This was the bad news, the news I'd gone into the canyon to get, hoping not to get it.  There was too much water, the put-in was barely workable.  My survey of the put-in, a hundred feet below where I now sat, had convinced me that even after getting into the water it was marginally runnable at best- the drops were steeper, the water bigger and pushier than our survey from the canyon rim had suggested.

I was tired, overheated, dehydrated, with muscle cramps left from the arduous climb out of that canyon.  I was the strongest paddler in the party, so far as I knew.  I'd paddled with one of the party before- Scott, knew his skills, knew that he'd have difficulty.  He'd been looking at this run the longest, had been waiting for years.  It wouldn't be fair to him to go in now.  I'd only been involved in the survey of this stretch for a couple of months, and Morgan hadn't seen it before today.

"I'm gonna do it."

Morgan was determined.  I hadn't paddled with him before, couldn't tell him he wasn't up to it, but felt uncomfortable claiming any authority to reserve the first run to include Scott- as far as I was concerned, this was his run, I was just a mercenary brought in to help make it happen.

We argued, but Morgan would not be swayed.  Scott said he'd do video.  Bah.

Morgan descended the rope to the put-in and I followed, unwilling to allow him to go it alone.  Scott remained behind, up on the canyon rim with a video camera.

The put-in was less than ideal.  There were several sconces carved into the canyon wall where one could cache a boat, and about 10 feet above the waterline there was a narrow ledge where Morgan elected to put in.  Wanting to launch more or less simultaneously, I positioned my boat in a higher sconce, accomplished my skirt, and waited.  Morgan seemed to be having difficulties- every time he shifted his weight to close his skirt, he became unsure of his purchase, released his skirt, and grabbed the rock.  I became frustrated with the delay, exited my boat, and was making my way down toward him when his boat slid, open skirt and all, off of the ledge and into the river.  Swearing, I swung down the rope the rest of the way to grab his bow loop, while he, also hanging on to the rope, scrambled out of his boat and after his paddle, which had also come off the ledge.

One hand on his (now very heavy) boat, I pulled with the other against the rope, too aware that if he slid out of the micro-eddy and into main current that he'd be committed utterly to the canyon.  The rock was slick and steep, but he managed to clamber up the rope, where we emptied his boat and pondered our options.  We ended up back on the same ledge, where I held him as he closed his skirt, and launched into the stream and ferried across into a relatively stable micro-eddy.  I then climbed back up to my sconce, closed my skirt, and belayed myself, boat and all, down to the river's edge, dropping into the water, where I paddled station for a moment before peeling downstream and charging the first drop, a must-make boof into a slot less than a paddle-length wide, followed by a swift charge at the next drop, a similarly walled-in boof with a curler kicking violently into the wall at the base.  Here the river flattened out briefly as the walls opened up into a cathedral space, where I eddied left and gaped up at the arching canyon walls.

Above me was a space we'd been unable to see from the canyon rim.  The entry was like paddling down a hallway into a great church, the domed ceiling arching up to a narrow sliver of daylight above.  Two large, surging eddies, one on either side of the channel, offered a moment of pause.  Morgan blasted into the cathedral with a wild grin on his face and drove straight through to the next drop, a walled-in pourover situated at a corner in the canyon.  I saw him disappear over the edge, then watched his bow, then his stern, then his bow again flash into sight in rapid succession.  After a moment I saw his paddle wave downstream a bit, and I charged after.  I made the drop and found him standing waist-deep in the muddy water, holding his boat and paddle, eyeing the next drop with some trepidation.  There was no place for him to put in- 25' upstream was the hole that had beaten him out of his boat, and 25' downstream was it's big brother... and in between was naught but polished canyon walls.

There was nothing to grab that might support him in getting into his boat, so we settled on having me attach my rescue tether to his boat and paddle a station in current, while he tried to iguana-crawl into his boat... for my part, I didn't want to paddle so far upstream as to be drawn into the hole, but couldn't paddle powerfully enough to keep from being drawn downstream, toward the next drop unless I went dangerously close to that upper hole.  Every time he'd get mostly into the boat, it would yaw wildly, pulling us both downstream- him without a skirt and me attached, toward a drop that had never been run.

With every yaw his boat flooded.  With the added weight it became more and more difficult to keep from being swept downstream, and he would be forced to get out once I brought him near to the side, dump his boat, then try again.  I was getting tired, he was getting cold, and we were both wavering on, but not quite yet indulging in frustration.

After enough repetition, Morgan decided to stuff his paddle under his backband and canyoneer downstream a bit, to see if a ledge he saw just downstream would offer a better solution.  He left me paddling a station with his boat in tow and clambered downstream, slipped in, and climbed out just before the edge of the next drop.  Once there he found a spot he liked, but discovered that he could not make it back upstream to where I was, nor could I paddle down to him without being swept over the drop, his boat in tow.

He threw his throw-rope upstream towards me, with the idea that I could attach his rope to his boat, and he'd be able to collect it.  Unfortunately, he couldn't make the distance to me without me backing downstream, into swifter current- and once I had his rope, I needed to stop paddling myself in order to haul his boat up even with me and attach his rope to it, a dicey affair I didn't relish.  We attempted this maneuver many times before I was able to catch his line and get it attached to his boat, but in doing so my paddle ended up getting tangled and I was swept far enough downstream that I couldn't make it back up to the slower-moving water upstream- I was committed to the drop, coming up in a couple of seconds.

