Hazardous rapid, high risk of injury, safe return doubtful. Honor and recognition in event of success. 

When a tethered swimmer finally pulled William De Angelis from a sticky hydraulic on New York’s Lower Moose River last October, it was too late. The 62-year-old New Jersey man was already dead, his neck broken by the violently recirculating water.

De Angelis’ death was the tragic finale to a carnage-filled whitewater weekend that witnessed a shocking number of near drownings and more than a dozen hospitalizations each day for injuries ranging from dislocated shoulders and concussions to knocked out teeth and lacerations. All this at an event billed by local outfitter and promoter, Mountainman Outdoor Supply Company, as “New York’s Premier Whitewater Festival.”

The brainchild of New York whitewater pioneer and river advocate Chris Koll, Moose Fest first kicked off in October 1994. The American Whitewater-backed event brought hundreds of boaters to the then little-known Moose River at Old Forge, New York, to enjoy the recreational dam releases for which Koll and others had fought and won. Since then, the numbers have stayed strong, but with the financial realities of declining industry participation, the festival structure has grown more nebulous. There’s no longer an official organizer or venue, not even a website; paddlers simply mark their calendars and show up.

“The event runs itself,” says Koll, who still coordinates the releases and posts flow information on Internet forums.

At typical flows, the Lower and Bottom Moose are challenging class IV–V runs that should give even experienced boaters pause. Yet Juraj Kobzik, an Ottawa-area paddler who attended his first Moose Fest last year, writes on his blog that many newcomers observe a festival tradition of running Agers Falls—a 20-foot drop above a bumpy run-out of holes and slides—blind. He goes on to describe the scene below the falls: “About 20…people ran the drop ducky-style and…they were all pulling their skirts and swimming.”

Former Pyranha rep, Matt Hamilton, has attended the event every year for the past 15 and says, “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a Moose Fest where someone didn’t end up at the hospital. There’s always some sort of carnage.”

It doesn’t take a statistician to figure out that more paddlers on the river equates to greater chances of paddlers getting hurt or even killed. But the higher incidence of injuries at events like Moose Fest is more than just a numbers game—it’s a product of human nature.

In his pivotal 2002 article, Heuristic Traps in Recreational Avalanche Accidents, decision science researcher Ian McCammon identified six com- mon decision-making pitfalls that contributed to the 715 accidents he reviewed. While McCammon was seeking an explanation for why experi- enced backcountry skiers were making really basic mistakes surrounding avalanche safety, the traps he found are just as prevalent on the river.

One in particular—complacency in familiar environments—seems to have played a significant role at last year’s festival. A lightning strike earlier in the season incapacitated the dam and the flow on the Bottom Moose rose to 5’7”—well above the typical 3–4 feet—festival weekend. “We tried to warn people that with the dam off, the river is a different animal,” says Koll, but many paddlers simply didn’t register that an “easy class V” run had become a “full-on class V” monster.

Laurence-Olivier Neron, a Quebec open boater who became trapped in a hydraulic on the Bottom Moose after failing to wait for an all clear signal and colliding with another boat, says he thinks the charged atmosphere of festivals provokes the use of poor judgment. “In my excitement, I disrespected many basic whitewater rules that I knew and usually respected,” he says. Neron was luckier than De Angelis; he lost consciousness, flushed out of the hole, and was rescued by friends downstream.

Is Moose Fest more dangerous than other events? Hamilton doesn’t think so. He cites observing similar injury rates at West Virginia’s Gauley Fest. Koll agrees, “I think [Moose Fest] has more of a reputation for carnage in the bars than on the river.”

Festival crowds mean more learning opportunities and more throw bags and boats to help with rescues, but they also mean more exposure to risk. Koll believes safety will come from respect, “Enough paddlers got spanked [last year] that I think people will approach the river with a little less cavalier attitude.” 

This article first appeared in the Spring 2012 issue of Rapid Magazine.

At 19 and 17, respectively, Todd and Brendan Wells may be short on years, but they have no shortage of time on the river.

Geography and genes have delt the trump card. Their hometown, the tiny community of Trout Lake, Washington, rests in the shadow of Mt. Adams, where meltwater from the Cascade Range’s glaciers and winter snows bring class V drops right to their backyard. The brothers’ father, James Wells, is a former Alaska raft guide and outfitter who brought the boys along on multi-day whitewater trips before they could walk.

“My first memory of water is the Kenai River,” recalls Brendan, “Bobbing up and down in a big yellow raft, looking down at hundreds of king salmon swimming up brilliant turquoise water.”

The brothers bought their first whitewater kayak together six years ago. “Since then we’ve been at each other’s sides pushing one another to become better paddlers,” Todd says. Seeing his kids embrace kayaking, James used his business savvy to help resurrect the World Class Kayak Academy (WCKA), a traveling high school now based in Trout Lake. The brothers each spent a semester with the school studying and kayaking abroad.

“Our paddling skills progressed quickly and over the course of a year we went from nervously paddling class III–IV whitewater to charging some of the most difficult class V rivers in our area,” Todd says.

