Nature Noir by Jordan Smith (best summer reads of all time txt) 📕

exactly what happened at the power plant; perhaps somewhere on the grid a circuit breaker had popped or a turbine bearing had gotten hot, or someone had just thrown the wrong switch by mistake. But for whatever reason, our river had been turned down at the power plant to just over a third of its normal flow. With the water stretched out through miles of canyon, it took a while for the effects of this to reach us, but that was now happening.

At the main Ruck-a-Chucky rapid, the water ran over, through, and under a pile of house-sized gray-green boulders. This waterfall was only occasionally run by the certifiably insane. The formula here was simple: If you swim, you die.

Over the years a variety of approaches had been employed to get boats and gear around Ruck-a-Chucky. In 1986, when I first worked on the American, people unloaded their gear and lowered the empty rafts down the rocks next to the falls with ropes. Later State Parks constructed a portage trail and boats were carried around. Finally, we all learned to "ghost boat" the falls.

Ghost boating was at minimum a two-person operation. It worked like this: I'd hike around the falls with a single paddle in my hand. Below the falls I'd wade into a deep green pool and swim across a narrow channel to the steeply inclined downstream face of a massive boulder in midstream. I'd climb that until I stood on its top, facing upstream, ten or twelve feet above the rapids. In front of me there was only one refuge from the fast water: an eddy on the downstream side of another boulder. I had to leap far enough out into the current to land perfectly in that patch of protected water while holding on to my paddle. When I surfaced I'd grab for the boulder, then climb its downstream face until I stood on top of it, six feet or so off the rapids. Once in position there, I'd blow a whistle clipped to my life vest and tap my helmet with one hand to signal Will, who watched my progress from the top of the falls upstream.

Will would then disappear, remove some of our gear from the boat to be carried around, and push the unmanned boat out into the current above the falls. Within a couple of minutes the underside of the boat's bow would appear at the brink, hesitate for an instant as if in fear, and plunge over the falls. At the bottom, the self-bailing boat—it had an inflatable floor with little scuppers around its perimeter for water to drain out—would bob from the froth and follow the main current through a boulder garden upstream of me, hidden by the rocks. Suddenly the craft would reappear where it now had to pass between my boulder and the canyon wall, a space only inches wider than the boat itself. My job was to leap into it as it passed underneath me, paddle feverishly to bring it under control, and maneuver it into a quiet inlet between the towering boulders to my right, where we'd reload the gear Will was carrying around. If I missed this cove I could look forward to running the next rapid alone with a single paddle and no oars.

But on this day we never got that far. I set up, signaled Will, and waited as usual. He disappeared, the minutes passed—and no boat. Eventually he reappeared at the top of the falls, and I heard his whistle above the roar and saw him signaling me to come back upstream. The only way back was to jump into the rapids and swim for shore. I did so.

Once I rejoined Will at the top of the falls, I saw our boat hung up sideways on a boulder at the brink. There was no reaching it.

It didn't seem dignified to abandon our vessel to be salvaged by some lucky river rat downstream when the water came back up. State and federal budgets being what they were, we might never get another. And of course we'd become famous in a way a ranger doesn't want to—like two rangers I knew whose handcuffed suspect somehow slipped his cuffs, climbed into the front seat of their patrol car, and drove away. The pursuit that ensued involved several other rangers and a number of sheriff's cars.

So we decided on a belayed swim. Was it really a good plan? Only if we survived it. I tied one end of our rescue rope to the D-ring on the back of Will's rescue vest. As a last resort, if he got pinned by the current and I was unable to pull him back, he could release his belt, but he'd be unlikely to survive the falls if he did. In order for it all to work I just had to be a really great belayer and he had to be a really great swimmer. Ranger work brings out the best in people.

Holding a loop I'd tied in the other end of the rope, I swam out to a flat-topped boulder in the pool upstream of the falls and set up my belay on top, where a prominence gave me a good foothold. When I was ready, I pulled up slack and Will let the current and the taut rope pendulum him out into midstream. Then he began to float toward the falls, as I paid out a little rope at a time. When he got close to the boat on the verge of the falls, I felt the current begin to tug him harder. Will signaled for more rope. I wasn't sure whether his wife would appreciate it if I gave it to him. But I wanted our raft back, so I did.

A yard or two more and Will caught hold of the raft. He signaled urgently. I started pulling him and the boat back upstream. To do this I stood facing him downstream and leaned backward against