The good kinda pain
by Jon Worley

Even before we got married, Barbara bugged me to go whitewater rafting. She'd never done it before, mind you, but she thought it looked like fun. I thought so too, and when a few people from her work decided to plan a trip, we signed up.

Yesterday, we did it. A four-hour scoot down the Youghiogheny River, beginning at Ohiopyle, Penn., and wandering north some seven-odd miles. For a geography hint, Ohiopyle is five miles south of Fallingwater, the famous house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright (now a museum open from 10-4 Tuesday through Sunday). So it's about 50 miles southeast of Pittsburgh and 30 miles northeast of Morgantown, W.V. Despite its name, the Youghiogheny flows into the Monongahela (not the Allegheny) about 10 miles from the Three Rivers confluence. So you know where I'm talking about and everything.

The rapids on our trek were classified at class III (on a scale of I to V), though a couple fell into class IV. Rough enough to get the heart going, but easy enough for novices in big boats to traverse without excessive risk.

I knew I was in a good boat. I was the only person in the bunch who hadn't been an athlete in high school and/or college. That all of my boatmates were women earned me the "luckiest guy in the group" nickname from the guides. Well, sure. We were strong people who knew when to act with confidence and how to work together to get out of trouble. Of the inexperienced rafts in our group, we were easily the best. It only stands to reason.

Not that success came easily. We tossed one of our crew into the water almost immediately (our only unintentional dunking of the day), and for a while we kept spinning around because I was a bit stronger (and heavier) than the other front paddler. So we shook up the configuration of the paddlers and figured out how to maneuver down a sometimes angry river. While we still had to work a bit to stay pointed in the right direction, we were never in danger of flipping or tossing any more folks out (though Barbara did have one memorable flight into the center of the boat). In other words, some hard work and cheap thrills, without any "I think I'm gonna die" moments.

Soon enough, we figured out that the real danger came from the other rafters (our York group of 17 floated in three rafts with about 65 other folks, something like 16 or 17 boats total). While the rapids were not horribly dangerous (the water level was a foot higher than normal, giving a bit more room for error), inflatable boats have a tendency to bounce paddlers into the churning water when they get bunched up.

One such raft of our friends lost everyone (as well as hats, cameras and other stuff) in the most difficult rapids of the day at Dimple Rock. It wasn't really their fault. They obeyed the instructions from the guides, but the raft in front of them stalled out in front of Dimple. Our friends's boat careened into the raft beneath, sending everyone from both into the water. Our friends had the additional misfortune of having their boat land on top of them as they were sloshing downstream. A hairy 30 seconds, they all agreed. Hard to be full of vim and vigor when you're not sure when you're going to breathe next.

Before that scary wipeout (dutifully recorded on video for posterity), our own crew could see that many of our fellow rafters were not paying a whole lot of attention. Many never quite figured out how or when to paddle, and quite a few ignored (or couldn't follow) the guides's directions when necessary. Before entering any of the major rapids, we always made sure to give ourselves plenty of room. In fact, our only dangerous moment came when we bounced on top of a raft crewed by some friends (not the ones who wiped). We had a habit of paddling furiously when we entered the rapids, so as to enhance the rush. We also bounced ourselves on the sides of the boat, adding to the fun. Our friends rarely paddled, and so when they entered a fairly benign patch of rough water a few yards ahead of us, their dawdling combined with our aggressive attack (and excessive bouncing) led to our raft crashing down on the back end of theirs. The one woman on the other raft (dubbed the luckiest woman of the group) took a slight knock to the head from our bow. Despite the close quarters attack, no one was hurt.

Well, until the day after. I have a bruise on my right temple (from knock I took climbing back in the boat after a planned swim in the 60-degree water) and a sizable lump on my right shin. Not to mention sore arms and horribly aching quadriceps. Wedging your legs into a boat for four hours requires some serious thigh work. Of course, the next day we followed up the rafting heroics with some serious hiking up and down some decent hills from our campsite to Dimple Rock. All for fun.

I may be in some serious pain right now, but Barbara was right. Whitewater rafting is exciting and fulfilling. In order to succeed you have to use every bit of physical and intellectual strength you can muster. A completely satisfying workout of the mind and body. We're already making plans to go down another, tougher river later this year. The same crew as this weekend. When you've got a good team, you've gotta use it.

Jon Worley risks life and limb every day living in the shadow of Three Mile Island.

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