In “planned” confusion my paddleboat dropped over the falls first, with Steve’s right behind, followed closely by Greg’s baggage boat. The other baggage boat, a few hundred yards upstream, was rowed by Sam, who watched in disbelief as we disappeared one by one into a cloud of mist.
Changing Rapids in mid-stream
Years earlier, we were scouting Nemesis, the most challenging rapid on the Magpie and at the time, one of the few named rapids. The wild Quebec River has 24 exciting Class IV rapids and one out-of-character Class V, which on the longest river day, makes a time-consuming portage impractical.
Nemesis is a maze of ledge holes that you had to thread through in a pushy constricted channel. Any one of the hazards, especially the last one, is stout enough to flip a raft. Even at the bottom, your mind was always at the top, knowing you’d be back the following week or year.
After tensely scouting the line, I turned to run the rapid and noticed a smooth spout of water, as wide as a raft, sliding off a high ledge on the other side of our scout island. At nearly a story-and-a-half high, I had never considered it a viable option.
Rafts And Falls Aren’t Neccessarily Good Dancing Partners
Unlike single-person kayaks, people in rafts have a tendency to smash into each other at the bottom of falls. The only waterfalls being run commercially were a violent 21-footer on a Disneyland-like one-mile jaunt in New Zealand and 14-foot Sweets Falls on the Gauley River in West Virginia. Like Sweets, the Magpie cascade was a steep slide rather than a sheer drop. There was a large angled curling “kicker wave” at the bottom, which looked like it might flip a boat if you hit it wrong. We decided to test it with a baggage boat. The guide lined up perfectly, tucked his oars, and dropped off. The heavy boat had so much momentum when it hit the curler that it was vaulted into the air before landing safely downstream.
Baggage boats are a lot bigger and heavier than paddle rafts, and I wasn’t sure what would happen to us. In the eddy, my crew practiced a series of “get down” drills and holding on to the perimeter line, which would keep them in the boat. The plan was to paddle to the edge, turn the boat slightly to the right to match the angle of the downstream curler, and get everyone down.
As we ferried into the current, all I could see was spray rising from the vanishing river. At the lip, we gently turned, and I yelled for them to get down. We dropped off to a chorus of wild screams. Like it had done to the baggage boat, the curler effortlessly tossed us safely downstream.
The sliding falls had all the elements of a world-class rapid: breath taking, and safe. Thebguests weren ecstatic. Someone suggested calling it, “Savior Falls.” I was content to refer to it as the “sneak route around Nemesis.” Eventually, names find rapids.
Years later, a Magpie baggage boatman would contribute to naming it. Sam was from California and the younger brother of a guide who had worked for us on the Magpie a few years earlier. He was a talented rower, but his people skills were lacking.
There are five wonderful class IV rapids before lunch on the first day on the Magpie. We pulled over at a granite island covered in moss and thick bluish-green reindeer lichen. People were animatedly talking about the rapids when from out of the excitement, Sam announced,
“These rapids are a lot easier than I thought.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said one of the guides, Steve, looking up from chopping celery for the tuna salad.
“My brother said the Magpie’s got great whitewater, like the Tuolumne.”
“You gotta be kidding me?” Steve responded, shaking his head in disgust and going back to his chopping.
“I don’t know what he was talking about,” Sam continued. “This river’s a laugher.”
The group grew quiet; their enthusiasm diminished.
“You want me to shut this guy up?” Steve whispered to me.
Guests loved Steve, and people clamored to get into his raft. We both had no patience for egotistical guides. Unfortunately, every once in a baggage boatman hired for a single trip—like Sam—slipped through the cracks.
“Even the last one on the sharp bend—“ Sam continued.
“Sam, come here,” I said, motioning him away from the group. “Look, Sam, let’s not discuss the rapids or compare rivers in front of the guests, okay?”
“Oh, sorry about that, Eric. I was just kind of surprised. The way my brother talked. So far, everything’s read and run.”