Back home, Brendan adds,

“We paddled every day after school, convincing my parents that we were going to paddle much easier whitewater and waterfalls than we ended up doing.”

Last spring, Brendan skipped his math class to become the youngest person to run 70-foot Out- let Falls. It wasn’t his first big drop; he also holds the world record for tallest waterfall by youngest junior: 82 feet at age 15. But the Wells brothers’ accomplishments aren’t limited to dropping wa- terfalls. Todd is the youngest person to kayak the near mythical rapids of B.C.’s Grand Canyon of the Stikine.

Paddling the cutting edge is risky and the two have had more than a few close calls. Brendan remembers when a descent of the Little White, a backyard creek he has run dozens of times, went sour. Getting worked in a hole above a 10-foot ledge, he says, “I knew I was in a bad situation. Tao Berman pulled me out just before the lip as I watched my brother’s new Nomad go over the drop and into an undercut cave. Todd’s boat finally flushed several months later, in half.”

Two years ago, Todd broke his back on Money Drop, a 50-footer not far from his Washington home. He admits he was “lucky to walk away with only a light break and two to three months of recovery,” but says the experience gave him a hard-earned perspective that has helped him to keep charging.

His sons’ penchant for running huge drops has put James in a “tricky situation.” He explains, “[My wife] Sally and I are dedicated to supporting their individual passions while keeping balance. Lately, I’ve considered starting a crusade to bring more awareness to the dangers and long term physical, emotional and financial consequences of going big.”

Looking ahead, the brothers say they hope to explore Africa, the Pacific NW and Alaska, teach with the WCKA, compete in the Whitewater Grand Prix and keep learning from the river.

“On and off the water, things rarely go exactly as planned,” says Brendan, “Take a breath and try to make the most of the outcome.” 

This article first appeared in the Spring 2012 issue of Rapid Magazine.

According to an Outdoor Industry Association report, roughly 20 percent of the 4.5 million Americans who went rafting in 2010 were first-timers. That’s a lot of fresh confetti. But don’t despair; the following is a must-know inventory of rafting idiolect (no, that isn’t an insult—look it up).

Must-know inventory of rafting idiolect

Pushing rubber (v.) Raft guide’s job.

Oar whore (n.) Seasoned raft guide who is reliable and good enough to row for different companies on different rivers, a rare and dying breed.

GORB (n.) Good Old Rafting Buddy.

Get down (v.) Move to a more secure position on the raft floor, typically above a drop where there is a high probability of falling out. If you blow it, you’ll be thankful for the…

Chicken line (n.) Perimeter line on a raft, grab it after falling out. Grab it if you’re chicken.

High side (n. & v.) 1. The tube that is pushed upward when a raft comes up against a rock or hole sideways. 2. The act of crew jumping from the low side of the boat to the high side— when executed in time, this can prevent a flip or wrap.

Taco (v.) When a raft folds around an obstacle. AKA: burrito, wrap.

Dump truck (v.) When everyone except the guide is ejected from the raft. AKA: bus stop.

Clean plate (n.) When everyone including the guide is spilled out but the raft does not flip.

Yard sale (n.) Colorful assortment of swimmers and gear following a flip. AKA: confetti, garage sale.

Sweep boat (n.) 1. The last boat in a group of rafts, the sweep brings up the rear and makes sure no one gets left behind. 2. Large, commercial cargo boat used on the Middle Fork and Main Salmon rivers.

Groover (n.) Metal box that holds solid human waste on a river trip, most often used in the arid Southwest.

Groover duty (n.) Chore typically assigned to the lowest ranking or least popular member of a river party, involves setting up the groover at camp and cleaning it post-trip.

Snakebite (n.) Small hole in a raft that can be heard but not seen, detected by the hissing of escaping air.

SPORT (n.) Stupid People On Rafting Trips. See also: GORB.

Bow puppy (n.) Person riding in the bow of an oar rig, does not assist with paddling or steering.

Speed bump (n.) Kayaker who doesn’t get out of the way of a raft.

Baptism (n.) Raft guide’s first swim. 

This article first appeared in the Spring 2012 issue of Rapid Magazine.

Leon met Shawna 21 years ago in a kayak rolling pool session at the University of Minnesota, where they were both studying biology.“The instructor told us to find someone with the same length legs,” remembers Shawna. “ This way we would not have to keep adjusting the foot pegs inside the kayak we were sharing.” This turned out to be fine dating advice.

The two then worked as guides for Shearwater Adventures, a kayak tour company based on Orcas Island, Washington. While there, they developed an instructional program, which they ran for six years before breaking away and, in 2001, found- ing Body Boat Blade International.

“When we first started instructing at Shearwater, we found the BCU and started training in the BCU system,” says Leon. “We like the BCU because its curriculum and assessments help students set and achieve goals. It has an outstanding coaching program that teaches how to most effectively deliver programs and teach current best practice.”

