Thursday, 1st April 2010
There’s something magical about Easter. For some it’s the poignancy of the religious context; for others, the refreshing burst of Springtime colour; and for yet more still, it’s the gluttonous abandon of endless chocolate. For CAP it’s the last chance to catch the English white-water season, a magical opportunity to throw 4 days of paddling and 5 nights of drinking into the melting pot of the Lake District, and see what ghastly concoction emerged.
Setting off on the Thursday evening, 11 of us crammed ourselves into the minibus wedged between, bags of kit and cans of, soon to be quaffed, beers. Like all good journeys, its focus quickly dissolved into a drunken haze: Gary, Loci and Darren vied for the all important coolest seat; Ivan caught up with us as we micturated all over a pleasant leafy suburb; and at some point, before the beer ran out and before we redecorated the inside of the minibus with the insides of our stomachs, we managed to fall out of the minibus at a suitably placed Premier Inn.
Friday, 2nd April 2010
Friday was a touch more serious. A day on the river Kent, and a chance to find out which bits of kit we’ve left at home, and a chance to find out who could remember their bow from their stern and their right way up from their upside down. Although the water wasn’t high it was at least moving, and while the weirs and rapids were sporadic, it was the perfect entree for the weekend. After an hour or so paddling, Darren and Loci lightened the mood by convincing the group to ditch the boats and go in for a bit of bridge jumping.
Now from 25 foot above the water, perched on the lip of the bridge, it’s difficult to tell if the fear of falling is always a rational one. Having personally watched half the group launch themselves over the precipice, sail through the air, and land with a graceful splash below, my brain still told me it would be better to decline the opportunity. Scared out of my wits, Martin convinced me it was actually a good idea as it would make a subsequent 12 foot seal launch more palatable. He was right. It was a bridge well jumped, even if the contents of my bowels were dripping down the backs of my legs and pooling in the ankles of my dry suit.
The fun and frolics continued for a while as most of the group baptized themselves in the fresh embrace of the water. The culmination of the bridge antics, however, was Rob’s jump. He looked as scared as I’d felt and after a sensible pause he launched himself with so much gusto that he was lucky not to jump over the whole darned river.
After another couple of hours paddling, we got to the final drop, force falls, which we paddled practically without a glitch, before egressing, packing the kit in record time and heading off to Coniston.
A few beers later, and, after at least one road thin enough to prance down the catwalk, we pulled into the Coniston youth hostel, with just enough time to throw our stuff in our rooms, before the sumptuous feast prepared by the youth hostel staff. An evening of beers ensued and we regaled ourselves with the day’s events. To top the day off when we reviewed Ivan’s video footage it became apparent he’d been videotaping the sky when all the action was on, or under, the water. He made some noises about angles and his lack of a targeting reticule, but I couldn’t help wonder if perhaps he’d been worried the sky was going to fall on his head.
Saturday, 3rd April 2010
The day started with an excellent full English breakfast, the usual croaks and groans from the ensemble and then a jaunty ride off to the River Leven. We were quickly onto the water—quick being a relative term—and then were carried off by the flow. Unlike the previous day, the water was more continuous, with less time to think between the mix of waves, rapids and weirs, which lead conversely to more time swimming. However, the day was overshadowed by the noisy monster that was the Backbarrow Bridge. For the experts in the group it might have appeared pleasant, but for the rest of us it was a leviathan. The recce of bank revealed a, once quaint, bridge scarred from the previous year’s floods. The interminable roar from beneath the bridge revealed an unending torrent of water rushing wantonly under the bridge.
Sitting in my boat ready to run the bridge, I wondered how well the 20 kilos of my plastic boat would fair against the heavy flush of water and the 50 tonnes of brick. Two minutes later, I knew just what it felt like being flushed down a toilet: cold, wet and with the distinct feeling my nostrils had been ravaged by the water.
After the group had shared in the joys of a thorough nasal flushing, we packed the boats and headed back to Coniston for an afternoon walk up and down Church Beck gorge. Although called walking, it has to be said gorge walking bears little resemblance to lighter forms of walking, and is perhaps best described as walking for psychopaths. Although the walk started as a jaunt through a clear, beautiful stream, it quickly toughed into a mixture of scrabbling, rock climbing, and pool jumping, with my personal highlight being when I pulled myself up a waterfall, swallowed a faceful of water, and then came face to face with a dead sheep. The walk up the gorge finished with a ripped dry suit for me, after which a load of the group abseiled down the top waterfall before carrying out the whole of the walk in reverse.
After the joys of Backbarrow and gorge walking we headed back to the youth hostel, followed by a trip to the pub and then onward to the local sports hall to watch a dated, but ballsy, rock band. Having called it quits by the time a rampant hen party turned up I missed out on action, but I heard from reliable sources that the hens threw themselves at CAP until the place was as full of feathers as it was dribbling paddlers.
