my boat, Eric whistled at Dane to go after my paddle.  Dane, who is well on his way to becoming at least as good a paddler as his dad, retrieved my Epic wing and handed it to me.
     I thanked him, and he replied, "You're welcome."
     He didn't say "No problem."  He didn't say "Yeah, dude, whatever."  He said "You're welcome."
     There are two things I can't believe as I write this.  The first is that I've just gone on record admitting a swim.  The second is that I sound just like my mother, a stickler for manners and decorum who nagged me relentlessly throughout my childhood.
     And I realize that saying "You're welcome" does not automatically make Dane Jackson something other than a little punk.  But somehow, I just don't think he is.  Even as Eric has become a force to reckon with in the paddlesports industry, I see him and his wife Kristine keeping their kids' focus on what really matters--living life to the fullest and sharing the joy with other people.  And being polite to adults while they're at it.

II
     As the Trials came to a close, it was time for a little one-on-one time with my lovely lady.  We had pondered several fine places where Martha could paddle her Looksha, such as Glen Canyon, the San Juan from Bluff to Mexican Hat, and Ruby and Horsethief Canyons on the Colorado.  For various logistical reasons we ended up at Moab, Utah, unloading our boats near the U.S. 191 bridge over the Colorado.  I drove the van down to the takeout at a place called Potash, and rode my bike uphill for 17 miles to rejoin Martha at the putin.  I was all warmed up.

I have always been fascinated by desert rivers.  Nowhere is the life-giving power of a river more evident that in the desert.  Through a red and beige landscape of sun-baked rock and sand, a river cuts a lush green swath of cottonwoods, cliffrose, willow reeds, and all manner of sawgrass and wildflowers.      The section of the Colorado from Moab to Potash flows through a canyon of ruddy Entrada sandstone.  Paying close attention, we spotted several arches carved high in the sheer canyon walls, accessible only to expert climbers and the birds that floated overhead.      The river itself was like a miniature version of the Mississippi: broad, muddy, and flat but flowing briskly along.  A touring kayak like Martha's Looksha is probably the ideal vessel for such a section of river, and Martha, wearing the cowgirl hat she had bought in Amarillo, cut a pretty figure in the bright Utah sun as she glided down the chocolate-brown stream.

Martha Kelly enjoys the beauty of southeast Utah from her boat on the Colorado River near Potash.  Photo by Elmore Holmes.

     We took out at Potash among a fleet of mammoth catarafts moored in the trees, probably destined for Cataract Canyon downstream.  We bathed in the scorching sun with my solar shower and then drove back to our campsite on the south side of Moab, where we spent the evening admiring the full spectrum of color provided by the evening sky and the desert rocks.

