Chase Outdoors

My New Hampshire Atlas calls it the Pemigewasset River.  Everyone I know simply says Pemi.  Exciting whitewater can be found on the East and West Pemi, but I don’t know anything about the Pemigewasset.  My best guess is the map is wrong.  The river probably doesn’t become the Pemigewasset until after the confluence of the East and West Pemi in Lincoln.  Good whitewater levels on the Pemi are elusive.  I’ve been fortunate enough to have enjoyed several excellent adventures on the East Pemi, but never the West.  If the scary stories my son tells me about the West Pemi are true, maybe that’s just as well.  Draining several streams from the heart of the White Mountains, melting snow makes spring the best time to paddle the East Pemi.  If you want to know when to paddle rivers in northern New England, it helps to be on good terms with my friend, Morrill the Waterman.  The Waterman knows everything worth knowing about water flows.   He can extemporaneously relate the square mileage of watersheds for obscure rivers and streams that only avid whitewater enthusiasts even care about.  When I call for information, he’ll say something like “cube the cfs on the Old Stream gauge, add the Denny’s River flow, subtract 174.5 cfs from the Pleasant River gauge and that will tell you the current level on the Machias.”  All that and he’s never even paddled those rivers.  My eyes glaze over and I ask something clever like, “Can we run the Machias tomorrow?”    Recently, The Waterman called about paddling the East Pemi.  I made the mistake of asking what the level was.  Thirty minutes and several watersheds later, I interjected, “Can we run Pemi tomorrow?”  “Yes,” he said.  The Waterman and I are AARPy boaters.  Translation:  We’re elderly, semi-retired paddlers, who can go outdoors and play on sunny, Wednesday afternoons while the rest of the free world labors.  The downside is finding other AARPys who are not patients in hospice care or having their dentures sharpened.  Unable to locate any willing victims, we decided to violate a fundamental swift water safety principle.  (WARNING:  IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 40, PLEASE STOP READING!)  We would paddle a Class IV river with just one boat – a two person inflatable called a shredder.  A shredder was not my first choice, actually it was not my third choice, but since The Waterman needed a partner, it was my only choice if I wanted to paddle the Pemi.  The good news was that he’s a lefty and I’m an extreme righty.  He was nervous about paddling alone on a serious whitewater river, but not me.  A man of faith, The Waterman is in good with the Lord.  After waving goodbye to a gaggle of curious, skeptical onlookers watching from a footbridge at Lincoln Woods in the White Mountain National Forest, we tumbled precariously down the boulder strewn torrent.  Fortunately, we were out of sight before colliding with a huge, exposed boulder - I went right and the Waterman left.  Problem:  I’m an aggressive boater whereas The Waterman likes to finesse the rapids.  “You’re paddling too hard, too often,” he exasperatedly exclaimed.  This is a criticism I’ve heard before from She Who Must Be Obeyed.  Shredders are not like real boats, they work best when you just steer.  The Pemi is a very busy, mountain stream.  Down, down, down we went.  Dodging rocks, punching holes, riding waves while good naturedly arguing about the choice of routes and whether or not I was paddling properly.  As we approached the hardest, steepest rapid on the river, Loon Mountain Falls, we tried to remember our planned route.  Go just right of the bridge abutment, slide down the second tongue from the right shore and skirt the boulder pile far right.  No problem – or, so we thought.   The narrow precipitous tongue of choice violently spit us out directly into a huge jagged rock.  Bouncing up stream, we inadvertently did a complete 360 and pin balled through the entire boulder pile spinning in circles, crashing against rocks and  slamming into one another with paddles flailing.  Reaching bottom miraculously upright and out of breath, we both surveyed the area relieved to find no apparent onlookers.  “Glad there’s no video,” remarked the Waterman.  Downstream we careened for another two miles of tight, steep rock-strewn Class IV paddling before the intensity abated.  After two more miles of somewhat easier shredding, we reached the take-out and safety in the tiny village of Woodstock.  Only then did the Waterman completely forgive my transgressions.  It was a great warm up run.  Three days later, I returned on a Saturday with four kayak and canoe buddies with real jobs and completed a second run, this time in my kayak.  I knew where all the boulders were and no one complained about my paddling style.  The Waterman hasn’t invited me back in his shredder, yet.  Hope he’ll continue to share his vast knowledge. 

