In planned confusion my paddleboat dropped over the falls first, with Rich’s raft right behind, followed closely by Pete’s baggage boat. The second baggage boat, a few hundred yards upstream, was rowed by Sam, who watched with odd curiosity as we disappeared one by one into a cloud of mist.
Changing Rapids in mid-stream
This story began years earlier, when we were scouting the most difficult rapid on the Magpie. At the time, our trip down this wild river in Quebec featured dozens of wonderful, fun, and exciting rapids — and one unusually difficult, out-of-character monstrosity.”
Located near the end of the river, the scary cataract is a maze of huge recirculating waves that must be threaded through a pushy, constricted channel. Even safely at the bottom of the rapid, your mind was always at the top, knowing you’d be back the following week or year. For the individuals we signaled out to walk around for their own safety, the rapid had a negative impact on their vacation.
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 Water Falls Aren’t Neccessarily Ideal Dancing Partners
Unlike single-person kayaks, people in rafts have a tendency to hit each other at the bottom of falls. I was only aware of three waterfalls being run commercially; a violent 21-footer on a Disneyland-like one-mile jaunt in New Zealand, Clavey Falls on the Tuolumne in California and Sweets Falls on the Gauley in West Virginia. Like Sweets, the Magpie cascade was a steep slide rather than a sheer drop. There was a large angled curling wave at the bottom, which looked like it might give you trouble 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 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. We dropped off the lip to a chorus of wild screams. Like it had done to the baggage boat, the curler at the bottom effortlessly tossed us safely downstream.
The guests were ecstatic as high-fives erupted. Eliminating our nemesis—with a beautiful, safe water slide—changed the whole trip. Someone suggested calling it “Savior Falls.” I was content to refer to it as the ‘sneak route’. Eventually, names find rapids.
Years later, a Magpie baggage boatman would contribute to naming it. Sam was from Colorado 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, exhilarating rapids before lunch the first day on the Magpie. We pulled over at a granite island covered in moss and thick bluish-green reindeer lichen. People were animated about the rapids—especially the last one that ended with a giant wave—when, out of the excitement, Sam announced:
“These rapids are a lot easier than I thought.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rich said, looking up from chopping celery for the tuna salad.
“My brother said the Magpie’s got great whitewater, like the “Numbers” on the Arkansas..”
“You gotta be kidding me?” Rich 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 suddenly grew quiet, their whitewater accomplishments from the morning diminished.
“You want me to shut this guy up?” Rich whispered to me.
Guests loved Rich, and people clamored to get into his raft but we both had no patience for immature, egotistical guides. Unfortunately, every once in a while, a baggage boatman hired for a single trip—like Sam—slipped through the cracks.
“Even the last one with that nothing wave at the bottom“ 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.”
“Read and Run” is a whitewater term used to describe running an unfamiliar rapid without scouting.
Although Sam refrained from making any more river comparisons in front of the guests, they always seemed to crop 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?” Rich asked, matter-of-factly.
“He thinks I’m cocky.”
“You’re kidding,” Rich 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 out west.”
“Oh, here we go,” Rich, said dryly.
“Don’t get me wrong, Rich, this is a beautiful place, I was just expecting a little more.”
“Why don’t you wait until tomorrow?” Pete suggested. “You’ve got the four biggest rapids.”
“Yeah, but they’re just more “read and run”, right?” Sam said, as he walked off to set up the porta-potty.
“Yeah, just “read and run”,” Rich mumbled under his breath. “When’s this guy gonna shut up about the damn rapids?” At the falls tomorrow, we should just run it.”
“Without stopping? I don’t know about that, Rich.”
We always 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 and allay their fears. It looked a lot more intimidating than it was.
Rich smiled wryly. “Just think about it for a minute. Same kicking back upstream without a worry in the world, just ‘reading and running.” He laughed devilishly. “Only there’s not gonna be much to read!”
“It’s certainly intimidating if you dont know what’s down there,” Pete acknowledged, “but with the water flowing over in just that one spot, it’s pretty hard to mess up, especially someone with Sam’s experiencel.
“He’ll be fine.” Steve added. “The guy’s a skilled rower. Learn an easy lesson and hopefully shut his trap up about the rapids for the rest of the trip.”
“If we decide to do it, we should prepare the guest’s so they know it’s safe and we don’t scare anyone.” Pete said.
Sam had mentioned that, in order to make rivers like the Magpie more challenging, he preferred to leave some space between him and the boat in front so he could read the water himself. “Yee-haw! Read and run, baby! Nothing like acing rapids cold,” he exclaimed ad nauseam below numerous rapids. We scouted the bigger rapids, so I was okay with him hanging back.
The Day the Falls Found a Name
“Eric, what’s this coming up?” One of the guests asked me as we floated towards the unnamed falls.
“The really fun water slide I mentioned earlier. Everyone remember the ‘get down command’ we practiced this morning?”
“It looks really big.”
“It’s the most fun rapid on the river or any river.”
“Sounds good to me,” Someone else interjected.
“O.K. everyone, let’s get down!” I yelled, as we dropped off the edge to a choros of wild whoops and squeals. At the bottom, everyone was thrilled and exchanged the usual high-fives. We pulled over to shore, tied up, and got out to watch Sam, who was lackadaisically floating with his feet up on the adjacent cooler a few hundred yards upstream.
Suddenly he stood up on his seat for a better view. He plopped back down and started furiously rowing upstream to catch a patch of still water on the left shore. From below, we watched him repeatedly use his hand to mimic the boat, his mind testing different r0utes.
I remembered the first time I scouted these falls, wondering what the sideways twisting wave at the bottom would do to the boat. It wasn’t exactly ‘read and run’ but the Magpie was finally giving Sam what he longed for.
He got back in his boat, rowed to the edge, and dropped off.
“What did you think, Sam?” “Rich asked when Sam rowed over to our boats. “Great drop, huh?”
“Yeah, great drop,” Sam replied unenthusiastically, controling his anger,
That evening after dinner Sam called an impromptu guide meeting.
“What the hell was that about this afternoon?” he asked, trying to hold it together.
“Read and run.” Rich answered.
“Read and run my ass! I couldn’t see a damn thing down there—just the tree tops!”
“That’s all we could see,” Rich countered.
“Yeah, except I’ve never been the hell down here!” Sam shot back.
“Well, you had a great line,” Pete said, trying to diffuse the situation.
“Thanks, Pete” Sam said, calming down. “It was awesome! A lot bigger than Clavey Falls 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 nights are spent at camps that are among the most beautiful in the world—and two of the trip’s highlights—along with ‘Trust Falls”.
By Eric Hertz