III
     A couple of nonpaddling days came next as we visited Arches National Park and then headed back east into Colorado, following the Colorado River and then the Roaring Fork, passing through such towns as Grand Junction, Glenwood Springs, Carbondale, Basalt, Snowmass Village, and Aspen.  We stopped at the top of Independence Pass and found a fair amount of snow still on the ground, melting to feed the Roaring Fork on one side of the Great Divide and the Arkansas River on the other.
     We descended into the Arkansas drainage and inspected places I hadn't been since my last visit to Colorado in 2001: the pulloff overlooking The Cauldron rapid on Lake Creek; the tiny hamlet of Granite; Pine Creek Rapid; the burgeoning town of Buena Vista.
     This leg of the journey ended in the town of Salida.  We walked down to the Arkansas and found that Salida had made some significant changes to its riverfront in the last four years.  A new sidewalk followed the river for a quarter-mile or so above and below the F Street bridge.  Many tons of rock had been arranged in the riverbed to create whitewater features for both slalom and rodeo paddlers, including two nifty play holes.  The river-right bank had been landscaped with large boulders to make the area more spectator-friendly.
     Salida is one of a growing number of Colorado towns that have sunk some money into their riverfronts to make them nice places for pedestrians, bicylists, and, especially, paddlers.  Durango was the first, creating the world-class slalom venue on the Animas that had just hosted the U.S. Team Trials.  Vail, Golden, and Pueblo have since joined the list, and Grand Junction and Buena Vista have ambitious projects in the works.
     My hometown of Memphis could take a lesson or two in quality-of-life from towns like Salida.  I love Memphis, and I am not going to move someplace else just because it provides certain amenities that Memphis does not.  But the sedentary culture can be discouraging sometimes.  Getting a simple bike path built in a section of Memphis is like pulling teeth from a dinosaur, and as far as recreation on the river goes, don't even get me started about our Riverfront Development Corporation.  They have earned themselves a full-length indictment which perhaps I will take on once I get myself steeled for the task.
     Anyway, here I was in Salida, a town whose citizens are on average more "like me."  A busy three days of racing was ahead: it was the weekend of the annual FIBArk festival, and in addition to the usual slalom and downriver races, this year FIBArk was hosting the USA Wildwater national championships.  A number of wildwater enthusiasts were in town, including national team members Geoff Calhoun, Chris Hipgrave, and Tom Wier.  Even a world champion had come to participate--Boo Turner of Seattle, who took gold in C-2 Mixed slalom at the 1981 worlds in Bala, Wales.
     The first day was the sprint portion of the wildwater nationals.  "Wildwater"--downriver racing through rapids Class III and above--is different from racing down the flat rivers in my part of the country.  Making a boat go fast in big whitewater is quite a more complex challenge than doing so on easier water: strength and fitness alone are not enough, as one must also master boat control, precise stroke timing, and choice of the best lines.  The difference is magnified in the sprints, where the people with the most pure wildwater talent really shine.
     Calhoun, a 19-year-old from the D.C. area who is the bright new talent on the U.S. Team, was the winning kayaker in the sprints.  Chris Hipgrave took second.  Chris, a native Englishman who now lives in western North Carolina, has raced in the Outdoors, Inc., Canoe and Kayak Race on the Mississippi at Memphis many times.  I've never beaten him there, but I've finished within twenty seconds or so of him and I think on a good day I might knock him off.  But he's much my superior in wildwater, having raced internationally in that discipline for a number of years.  His sprint times were some twenty seconds faster than mine--a whopping margin over a two-and-a-half-minute course.
     The next morning I took my slalom runs in Salida's spruced-up riverpark, and I did about as well as one could expect a moderately-talented guy who hadn't raced slalom in a few years to do.  I followed a sloppy first run with a smoother second run.
     In the afternoon I turned my attention back to wildwater, as the 4.5-mile classic race got underway.  I was hoping I could use my fitness to close the gap on Geoff, Chris, and company, but I assured myself a middle-of-the-pack finish when I ran up on a rock about two-thirds of the way down.  Chris, who started his run a minute after I did, said I was moving the boat very well on the calmer sections but that he made up a lot of distance on me in the heavier whitewater.
     Calhoun won the race in men's kayak to take the overall national title.  Other national champions were Boo Turner in ladies' kayak, Tom Wier in single canoe, and Chris Wiegand and Nic Borst in double canoe.

