Rafting West Virginia’s Whitewater

Balancing on the edge of the raft, floating in a calm section of the New River in West Virginia, I gaze longingly at the huge, nearly white, cubic rocks that border the river on both sides. I love scrambling over rocks. Our guide says we can slip in the water to cool off.

I’m doubting getting out. I wonder how difficult it will be to get back in the raft. Plus, even though the temps are in the 90s, I’m cool enough since running the Class III, IV and V rapids involves lots of splashing. But, Tim goes in. So I do too.

The night before, Tim, my 19-year-old nephew, and I spent the night in a “rustic cabin” at River Expeditions. The cabins sleep a crowded six or a comfortable four if two don’t mind the upper bunk. Before turning in, we relaxed by the pool and, at the table in front of the cabin, ate a dinner we’d packed from home and played cards until we couldn’t see.

After a few minutes floating in our lifejackets, Tim pulls himself up and into the raft with the slightest effort. Our guide motions me to the back of the raft. With no warning, this ponytailed hill-billy bends and, in one motion and with one hand only, grabs onto my lifejacket at the shoulder and pulls me out of the water as easily as a loosely rooted weed, slinging me halfway across the raft. So fun!

Soon our guide tells us we’re approaching a spot where two opposing currents meet to create a vortex. He invites us to jump into the convergence and be “flushed.” Being sucked and held under water doesn’t seem appealing to me, but Tim's up for it, so I am too. I jump only a few feet out into the river from a rock only a couple feet above the roiling surface. The sensation is not scary but comforting: A ribbon of water curls across my right shoulder, down my back, around my waist and trails off my right hip, like a soft embrace. Then the force gently nudges me forward out of the spin, and I pop up. Our guide counts; I stay submerged for 7 seconds. Tim’s down for 10.

We paddle leisurely to the next rapid and learn that the New, one of the few rivers that flow north, originates in North Carolina. Another oddity of the New River is its name. It’s not new at all. It’s the second oldest river in the world—behind the Nile.

The rocks along the river’s edge—some as large as cabins—do open occasionally to a sandy bank where we pull out for lunch. The guides lay out sandwich fixins, chips, bean dip and fruit and remind us to drink plenty of water.

After a quick cleanup, we’re back in our rafts headed up river to a rapid named the hot tub. After crossing it, we turn and paddle back into it, right side and front first, just where Tim and I are stationed. The power and roll of the water is awesome. The side of the raft is sucked under and Tim and I lean towards the river. Just as I’m wondering how we’re going to avoid being pulled in, the rapid releases—and then sucks the raft down again. Over and over. Balancing for my life, holding on to my paddle, I shout to Tim, who’s wearing a big grin, “How long do you think we’ve been here? Like 5 minutes?”

“About a minute,” he yells back over his shoulder.

That’s the difference in perspectives 21 years makes.

Finally, our guide directs us to wait at ready, and at precisely the right time, orders, “Forward one.” Then “Back. Back. Back,” and we break from the rapid’s hold.

Tim’s the first to volunteer for another optional jump—from a rock about three stories high. This is something I would do when I was younger, I think. But I’m not old yet. I slip out of the raft too.

Tim is first, maybe five or eight people in front of me, forging the climb up the rocks. Happy to climb, I follow the wet footprints as well as I can before sliding off the face of a rock and scraping my lower leg. It’s a hard fall, and someone asks if I’m alright. “Yeah,” I answer and continue my way to the top considering that I may be too old for this kind of thing any more.

At my turn to jump, I approach the edge and look down, This is a lot higher looking down than looking up, but I’ll be fine. Bunches of people have done this safely before. I am almost to the point of perfectly psyching myself for a successful jump when a guide yells up, “Let’s go! Come on!”

With no further thought, like reminding myself to hit feet first, I limply step off and fall like a rag-doll. Somewhere about halfway down, my mind comes across the “stay straight” check, but it’s too late. I hit the water, SMACK, in a left leaning, almost seated position.

As I sink deeper into the river, I’m surprised—and relieved—the pain isn’t excruciating. However, as my descent slows and reverses, the pain registers, and I emerge from the water at full scream. Thank goodness for my lifejacket. I float, squeezing my eyes shut a minute before the pain recedes enough that I can move my legs. At my raft, even through the pain, I enjoy the amusement-park-ride-likeness of my guide pulling me into the raft.

I roll up my board shorts over the back of my left thigh. A woman says it looks like a bluish purple spider web, I guess where my veins exploded on impact. Back at camp when I look, it’s pink. A couple hours into the drive home that night, I ask, “What’s it look like now?” Tim’s jaw drops, his eyes widen and he covers his mouth. All he can say is, “Ohhhhhh” and kind of laugh.

The bruise will be my reminder that I might be too old to do some of the thrilling things I did in my 20s and 30s. Undoubtedly, that belief will fade with the bruise.