I’ve always loved kayaking. I like to think I’m half decent at it. I love the rhythm of dipping my paddle into the water, maneuvering my kayak down the river by subtly shifting my weight, the peacefulness of being out in nature. I even took a whitewater kayaking class a few years ago. So why am I so nervous to paddle a bit of whitewater today?
Laden with wetsuit, booties, splash jacket, spray skirt, helmet and sunglasses to keep me dry, warm, safe and not blind, I step into the kayak with surprising familiarity. It’s been a while since I’ve been out, but my body recalls what my rusty mind forgets. Heart pumping, I shoot my fellow kayakers a smile. I’m stoked to be here, my smile says. I’ve got this.
The strong flows of the Spokane River are pumping past just beyond the tip of my kayak. We’re putting in at Barker Road and planning to take out at Mirabeau Park for a quick, milder run with a few Class II-III rapids. Even still, the waters are high and pushy, taking on an ever-increasing amount of runoff as the late Pacific Northwest April flirts with temperatures in the 70s. The churning waters watch me confidently as I slowly get situated on the rocky shore.
One kayaker launches himself eagerly into the water, then a second. I struggle for a minute with my sassy spray skirt, first the back popping off as I pull it forward over the lip and now the front as I secure the back.
There are now three kayakers in the water, playing in the eddy as they wait for the last two of us. I realize I’m ready, sitting in the kayak with paddle in hand but still on the dry shore. What am I waiting for?
The water glitters in the late afternoon sun as it flows by. Old fears gnaw at my mind causing me to imagine countless worst case scenarios: I get flipped in the rapids, my head smashes on a rock, I can’t pop my spray skirt to eject from the kayak, my mind shuts down too much to try to remember how to roll — something traumatic to ruin kayaking for me forever.
Catching myself, I work to ease these racing thoughts. I will myself to remember why I love kayaking, but I’ve overthought myself into a pit of nerves from which there’s only one way out: down the river. I’ve got this.
I push and scoot myself a foot forward and slide into the water and just like that, the security of land is traded for the bobbing energy of the river. My whole body tenses as the river nudges and shoves at my kayak, and I stiffly use my paddle to correct myself. One of the guys gives me a quick reminder about moving in and out of eddies. I tell them and myself I’m ready, and we’re off.
The sun glares off the liquid surface beyond me, taunting me to catch it and challenge its strength. The river tests me, its currents eyeing me mischievously as they point me toward hazardous waters below the trees along the banks. I thwart the river’s attempts to hijack my float and ignore all distractions to turn my attention to our first rapids of the float.
I watch how my companions approach the rapids, visually mark my own path accordingly and go in. The water slaps my kayak and grabs at my paddle, but I will myself forward, stroke by stroke. Just like that, I’m through. That really wasn’t so bad. It was kind of fun, like I remember it being.
After this first test, I feel my past experience and what I learned in my whitewater class coming back to me. My hips and shoulders have loosened up, my paddle strokes are more controlled and efficient, and the anxious weight in my sternum is subsiding. As I begin to relax, the perceived hostility around me dims, and the water takes a new tone that is less mocking and more intriguingly dynamic.
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Fear releases its grip on my mind, allowing my senses to expand beyond my body and imminent circumstances. I feel an awareness that goes beyond myself, the four other kayakers and the life surrounding me. The river is inviting me into a private conversation, the grassy banks obscuring us from outsiders’ eyes and shutting out the distractions of civilization, allowing it to whisper a secret it longs to tell those who would listen.
The river carries me along swiftly but excitedly, eager that I have chosen to listen. I close my eyes and smell the fresh aquatic air. I feel the sun on my face and the shifting water cool on my exposed hands. Somewhere far away I can hear vehicles and the busyness of city life, but they’re becoming increasingly distant as the trickling murmurs of the river take prominence in my senses. Opening my eyes, I notice the various patterns of the water’s flow, here a patch of concentric ripples as it mutters sulkily, there a snaking of the current as it calls me further on.
We come upon a graffitied bridge and I’m given a glimpse of an apocalyptic future where man has passed and all that is left of him is such evidence of his existence. It’s a lonely tale, yet also one of the persistent existence of life. As I float beneath the bridge’s powerful architecture, I can’t help but wonder at the mysterious sense of passing through a portal. How many more stories and secrets can a river tell?
Ever moving, we come upon the next stretch of rapids. I pull myself back to the story immediately before me, exhilarated by the thrill of riding one swell, catching another smoothly by slightly shifting my hips, respecting the energy and partnering with it. There are few things that make me feel so alive.
I can’t help a genuine smile. This is what I love about whitewater kayaking: this feeling of independence, freedom and oneness with something so profoundly beyond myself, combined with the adrenaline of engaging with an unpredictable force that dares you to join it.
Our float is over just as I feel the adventure is beginning, but I have the consolation of knowing I have access to such versatile whitewater less than an hour away from home. Perhaps next time I’ll try the similarly paced stretch from Maple Street Bridge to Bowl and Pitcher, or go even farther up the Spokane River and paddle from McGuire Park in Post Falls to Stateline or Harvard. I will likely never test drastically more intense waters like those of the Lower Spokane by Riverside State Park, but this trip has granted me the opportunity to overcome fear, renew my appreciation for an incredible sport, and re-engage with an untamable landscape I’ve dearly missed. N
By Abby Owens
Photography By Chris Celentano
As Featured In: 2018 Summer/Fall SPO Edition