IV
     One race remained for the weekend, and it was a big one, both in length (25.7 miles) and historical significance (the oldest whitewater race of any kind in the U.S.).  The FIBArk downriver race began in 1949, supposedly the result of a barroom wager over who could travel the river from Salida to Canon City the fastest (FIBArk stands for "First In Boating on the Arkansas").  Only one boat even finished that first race, and a couple of years later the course was shortened to end in Cotopaxi.  After 56 years, the list of winners of the race includes some giants of the sport--Roger Paris, Erich Seidel, and Jean-Pierre Burny, to name several.
     We lined up just above the Salida boat ramp to start the 57th annual edition.  Scott Shipley, one of the world's best slalom kayakers during the 1990s, sprinted into the lead, joined quickly by Chris Hipgrave and Gary Lacy.  Geoff Calhoun soon joined them after sitting back in the pack for the first mile or so.  As the field became more strung out I found myself all alone in fifth place, some thirty seconds behind the leaders.  By the time we reached the Chaffee-Fremont county line I could see that Lacy was falling off the pace, and it became my goal to run him down in the next 20 miles.
     I knew it wouldn't be easy.  Gary Lacy had won the race more times than any other individual, his first title coming in 1976.  But I was happy to hang behind him for as much of the race as possible because I figured he knew the river like the back of his hand.
     Occasionally we would reach a long, straight section of river, and I could see Calhoun, Hipgrave, and Shipley fighting it out way downstream.  But most of the time it was just me and Gary.  And, actually, a fair number of spectators.  A few people, including Martha, followed us down the river and stopped frequently to cheer us along.  We also saw quite a few homeowners out on their balconies enjoying the annual spectacle of canoe and kayak racers going by.
     I have done four or five two-hour-plus races on the ocean and on quiet pastoral rivers in recent years, and the main thing I've learned is that I don't care for them.  I like a good, competitive 40- or 50-minute race that requires a healthy balance of speed, endurance, technique, and tactical savvy.  But when a race turns into a contest of who can suffer the longest, my enthusiasm fades fast.
     I had always been intrigued by the storied history of the FIBArk race, but as race day neared I had questioned my decision to enter.  Everybody I talked to who had done the race had predicted it would be a death march.
     These FIBArk veterans had probably had the last five or six seasons on their minds, during which the Rocky Mountains had suffered terrible drought and river levels had been depressingly low.  This year we were in better shape: an above-average snowpack had accumulated over the winter, and high temperatures in the days leading up to the race had lifted the Arkansas up to over 2000 cfs on the Wellsville gauge.
     Furthermore, I think the abundance of big rapids made this race psychologically easier than those other marathons I had done, where I was all by my lonesome on the ocean or in the middle of farm country with nothing to think about except my interminable misery.

If there's a better wildwater canoeist in the U.S. than Tom Wier of Snohomish, Washington, he or she was not in Salida this past June 17-19.  Having already won the national C-1 wildwater title the day before, Tom wins his class in the 57th FIBArk downriver race at Cotopaxi.  Photo by Martha Kelly.

Add to that all the spectators like my sweet Martha--who even got out her banjo and played for us at Vallie Bridge--and this race was downright exciting.  When we reached Cottonwood Rapid, the meaty drop less than three miles from the finish, I couldn't believe how good I still felt.  By this time I had overtaken Gary and he was sitting on my stern, and he backed off a little so we wouldn't go through the rapid at the same time.  I skirted the mammoth hole in the middle, then didn't get as far left as I'd planned and slammed right into the hole on the right at the bottom.  My wildwater boat did a sure-enough mystery move, but remained upright.  Charged with adrenaline after clearing this last major hurdle, I threw down a big surge of strokes and opened some distance on Gary.      I paddled as hard as I could as Cottonwood Canyon gave way to the outskirts of Cotopaxi.  The river bended to the left, and a bridge came into view.  I studied the bridge, looking for a sign I knew was there... and there it was!  COTOPAXI!      I let out an elated "Hoooooweeee!" as I rode the big wave train under the bridge and joined the top three finishers in an eddy on river right below.  It turned out that Calhoun had pulled away to win the race in two hours, 11 minutes, 55 seconds.  Hipgrave had held off Shipley for second just over a minute later.  I felt I had acquitted myself pretty well by taking fourth to these very good paddlers.  Gary cruised to the finish moments later.  Not long afterward, several other boat class winners emerged: Tom Wier in C-1, Boo Turner in ladies' K-1, and Nic Borst/Chris Wiegand in C-2.

     I found a couple of new gashes in my boat, having slammed my stern hard on rocks late in the race.  But plenty of resin and patching cloth awaited in my workshop at home, and I was done with this boat for a good while, anyway.  I had put a satisfying exclamation point on my vacation and was ready to relax and enjoy it.

Epilogue
     Martha and I headed for home, having ended our trip the same way we'd begun it--with a race on the Arkansas River (albeit on sections over 1000 miles apart).
     I have tracked down both the results of the USA Wildwater nationals and the results of the FIBArk race from Salida to Cotopaxi, and posted them on my own website.  You may view them here.
     I have also found two newspaper articles, each of which mentions four of the top five finishers: Geoff, Chris, and Scott for being the top three, and Gary for being the many-time champion in the race.  Can you guess which guy didn't get mentioned?  The articles are posted here.
     Now I'm home for the hot, steamy duration in good old Memphis, Tennessee.  Check this space for more mundane columns soon.