There were four of us in hardboats that first full moon night on the Chattooga. Everything was strange—shiny and magical, the way river running by lunar light can be. When we dropped through the last wave into the approach above Seven Foot Falls, however, things went dark. it was a clear night, but the moon was no longer visible; hidden by rapid and ridge.

The trip had been going well. We’d all been guides on the river for a while and knew the Chattooga and each other, in some ways, better than ourselves. We’d stopped talking somewhere above Woodall Shoals, none of that pre- or post-rapid chat. When we made sounds, we made animal noises. Mostly, we were quiet. We’d been listening with hips, hulls and strokes to what the river had to say, and what the river had to say was, in part, translated by the moonlight reflected and flickering on its surface.

A river is the same river by moonlight as it is in the day, only naked, moody, evocative, less in your face. There’s nothing black and white about being on a river at night under the moon. The colors are there, but they are changed: hushed, shimmery, wavering. Trees that appear green in daytime become a soft violet; to regard them is to be less attuned to detail—leaves or bark—than to the whole…

To read the rest of this article, check out Rapid, Early Summer 2013. Download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read the rest here.

Ben Aylsworth used to write a column for Rapid. He called it Reactionary. If you know Ben or remember his column, you’d get the double entendre. In a 13-issue streak, Ben pissed off just about everybody in whitewater. Canoeists. Rafters. Dogs. Rodeo stars. Slalom racers. Women. Babies were too young to read and write, so mothers wrote angry letters on their behalf. These were fun times here in the Rapid editorial office.

Ben was saddened—poor Ben—that his paddling buddies were being sucked from their boats for romantic walks and lamaze classes. He wrote: “it’s not waterfalls or boulder-choked creeks, it’s chicks and newborn babies that are the most dangerous things that can happen to paddling guys. It’s lonely on the couch and they will soon resent your paddling trips and your friends. Babies are no different, except you can see them coming. Tick, tick, tick…you have nine months.” you get the idea. Let’s face it, good whitewater—play parks not withstanding—is a whole day affair. I don’t know if I’ve ever said I’d be home for dinner and actually was. Adventure always seems to get in the way.

Ben’s secret, which was not really that much of a secret, was to take small truths and then blow the roof off. But he was only half right about chicks and babies…

To read more about chicks and babies, check out Rapid, Early Summer 2013. Download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read the rest here.

I pulled up to the farm the day after a late season snowstorm. The Ottawa River’s Lorne rapids are only about 500 yards away. Upstream and downstream, the river is still frozen and will be for a few weeks yet.

It’s around noon on a Sunday and the trio of raft guides I’ve come to meet are inside the barn, huddled around a pair of kegs. I’m greeted by red faces I chock up to the cold weather inside the unheated building, not the beer. It’s early and the tasting is yet to get underway.

“C’mon in!” says Chris Thompson as we shake hands. The tall British transplant introduces me to a second Chris Thompson (yes, there are two, and yes it gets confusing), an Ottawa Valley native, and James Innes who met the three at the rafting company where they spend their summers. The three are responsible for the best kind of upstart—a craft brewery they’ve dubbed the Whitewater Brewing Company.

Introductions out of the way, we get straight to why I’m here—the beer. It’s clear the trio knows their stuff. Stuff like the only four ingredients allowed in beer according to bavarian purity law and what type of glassware to pair with which beer. They’d never rub it in your face, though. That would require a kind of pretentiousness raft guides just don’t possess. “We met on the first day of guide training eight years ago,” the Chris’ explained. Stymied by the fact that they shared the same name, they have been fast friends ever since. “James came on board a little later,” they go on, “his experience is in home brewing.”

A couple minutes from our home there’s a small lake with a muddy, weedy beach. The locals call it Leech Beach. There aren’t too many bloodsuckers really, but it’s a fun name that keeps tourists away— most of them. Which is why on this particular evening I made a point of introducing ourselves to the strangers. It was obvious even to the kids they weren’t from around here.

Roy and Colleen told us they were in town for the Deer Run Rendezvous. They said they’d be most honored if we were to drop by their camp. Tonight there was to be an axe throwing competition, a traditional native ceremony and campfire. They assured us we’d be welcome but we had to leave our truck parked at the fish and game clubhouse—we’d have to walk the last 200 meters back in time.

A rendezvous was a big deal back in the day. A time for traders to gather and barter supplies for furs with local tribes. Brigades of voyageurs from the North West Company would arrive with gunpowder, knives, kettles and pots and collect cured skins and pelts. It was a business meeting, mostly. But like so many business meetings, it was a social gathering…

To read the rest of this article, check out Canoeroots & Family Camping,  Summer/Fall 2013. Download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it here.