“People come up here for lots of reasons other than running the hardest rapids.”
The Magpie has always been one of my favorite trips. There aren’t many rivers where you get dropped off in the middle of an unbroken wilderness and don’t see another group for a week.
Although Sam refrained from making any more river comparisons in front of the guests, they always seemed to come up during meal preparation among the guides.
On the fourth night, we were setting up the kitchen after a long day when Sam blurted out,“I think my brother was just trying to scare me.”
“Yeah, how’s that?” Steve asked, matter-of-factly.
“He thinks I’m cocky.” “You’re kidding,” Steve said sarcastically.
“No really, just acting like a big brother, I guess. I mean, we’ve been scouting things up here you’d never consider looking at in California.”
“Oh, here we go,” Steve said dryly.
“Don’t get me wrong, Steve, this is a beautiful place, I was just expecting a little more.”
“Why don’t you wait until tomorrow?” Greg said. “You’ve got the four biggest rapids.”
“Yeah, but they’re just more IV’s, right?” He said as he walked off to set up the porta-potty.
“Yeah, just IV’s,” Steve mumbled under his breath.W hen’s this guy gonna shut up about the damn rapids?” At the falls tomorrow, why don’t we jus run it.”
“Without stopping?” Greg asked, giving me a strange look.
We usually scouted the 14-foot unnamed falls, not because it was necessary, as the line was straightforward, but so we could explain the route to the guests to allay their fears.
Steve smiled wryly. “My man Sam’s gonna be way upstream reading and running.” He laughed devilishly. “Only not gonna have much to read!”
“What do you think, Eric?” Greg asked.
“It’s a pretty harmless drop. We would just have to explain to our boats that it’s big with no cosequences.
Sam had mentioned that, in order to make the Magpie more challenging, he preferred to leave some space between him and the boat in front so he could read the rapids rather than follow someone.“I love experiencing rapids cold,” he told us on multiple occasions.
We scouted all the bigger rapids, so I was okay with him hanging back.
The Day the Falls Was Named
Above the falls, Sam was lackadaisically floating with his feet up on the adjacent cooler. He was a few hundred yards back but close enough to see our three boats disappear. He suddenly stood up on his seat for a better view. He plopped back down and started furiously rowing upstream to catch the small scout eddy to have a look. From below, we watched him using his hand to mimic the boat to test different lines.
I remembered the first time we looked at it, wondering what the sideways wave/hole at the bottom would do to the boat. The Magpie would finally give Sam what he longed for—a challenge.
He got back in his boat, rowed to the edge, and dropped over.
“What’d you think?” Steve asked. “Great drop.”
“Mind if I talk to you guys?” Sam said, controlling his anger.
The four of us headed into the dense bush for an impromptu guide meeting. The clients knew something was up but couldn’t hear over the roar of the river.
“What the hell was that about?” Sam asked, trying to hold it together.
“Read and run.” Steve answered.
“Read and run my ass! I couldn’t see a damn thing down there—just the trees!”
“That’s all we could see,” Steve countered.
“Yeah, except I’ve never been the hell down here!” Sam shot back.
“Well, you had a great line,” Greg said, trying to diffuse the situation.
“Thanks, Greg” Sam said, calming down. “It was awesome! A lot bigger than Clavey on the Tuolumne. That thing have a name?”
“Trust Falls.” I answered.
National Geographic Named The Magpie “One Of The Top 10 White-Water Rafting Rivers”
Although many of the Magpie’s two dozen rapids are now named, the river remains just as remote and wild as it was in 1989 when Earth River first explored it. It is the only multi-day whitewater rafting expedition east of the Mississippi and one of the most remote river trips in North America. Accessible only by helicopter or floatplane, the river is so isolated that we never see another group. Sections of the river are ideal for inflatable kayaking, and wetsuits are unnecessary in the relatively warm water. The final two-night camps are among the most beautiful in the world. The Magpie season is short, and Earth River runs only a few trips in August each year.
By Eric Hertz