Ron Chase is an avid four-season outdoorsman and freelance writer.  He co-authored Mountains for Mortals – New England and his website is www.ronchaseoutdoors.com. 

The South Branch of the Dead River was anything but dead on our recent Penobscot Paddle and Chowder Society (PPCS) river trip.  Located in western Maine just north of the Saddleback Mountain Range, runoff from the surrounding peaks usually provides an excellent moderately difficult spring whitewater adventure.  This time the normally lifeless inhabitants of the Dead were rocking in their graves!  Arriving at the take-out in Coplin Plantation, waves instead of gentle ripples greeted our band of eleven kayakers and canoeists.  A gauge under the bridge was missing – in retrospect, a spooky omen we might have heeded.  Traveling six miles further upriver to the usual starting point, we encountered an unnerving explanation for the waves below:  The campground and parking area were completely under water.  This would be a wee bit more of an escapade than I had anticipated, I thought in my role as Trip Coordinator.   Since only two of us had previously paddled the river, I decided a short sermon was in order.  “I’ve never paddled the river this high and I think Fansanger Gorge will be big,” I opined.  “Since Brent and I are the only ones who’ve run it, maybe you should follow us.”  A confession, I did verify that everyone had signed the liability waiver prior to my lecture.  After navigating between trees in a short stretch of flat water, we encountered large, breaking waves in the normally easy entrance rapids.  Almost immediately, my canoe was half full.  I had forgotten to mention that canoes often have to stop and bail.  Too bad, kayakers who don’t canoe are woefully unaware of the challenges of whitewater open boating.    While Brent disappeared into the gorge in his kayak, I caught a “last chance” eddy at the top and jumped out to empty my boat.  Thinking they were deserted, some of my focused companions tumbled blindly into the billowing surf of the deep, shadowy canyon.  Chaos ensued.  Attempting to empty my boat, I watched helplessly as Patti swam after missing her roll.  She quickly disappeared in huge waves with Tom and Scott in reckless pursuit.  Ignoring the whitewater rescue axiom “never add to the carnage,” I jumped into my heavy canoe, peeled out of the eddy and gave pursuit.  Bad choice.   A three hundred pound, water-laden canoe becomes an immoveable slug in five or six foot waves tumbling precipitously downhill.  I missed my intended ferry and desperately grabbed the first eddy I could reach on river right.  Bad choice number two.  It was really a whirlpool not an eddy.  Being old school (and cheap), I don’t have one of those fancy battery operated gizmos that pumps water out of your boat.  Hand bailing is a virtual impossibility while violently spinning in circles while trying to maintain boat balance and hold a paddle with the other hand.    The shoreline was a vertical cliff, so Box Number One, the river, was my only choice.  Re-entering the waves, I crashed downwards, plowed through a massive hole, then another; completely filling my boat.  Experienced canoeists know what happened next: high brace, low brace, high brace, low brace……   Downstream, the river turned hard right with waves piling up against the canyon wall on the left.  Cutting the turn sharply right was a near necessity, but I knew I couldn’t make that move with the now seven hundred pound monster I was piloting.  When in doubt, straight ahead with power, forget finesse.  That’s directly out of Ron’s School of Whitewater Canoeing, Advanced Scary Big Water 101.  Angling my boat right, I rode high on the foam pile, fell off downstream and plunged into a hole big enough to stop a bus, but not a runaway train: high brace, low brace, high brace, low brace……   Glancing to my right, I spotted Patti clinging to a rock and Brent in a nearby eddy.   Tom and Scott were chasing her kayak and gear.   My boat was so full, water was flowing out and I was nearly submerged: high brace, low brace, high brace, low brace…..   “Have to catch an eddy,” I insisted to myself.  Breaking free of the wave train, another hole slowed me, I slammed into a couple of boulders and landed upright on a pile of rocks, high but not dry.  As I jumped onto terra firma, an empty kayak flushed unceremoniously by with several kayakers close behind.  The two other open boaters in our group, Foster Nephew and Eggman, joined me on the rocks.  Hiking up the boulder strewn shore, I found Patti mildly shaken but fine, while Max, also separated from his kayak, was tortuously hiking the cliffs on river left.  “Next time the parking lot is flooded, we’ll do something else,” I announced.  Generously, Patti declined to express her thoughts. 

