Jesus…

One made it. Six more to go. We have to sit and watch this? Too late now, here comes Dane Mensik at the control console of the Vale of Rhondda. A passenger in the bow. He makes a perfect run, bow first through the holes, over the big waves, and clears Death Rock by a safe and sane three feet. And after him Mike “Miltie” Davis in the Music Temple. Likewise, a perfect run.

Three safely past, four to go. Now come in quick succession Sharky Cornell (“You saw it first in the Columbia, folks”), Mike “Scorpion” Markovich in the big Moqui Steps (his good right hand no longer numb) and Rich Turner in the patched-up Celilo Falls. With a light payload of ballast—one passenger each—they make it right side up, one way or the other way, through the sound and the fury of Mile 179.

Thank God…

Only one to go. Poor old John Blaustein in the (ill-named) Peace River. I glance up at the volunteers’ assembly point. The slave block. One little girl stands there clutching her life jacket, hopefully waiting. No, it can’t be. Yes it is, it’s Jenny, the kid who changed our luck at Horn Creek. The innocent Jonah. Now I really feel sorry for John. Not only are the scales of probability weighing against him—for if six made it through, the seventh is doomed for certain—but he and he alone has to ride with that sweet little jinx we picked up at Phantom Ranch. Tough luck, John. Kismet, you know. Bad karma. (But better him than me.)

Where is John by the way?

I feel a firm hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go,” he says.

Well, of course I knew it would turn out like this all along. I never had a chance.

We trudge up the rocks, pick up Jenny, trudge through the jungle and down to the lonely boat, hyperventilating all the way. Buckle up. John gives stern instructions, which I don’t hear. Push off. Me and little Jenny in the bow. The sun glares at us over the oily water, blazing in our eyes. John points the boat the wrong way, right down the tongue into the heart of the madness. The moment of total commitment. This is absurd. We dive head first into the absurdity…

Twenty seconds and it’s all over. Twenty seconds of total truth and then we’re cruising through the tail of the rapid, busy with the bailers, joining the procession of dories before us. Nothing to it. Like I always say, running the big rapids is like sex: half the fun is in the anticipation. Two-thirds of the thrill is in the approach. The remainder is only ecstasy—or darkness.

ON THE BEACH. The moon is shining bright. The boatmen, armed with heavy grog, are having a private “debriefing” session downstream somewhere. Lewd silhouettes prance before our fire. Salome dances. The Abbeys dance. Inhibitions fall like dandruff. Our four French passengers are finally speaking with our two Austrian passengers. (Dieter and his daughter—ah, there’s a story.) The others—a twenty-three-year-old schoolteacher; a newspaper publisher, his wife and three kids; a stockbroker; a retired lawyer; a dental hygienist; a physician—go over the exciting events of the day. No one seems to be able to agree on what happened exactly during those twenty seconds in Lava Falls. No matter; we made it alive. That’s what counts.