An intrepid reporter takes on the Rio Grande.
Father Time is a pansy.
Sure, the old coot will get your ass eventually. But all he really can do is grow his beard, thumb-wrestle the Grim Reaper and watch the clock until it's your time to punch out.
Mother Nature is another story. Best batten down the hatches when that ornery ***image1***bitch gets her knickers in a twist. Tornadoes. Tidal waves. Mud slides. Avalanches. Floods. Mama don't take no mess.
The cost of harnessing nature exacted itself recently in the form of two deaths in seven days on the Rio Grande. The raging river-swollen by winter run-off-claimed the lives of 23-year-old Jacob Hampson on May 30 and 61-year-old Carol Whalen on June 5, both during rafting trips.
The tragedies have heightened safety concerns even as the swirling waters begin to recede. Some have called for a review of the safety policies of commercial rafting companies and the government guidelines that regulate them. Others have advocated closing the river's most treacherous stretches to recreational use until the water levels subside. But the odds of New Mexico severing an important economic artery are about as good as Gov. Bill Richardson castrating himself on
The O'Reilly Factor
.
I had no interest in watching Bill become Jill on national television, let alone Fox News. So I ventured to test the water myself to gauge the peril hundreds of thrill-seekers face every day.
I arrived shortly after 9 am at the Santa Fe Rafting Company boatyard on Cerrillos Road, the same outfit hired by Whalen. After some groggy pleasantries, our smiling tour guide asks, "Did you guys sign your life away yet?"
Check.
The first thing one does before a white-water excursion is sign a liability release acknowledging the risk of a boat flipping, a hurricane striking or a fresh-water barracuda gnawing your leg off.
Our lives-and legs-were nonetheless in the hands of two moppy-haired young men. Elias-a 24-year-old in his fifth rafting season-and Lincoln-a 19-year-old in the midst of his maiden voyage.
The Race Course is considered a suitable gauntlet for beginners. The largest rapids are Class III (out of VI) though the bulging river has upped the ante. Carol Whalen's raft flipped in the Class III Albert's Falls rapid. A subsequent police report indicated she couldn't swim.
"Okay, how many swimmers do we have here?" our shuttle driver Mary asks as we squeeze into red life jackets.
All hands up.
"Anybody have asthma?" she continues.
No hands up.
A steady stream of private and commercial rafts-undeterred by the recent tragedies-sets out into the current as we grab our paddles and listen to Lincoln's safety presentation. He tells us what to do if the boat flips. How to swim to shore. How to grab the throw line in open water. How to pull someone back into the boat.
And then we're off. There are seven people in my boat. Elias, me, my wife and a family of four from Amarillo. I sit beside the Texas patriarch at the bow. Two boys sit behind us. The typical minimum age on commercial rafting trips is 12, though some companies have increased it to 15 in light of the hazardous conditions. These boys are 9 and 10. The father confides that he fibbed to get his sons on the boat.
As we merge into the Rio Grande Expressway, Elias gives a short primer on rowing commands. Forward, back, left back, right back and "Diesel," his way of saying, "Paddle like Jaws is about to swallow your ass." But it's the turbulent torrent unfolding ahead that requires our rapt attention.
Albert's Falls is the first major rapid on the Race Course. We rock through the percolating field of white caps without incident. Our seemingly innocuous passage underscores how easy it is to underestimate the river. One awkward wave, hidden rock or skewed angle is the difference between whether you're paddling or swimming a split second later.
We navigate the Narrows, the Cheese Grater, Decapitation Bridge and Big Rocks with relative ease as Elias shouts instructions and we dig our oars into the river. Even as we see-saw across miniature mountain ranges of white frothy peaks there is no real sense of danger. A paddle in your hand and an inflated rubber raft beneath your feet can instill a false sense of security. Do your worst, river. We own you. At least until we're basking in the sun and spray one moment and gasping for air in a washing machine spin cycle the next.
"If feels nice and safe when you're inside the boat," Elias tells us. "When you're outside swimming it's a whole other story."
He ain't lying. Years ago, I was catapulted from a raft on a relatively docile rapid of the Klamath River in Oregon. Humility comes quickly when trapped beneath an overturned boat being swept toward an uncertain fate.
We had had no such trouble as we approached the last real obstacle on the Race Course. The Bureau of Land Management estimates some 75 percent of boats that entered the Souse Hole so far this year flipped when the river was peaking. It's also where a photographer on the bank captures your terror for posterity. Say cheese. Now don't drown.
As the Souse Hole looms, Elias reiterates flipped-raft countermeasures. "This is the big tamale," he says. "There's a chance we could be going for a swim."
We paddle furiously towards the Souse Hole. Then we hit it. Or, rather, it hits us. Our raft swiftly descends into a boiling cauldron of tempestuous river. A wall of foaming water blots out the world. A second later, we're soaked and shouting merrily as we bound out of the rapids and into the calm embrace of an eddy.
Within minutes, we're standing on shore, peeling off life jackets and munching on snacks by the van. But our feat is less conquest than communion. It's a knowing handshake with Mother Nature. Nobody expects to die while scaling a cliff, parachuting from the sky or hurtling down rapids. Carol Whalen and Jacob Hampson surely didn't. But for those who seek it, the thrill resides in confronting the danger and emerging unharmed and enriched. For many, it's a risk worth taking.