Ron Chase is an avid four season outdoorsman and freelance writer.  He co-authored Mountains for Mortals – New England and his website is www.ronchaseoutdoors.com. 

                “…Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allen Poe, I am the Eggman…”

-       Beatles

The Cathance River is my river.  Well, not really, but I like to think so, at least metaphorically speaking.  Unlike some places, in Maine you can’t own a river or stream.  If it’s navigable, the public has right of passage and landowner boundaries are limited to the low water mark.  Where is the low water mark, you ask?  Good question.  Safe to say if you’re on a Maine river or stream in a kayak or canoe, you’re legal - probably.  Located in my hometown of Topsham, Maine, the Cathance travels through a picturesque wilderness area, much of which cannot be accessed without a hike or paddle.  Judging from the placid waters at the put-in and take-out, one would never guess that a whitewater gem blesses the unseen portion of this tumultuous four mile stretch of water.  Consisting of one long, technical rapid and five waterfalls, most paddlers consider it an easy Class IV creek run.  Because it has a relatively large watershed for a small river, the “Cat” can often be paddled when others are too low.  However, spring is primetime.  I regularly check the river level and my paddling buddies, particularly the younger ones, generally start calling about the flow and anticipated ice-out in late February or early March.   A couple of years ago, my son and another young paddling friend cajoled me into a late winter run, insisting ice was out – not exactly.  Seal launching kayaks and canoes on snow banks, we broke up several stretches of ice with out paddles.  Menacing, overhanging ice shelves on the rapids added an extra level of intimidation.  Still, a good, albeit chilly, time was had by all.   A painted gauge decorates the Interstate 295 bridge abutment at the put-in.  My boating cronies and I have paddled the river between 1.5 and 4.5 on the gauge.  The low end is too bony and the run gets pushy and more dangerous over four feet.   Finding the Cat running a little over 2 feet earlier this spring, I called my paddling buddy, the Eggman.  Why the Eggman?  Sorry, you have to have a “need to know.”  The Eggman had been itching to run the Cat for a couple of years, but wanted a good level for his first descent.  “This is your day,” I announced to a skeptical Eggman, “Perfect first-time level and warm, sunny weather to scout the drops.”  Since the Eggman is exclusively an open-boater, I sweetened the proposal by promising to paddle my much maligned, battered and bruised, Mohawk Viper canoe.  In order to keep it afloat, I add another layer of Plumber’s Goop to the many cracks and gouges each spring.  It’s old and ugly, but operable – sort of like me.  The Eggman nailed a complex, circuitous line on the first rapid, catching a small eddy next to a nasty hole at the bottom of the drop.  Styling, he caught the slot, avoided the undercut and navigated past the boulder pile on the following three falls.  No paddling on eggshells for the Eggman this day, he was in a groove.  The biggest, meanest falls on the run was next.  Called Little Gorilla, or more euphemistically, Magic Carpet Ride, I rate it Class V.  Careening through a narrow gorge, it begins with some precise hole dodging followed by a 90-degree turn down a steep, shallow slide into a churning foam pile with boulders waiting just below the surface.   Midway down the slide, a large rock formation extends out from the left side of the gorge at just about head level, encouraging paddlers to stay right.  While not technically difficult, the drop deserves respect.  I watched my son flip upstream on the slide in his kayak, separating his shoulder.  And, I’ve seen several near misses.  The portage is dangerous, too.  A friend cracked a rib slipping on rocks while carrying his kayak around the falls.  I’ve never seen a canoe attempt it.  The Eggman and I carefully studied potential routes and decided we wouldn’t tempt offending the river gods.  Instead, we’d gamble on the portage.  It’s not hard to find, I’ve worn a fairly distinct path on river right.  The final falls is a somewhat easier version of Little Gorilla, but a more straight-forward, two-stage ledge drop that tumbles into a sticky hydraulic at the bottom.  At most water levels, the line is right to left, blasting through some breaking waves, powering down the final slide and punching the hole as far right as possible.  Speed and angle are paramount.  I’ve seen several very good boaters get turned sideways in the hydraulic, they’ve all swam.  No problem for the Eggman, who delivered a perfect route and exited the hydraulic sunny-side up.  The debutante was now a certified Cathead.  “…Goo goo g’joob…”

Ron Chase is an avid four season outdoorsman and freelance writer.  He co-authored Mountains for Mortals – New England and his website is www.ronchaseoutdoors.com