I’d say their teaching style is one of coastal learning. They try everything once. If it works better than what they are currently teaching, they work it in. I felt encouraged to do the same. I asked Leon about this.“Why keep doing the same old thing, if there is a better way?” Why indeed. 

Testing Our Capabilities

Purists scoffed when Welsh kayak designer Nigel Dennis devel- oped a large, keyhole-shaped cockpit for his Romany sea kayak in the early 1990s. Since Ken Taylor took the lines off of a West Greenland kayak in 1959 and formed the archetypical “British- style” sea kayak, small, circular ocean cockpits were a defining feature of all U.K.-built boats. But it didn’t take long for Dennis’ keyhole cockpit to catch on.

His design principle was to come up with something user-friendly. Ocean cockpits may have been traditional, but they were often uncomfortable and less than perfect for quick entries and exits in surf. All the while, the large, oval-shaped cockpits of North American boats didn’t offer enough boat control. The keyhole struck a balance between the two and with advances in neoprene sprayskirts, Washington-based Valley Sea Kayaks sales rep Rob Avery says Dennis’ idea became the norm. With the exception of traditionalists’ requests for the Anas Acuta, the fiberglass replica of Taylor’s Greenland kayak, Avery says he only imports a few ocean cockpit-equipped Valley Pintails and Nordkapps each year. 

One Size Does Not Fit All

In 1994, cab drivers in Munich were given cars with new safety equipment: anti-lock brakes. Surprisingly, their crash rate stayed the same. Nothing was wrong with the new brakes. The cabbies simply drove more aggressively, knowing that they had better brakes.

This phenomenon is called risk homeostasis. It also applies to skiers, skydivers, cyclists and, yes, kayakers.

Risk homeostasis states that people have a target level of risk they’re willing to tolerate. Above that risk level, things are scary; below it, they are boring. Give a cabbie better brakes and he’ll drive faster. Give a kayaker a drysuit and she’ll paddle in bigger seas.

This might not seem like a problem, since that kayaker gets more challenging paddling for the same level of risk. However, paddlers often assume that safety equipment provides more safety—or different kinds of safety— than it does.

The U.S. Coast Guard and American Whitewater Association recently published 2010 statistics on boating accidents. The single greatest cause of sea kayak accidents was, for the eleventh year running, “Unexpected changes in weather conditions.” A New Zealand study of near-misses agreed. Of course, “unexpected” is a loaded word.

Most weather changes can be anticipated through forecasts, weather knowledge and seamanship. But relatively few kayakers have honed these skills. It’s quicker and easier, if more expensive, to buy a drysuit.

The best approach is to make risk more apparent

In Sea Kayaking Safety and Rescue, John Lull describes a four-level safety hierarchy. The first is judgment and decision-making. Second, paddling skills and boat control keep kayakers upright and away from hazards. It’s not until the third level—rescues—when that $800 drysuit actually helps. At level four— outside assistance—we’re reliant on a VHF radio, SPOT messenger or cell phone to call in the cavalry. If we’re really worried about safety, we should focus on the top two levels.

Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. Risk homeostasis applies to skill as well as equipment. Kayakers who feel safe in big waves will simply head for bigger waves. Therefore safety education shouldn’t try to make kayaking less risky, since paddlers will just compensate. Nor should it try to lower the appetite for risk, since there’s evidence of a genetic con- nection. Headed into Okisollo Rapid? You probably have an elongated DRD4 gene.

The best approach is to make risk more apparent. In sea kayaking, unlike whitewater paddling, the dangers are mostly invisible. The weather systems, tides and currents that lead to those “unexpected” weather and sea changes are usually hours or miles away when critical decisions are made. Sea kayaker safety relies more on judgment, risk assessment, weather interpretation and the ability to accurately assess skills, rather than boat handling.

There are adventurers who roam to all the far-flung ends of the earth seeking adventure, and there are those who find a lifetime of the stuff right on their doorsteps.

I confess I’ve spent much of my paddling career looking over the rainbow and beyond the horizon for bluer waters. With a paddle and a pair of trusty red clogs rather than sequined ruby slippers, I’ve hunted for Oz on the East Coast and out West, in the South Pacific and on the North Shore.

Much of my time now is spent absorbing other peoples’ adventure stories—emails, blog posts and photo CDs recounting exotic expeditions in Baja, Australia, Fiji, Chile, Italy, Alaska and the like. Some drift through my consciousness like clouds, while others snag on the yellow brick road of imagination, lingering and becoming tangible, almost personal, through their storytelling. Jon Turk and Erik Boomer’s Ellesmere Island expedition (found in our Spring 2012 issue) is one such example. Don Starkell’s storied career is another.

Dreaming is important – but so is paddling

When the stories accumulate in such numbers that I have to struggle against the compulsion to do something wickedly ad- venturous, some would say (they’re probably right) wickedly foolish, of my own—book a flight, sublet my apartment, quit my job, buy a Feathercraft, and turn my back on land—I know it’s time to get out. Not on a summer-long expedition or a record-setting circumnavigation. Just somewhere I can leave log prints in the sand and let the waves wash away the funk of self-pity.