Scaling Mt. Whitewater

Off the chairlift, into the waves: Rafters brave the engineered torrent. Kayakers can try, too. (By Mike Shamblen)

"All forward!" Steve roars. We dig in. With a collective high-pitched scream, we run the first drop, shooting immediately out of the foaming current. Trapped by an eddy against the rocks, the right side of the raft sags. As we begin to flip, he shouts, "High side! High side!"

Too late. We bounce into the water at seven different comic angles. As I churn toward the surface, I see red.

It's the bottom of the raft, and it's trapping me in 65 inches of water. I'm drowning in an artificial river, but the panic is real. One push and I'm free. Steve laughs heartily. "I swam you!" he crows to our soaked crew. He made us swim, all right, and the current "swims" us promptly downstream.

Our reentry to the raft is a uniformly graceless, beached-whale affair, and the rest of our first circuit is chaotic.

Our fellow rafters seem equally inept, and the narrow channel throws us into bumper-car collisions. We scrape a few rocks, nearly capsize a passing kayak, watch another raft flip its paddlers, and finally shoot back into the calm reservoir. Twenty minutes have elapsed. We take our first deep breath. That was intense.

Augustine says that rafts are launched at intervals so there are only five boats on the course at a time. But throw in the kayakers who can share the sessions, and our weekday run feels too close for comfort. With visitors lining either bank, the atmosphere is Six Flags, rather than Snake River.

We make five circuits in all, gaining control with each pass (though Steve "swims" us all again on Round 3, and we briefly lose Sharon in Round 5). At the end of our two-hour session, Steve crowds us toward the rear of the raft for a "tombstone," tipping the nose of the raft up as we shoot into the reservoir for a finale.

My shoulders feel the burn. My fingers have pruned up. My sneakers are soggy. I feel as tired as I would after a day on a real river -- without those pesky, unproductive stretches of scenic idleness.

Okay, I admit I appreciate one technological innovation: hot showers. Instead of ending the day with a long wet hike or truck ride back to a base, ASCI's spacious locker rooms provide immediate gratification. And the Pumphouse Cafe next door offers an ant-free environment with panini, ice cream and a stunning vista from its outdoor tables.

Finally, Carol and I get to lean back and admire the view. The Allegheny Highlands are like blue-green waves themselves, surging at 3,000 feet toward the horizon. They're actually rather splendid au naturel, without concrete culverts and crowds. This far above water level, there's nothing wrong with being high and dry.

Christine H. O'Toole last wrote for Travel about dining in Pittsburgh's Strip District.