Wednesday, September 15, 2004
As the past-its-prime retired school bus churns slowly up the one-lane dirt track toward the put-in to West Virginia's Lower Gauley River, our driver, the owner and namesake of Rusty's Shuttle Service, keeps up a chatter on the radio to avoid the unpleasant surprise of two buses meeting on a blind corner flanked by sheer drops. Now, cresting an especially high and dicey bend, he shouts into the microphone with more than the usual gusto, "Rusty Rusty, top o' the world!"
Top of the world, indeed. Hundreds of feet below, framed by valley walls kissed with early fall foliage, lies the Gauley River, its rapids sparkling in the Indian summer sunshine like jewels on a string. In a steady stream, rafts, kayaks and the odd canoe pick their way through the top-flight rapids.
This is always a beautiful valley. And for whitewater buffs, it can be prime paddling all summer long. But for six glorious weeks in late summer and early autumn, the Gauley jumps from pleasant to perfection. That's when the Army Corps of Engineers releases the perfect doses of pent-up river from the Summersville Dam just upstream, awakening the Gauley's world-class rapids at a time of year when most other rivers dry to mere trickles.
"It's like a ski area having the best snow in the world, when nobody else even has snow," says Jeff Proctor, co-owner of Class VI River Runners in nearby Lansing, W.Va. During "Gauley season" (Sept. 10 to Oct. 17 this year) river guides from Chile to Alaska make their pilgrimages to this whitewater mecca, drawn to what may be America's best one-day rafting adventure and the river culture that surrounds it.
The paying thrill-seekers are never far behind. The most adventurous of them sign on for the Upper Gauley, with no fewer than five Class V (extreme) rapids. The lower section is milder, if only by comparison, culminating in rapids aptly named Pure Screaming Hell. On both sections, clients -- and not just guides -- provide the paddle power needed to avoid mid-river boulders and smash-through waves. But no one leaves hungry, as raft companies strive to outdo one another with gourmet riverside lunches. Some outfitters run elaborate camps with cushy cabin camping and a host of après-paddle activities including restaurants, hot tubs and endless video replays of that day's whitewater action.
The rapids are always the top draw, but one weekend every Gauley season, the world's biggest whitewater party does its best to upstage the river itself. This year it's Sept. 24-26, and rafters and kayakers, tie-dyed old-schoolers and tongue-studded Gen-X daredevils will all rally at the annual Gauley River Festival, universally known as Gauley Fest, to celebrate their shared love of fast-flowing rivers and anything-goes bonhomie.
The masses fill the Nicholas County Veterans Memorial Park in Summersville, W.Va., with thousands of mud-spattered vehicles bearing brightly colored kayaks. Amid the labyrinth of bumpers in the parking area sprout tent cities, patches of tortured earth with the warmth of home, thanks to folding chairs and the banter of old friends.
Past a gate guarded (if that's the right word) by a rangy volunteer with a gray ponytail and a guide's deep tan lies an amalgam of trade show, state fair and bluegrass festival, all sliding deeper into good-natured anarchy as the night progresses.
The Gauley festival began in 1983 to celebrate the cancellation of a hydroelectric project that would have disrupted recreational access to the river. Now the festival raises hundreds of thousands of dollars each year for the advocacy group American Whitewater, which uses the money to protect and improve access to rivers around the country.
The revelers are mostly river buffs, augmented by a few in-the-know locals and professional festival followers. Alcohol isn't sold on the premises, but almost everyone seems to plan ahead. The crowd on land mirrors the one on the river: clutches of river-running friends, mostly men between 20 and 50 years old, but otherwise defying demographic pigeonholing.
Recent Gauley Fests have drawn more than 6,000 people and contributed nearly 10 percent of American Whitewater's annual budget. The sound track is alternately speed-metal and country fiddle. In the dust raised by thousands of water-sandaled feet, more than 100 vendors' booths speckle the fairground. Video monitors loop whitewater acrobatics and the more popular heart-stopping disaster footage boaters call "carnage."
"The Spam-eating contest was a big hit last year, and one year we had pig wrestling," says American Whitewater's Michael Phelan. "We had to pull the plug on that. It was an animal-rights-type thing."