More than a sport, whitewater kayaking is a paradox: an often confused, always amorphous state of mind besieged by a weird collage of good and evil thoughts which alternate control back and forth like a set of windshield wipers. Eventually, with experience, the good forces overcome the dark forces. But, as they gain preeminence and we start to get comfortable, we find… well, it’s just too good, and — Lord knows — we can’t have that… no, of course not. So, we ratchet it up.

And “voila,” the paradox returns, this time with a vengeance. Trepidation gains the upper hand once more, and even the veil of ignorance, which provided some comfort in the beginning, is gone. Now, before someone thinks I’m talking about extreme boating, let me clarify. I’m only talking about moving up to Class IV. Some may snicker, but some may remember. So, after a fair run on the Lower Gauley, my comrades give me the thumbs up. “Yup,” Kenny and Todd said, “you’re ready for the Gorge. You won’t have any problem.” Confidence builds. Let’s do it.

The day comes; it’s a beautiful Sunday morning, crystal blue skies and a predicted high in the lower 80’s – incredible. The river is running four feet, which concerns me, but I’m told that many people think it’s easier at this level. We load our boats and hit the road. Cruising along, people are talking to me, I’m nodding, but all I hear is Lorrie Morgan singing “I want out, but I want in it; I’m all confused, but I admit it.” The lyrics are drowned out by the roar of the first rapid as I stand on the bank, staring down river, straining to put a face on all my real and imagined fantasies. There she is – as advertised – big, powerful, and pushy. No butterflies though. Nope, I wish; I’m pretty sure those were bats flying around in my stomach. I shivered in the lukewarm water, feeling the river’s intensity, and casting a forlorn glance back at the put in as the current dragged me off. No turning back now. The deep blue skies contrasting against a beautiful whitewater river and lush green gorge were eclipsed by dark clouds rolling in on my horizon.

First rapid, Upper Railroad, I miss the first move. Bill had made it look so easy. I didn’t appreciate his power move and my wimpy stroke just didn’t get it. Straightening out the boat, I hit the hole squarely, almost punching through it, but you know that thing about horseshoes. I was lucky enough to break free of the hole, just upside down. Once… twice, my roll failed, and on the third setup, a thump. “Great, a rock,” I thought. I hear a garbled voice, it’s Bill with a bow rescue. “This is going to be a long day,” I sighed, a gloomy premonition that would hang over me all day. I had lost the confidence game at the onset.

“Take out you fool,” said a voice. Remember those cartoons where two tiny clones, one with a halo and one with horns, stand on your shoulder and work you over? No lie! There they were, only I wasn’t sure who the good guy was and who the bad guy was. “No, this is what you came for.” The other replied. “You’re making a big mistake,” it continued. A sickening feeling overwhelmed me. I sucked it in and headed for Lower Railroad with my group, saying nothing. As the put in faded farther behind me, the urge to take out grew equally stronger. We stopped at some big surfing waves. I eddied out and watched, saving my energy for the unknowns ahead. While they played, I did a little boat scouting, only it was of the steep banks and the railroad track, which was now on the other side of the river. Yes, it would be embarrassing, but hey, I’m a little old to worry about that. I could make it up that steep bank. It would be tough, but I could get back to the put in, even if I had to drag my boat two miles down the track and across that bridge. A train whistle, and then an Amtrak train thundering alongside the gorge killed my simple plan. I’d be safer on the river.

The Keeneys were coming up. Hyped up in the guidebook as eight-foot waves at this level, I just wanted to get this over with – and live. It wasn’t necessary to get the tape measure out, because their size is directly proportional to how far your jaw drops. Yet, they weren’t as intimidating as I thought. Face it, they couldn’t have been bigger than what I had imagined. I made it through the Upper and Middle Keeneys uptight and upright. We scouted Lower Keeney; the river was necking down and crashing against Schoolhouse Rock. The move was to ride the tongue to the right and push hard right to miss the rock. It looked doable. Taking off in front of the more experienced paddlers, I followed the first guy down. He was too far left, but managed to miss the rock. I wasn’t so lucky. Realizing I had missed the line big time, I tried to power my way over, but it came too little and too late. As I sank into the trough the current pointed me directly toward the rock. I flipped trying to turn the boat, quickly realizing I was about to become the before the “before” video on how not to do this rapid. Where most sane people would have folded and bailed, I held and instinctively set up for a roll. As I snapped, I hit the rock and was jerked upward, throwing one hand straight up in the air clutching my paddle. Facing upstream, I was boofing the rock backwards and sliding in slow motion into the hole behind it. In retrospect, I should have given the paddle a twirl along with a fatalistic wave to my friends as I bravely accepted my fate. I waited… but nothing happened. I slid out of the hole backwards and on down the rapid. I couldn’t believe it, and neither could anyone else. A roar from the crowd, a modest bow, and then… well, no one told me about Lollygag. The curtain falls at bagel city — so much for my fleeting moment of glory.

On to Double Zee, an “honest” Class V according to the guidebook. That was enough for me to ask about portaging. “You won’t have any problem,” they said. Ohh-kay, where have I heard that before? This time I followed an experienced paddler, Lisa. It didn’t make any difference. I flipped, rolled, flipped again, and swam. Dr. Dave saved me, but of course he had to… you know… that oath and all. “I’m so sorry,” Lisa said. “I didn’t take a very good line.” Well I’d like to blame it on someone or something: my boat, the weather, the alignment of the planets, or at least Clinton, but it was too much of a stretch. Believe me, I tried. Then comes another of my favorite lines: “Well, you made it through all the big stuff!” Yeah, congratulations are in order. Break out the champagne. But I wouldn’t pop the cork until you finish bobbing through Fayette Station, look back, and wonder how you fabricated those braces out of thin air. With Fayette Station, however, also came the sight of the impressive New River Gorge Bridge, our take out, and a great sense of accomplishment. “At least you can say you did it,” someone said. That’s true, at least I can say that.