I got my boat turned around and lined up, but by the time I had done so I didn't have the presence of mind to release my tow-harness- and it was only when I saw Morgan snubbing in his boat that I realized I was in trouble.  I expect that he was just getting it out of my way, but as I made the boof my attachment to his boat stopped me dead, I melted into the downflow, and my boat resurfaced violently, inverted, back up into the downflow, where the punishment began.

I rolled several times, and garnered several ends before realizing two things:  Number one, my boat was full of water, and number two, Morgan had released his rope.  I was getting flossed up in his rope, still attached to his boat, which was attached to his rope, and I was sinking.  A quick check showed my skirt to have either imploded or come off the cockpit rim as a result of my arrest during the drop, I don't know which.  I didn't have much time to ponder it, as I was fed again into the downpour, this time going deep.  I exited my boat and let go of my paddle, now deep under water and very conscious of several wraps Morgan's rope had on me.  I wriggled and shrugged several coils off, while grabbing my river knife from it's chest harness, certain I'd need to cut the rope, but managed to get out of it's coil by the time I surfaced, being fed again into the meat of the pourover.  Feeling both boats in the hole with me, I clambered over one, then the other, to get to the side of the hole, discarding my knife in the process of getting toward the spot where the backflow was weakest.  I was consumed again by the downflow, a violent beating, pressed deep against the canyon wall, (that damned smooth canyon wall) where I swam downstream for all I was worth.

I felt it when I reached the escape line- that magic spot where water began flowing downstream, felt myself moving away, when a sudden immense drag subbed me underwater- it was my tow harness, still attached to Morgan's boat, still in the hole.  I released it and clawed for the surface, abandoning both boats.  Ahead was an 11-foot drop, one of the few in the canyon with both a nasty sieve and, praises be, a rock upon which one could climb to get out of the water.  I clambered on to it, this, the loneliest rock on the planet, and looked forlornly up at the sight of my boat, still in the hole, and Morgan's boat, pulled partway out by my escape, floating by me, over the precipice of the next drop, then downstream and around the corner.

We watched for perhaps 10 minutes as my boat set about winning the world unmanned rodeo competition before finally washing out, also sweeping by downstream.  Morgan worked his way along his ledge to the edge of the drop, leaped, and swam to my spot, and continued downstream.  "I just bought that paddle", he said, showing that same toothy grin as before.

By this point I was ready to be done with this canyon.  I wanted a rope, a rescue team, the Tooth Fairy to come and pluck me out of here, to take me home and part of me wanted to beat Morgan to within an inch of his life for getting me into this goddamned mess.  Another part of me realized that I had chosen this, I'd better quit sniveling to myself and either yell up the canyon for a rope, or follow Morgan downstream.

I followed, caught up with him, then took the lead in canyoneering downstream after our boats, swimming until we could find a ledge, crabwalking along the canyon wall to the edge of the next drop, then leaping downstream and swimming for our lives.  After several drops, we rounded a corner and discovered our first bit of luck all day- his boat had pinned on a shallow rock, and my boat had pinned against his- right next to the only flat rock in the canyon.

When we got there, a quick inventory showed that we had only one paddle between us- it was his.  I considered offering to rochambeaux him for it, but realized that he probably couldn't hand-paddle- and that his boat was less than ideal for this sort of run- in order for him to have a chance, he'd need his stick.

From our scouting we knew that the rest of the canyon would be continuous, and from our 'rescue' experience we realized that if one of us got in trouble, we'd just have to canyoneer downstream as best we could.  Left unsaid was the probability that if either of us swam, there would be nothing the other could do about it.  We resolved to meet at the exit of the canyon.   I held his boat in place as he closed his skirt, and I watched him launch into the next rapid-only to see him stick in the hole at the bottom, throw numerous ends, and finally (FINALLY) escape the hole, paddle downstream, around the corner, and out of sight.

I laughed the laugh of a doomed, sentenced man.  I let go my sense of frustration, let it fall into the water and flow away.  I laughed harder.  What idiots we were.

I launched into my first class V hands-paddling adventure... and God help me, I had fun.  The rest of the run was intense, huge, pushy brown water careening high against canyon walls, ricocheting back and forth as it zigged and zagged with the turning of the canyon and around boulders in its bed. Huge standing waves, some of them in parts of the canyon narrow enough that I could touch both walls at once with my hands, gave way to careering curves and tall pillows to climb, then fly down and into the other side, and back again. I was flipped, rolled, flipped again, rolled again, half-scared out of my mind, half knowing the most profound of 'nothing to do about it now but paddle' peace. Too soon it was over, I rounded the last corner after the ride of my life, peeled into the shallows at the end of the gorge and was hauled ashore by my grab-loop by a still wild-eyed Morgan.  He'd been worried about me, hand-paddling that stuff, the time between his exit from the canyon and mine must have been almost a minute.  I, on the other hand, was stoked for the first time of the day.

I think we came away from that first botched descent with different lessons- he, that some things are harder than they look, me, that I was capable of more than I thought.

I never found that paddle.

We went back the next weekend at lower water and cleaned the run.

Morgan bought a better boat and a skirt that fit the boat.