Sunday, 4th April 2010
As planned the previous night in the pub, Sunday started with a quick run up and down the crag behind the youth hostel to help Loci win free supper. After another excellent breakfast we were off to the River Lune for another day’s serious paddling. The paddling was lightly continuous, with a few swims, a touch of swearing and the usual measure of high jinks. The highlight of the day, however, was Darren pulling a terrier that was out for a walk with its owner.
Before he’d even launched his boat the dog was running up and down the shore trying to hump Darren’s arm. He gave it a wry smile, invited it to sit on his bow and in no time the dog was staring longingly into Darren’s arms, as if saying “Is that a kayak in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?”
Once we’d finished the paddle we said goodbye to the Lake District with a hop over the Pennines to the Langdon Beck Youth Hostel, which we mixed in with a de rigueur evening of beer and food in the local pub.
Monday, 5th April 2010
The final day started with us wolfing down breakfast, dressing in our paddling kit and heading off to the river Tees for the last few miles of paddling. It was raining, but having scouted the section’s two biggest drops—Salmon Falls and Low Force—the night before, we were all confident the paddle would be an exciting culmination to the trip.
Starting below the High Force waterfall the river was moving with a decent pace, and it looked like we were going to have a good morning of proper moving water. After paddling for a few hundred metres it became readily apparent the river was a lot fiercer than when we’d scouted it the previous evening. The movement was continuous and after a couple of early swims it started dawning on me that Salmon Falls and Low Force were going to be pretty interesting.
I’m not too sure exactly when it happened, but as we got near Salmon Falls the eddies shrunk down to become almost imperceptible, and then suddenly all hell broke loose. I was thrown upside down by a wave, swallowed some river, and managed to roll back only to go through the procedure a second time. When I was up and had found an eddy I noticed the orderly line of the group had disintegrated. A couple of us were on one bank, a couple on the other, and the water was awash with swimmers as Ivan, Gary and Darren rushed around trying to herd swimmers and boats to sensible . Jay disappeared down river, chased by Gary, or perhaps it was Darren, and Keith’s boat shot past at high speed. Had Jay gone over Salmon Falls? Low Force perhaps? As a hectic bout of paddling and running up and down the banks unfolded, I paddled across to Ed and Loci and hung onto the bank for dear life. An old guy walking his dog came up to us for a chat. He regaled us with stories from his 20 years as a member of the local mountain rescue team, before warning us how dangerous the river could be.
When it became clear we were on the wrong bank, we ferry glided across the river, met up with Martin, Rob and Mike and headed off down the river with throw lines and paddles. We were all accounted for, which was a relief, as was all the kit apart from Keith’s boat. Since it was, by now, blindingly obvious the river was beyond the group’s average ability, we set up safety, licked each other’s egos and watched while Darren and Gary made Salmon Falls look a cinch. Ivan then did a quick run to demonstrate to those of us on the bank the importance of perseverance in rolling successfully and avoiding a swim.
To finish the day, we setup safety at Low Force and then watched as Darren paddled confidently over the right side of the baying monster. Darren and boat flew through the air, man and plastic defying the elements of air and water before splashing into the pool below and disappearing from view. Then, the boat popped up. Upside down and hammered by the torrent of water from above. Darren tried a few valiant rolls, but the force of the water wasn’t going to have it. The next moment Darren was in the water, his head bobbing next to his boat for a second before he was sucked under into the stopper’s mouth. The air filled with shouts, a solitary throw line and a palpable anguish. Should we ready a rescue swimmer? Throw in 101 more throw lines? It was a moment when you wish life had a rewind button.
As the bank crew fumbled to make sense of the situation, Darren popped up a few meters from the waterfall, having pulled the crafty old trick of curling into a ball to be flushed out along the river bottom. Other than being a touch wet, he was in one piece, and the bank side let out a collective sigh. We helped Darren and boat from the water, and the rest of the group’s experts looked down at their watches and realised it was really time we got on the road. Darren’s running of Low Force was one of those moments you take away from a trip and reflect on. An exemplar of the guts needed to do white water, as well as an example of what can go wrong, and how to deal with it. Above all, it served as an important lesson to the group: always let Darren go first.
Knackered from 4 days of paddling and 5 nights of drinking, we packed the kit for the last time and headed off South, stopping occasionally in villages to see if Keith’s errant vessel was anywhere to be seen.
Tuesday, 6th April 2010
Now I could tell tales of Ivan breaking the minibus before disappearing into the night with Melanie, or of the minibus company taking 3 ½ hours to rescue us, or of the group throwing fire sticks and Frisbee in a dark field next to the M25, but the long and short of it is we eventually made it to our respective homes, kindly driven by Martin into the early hours of the morning.
There’s something magical about Easter. For some it’s a belief in fable; for others the start of the growing season; and for some it’s their sweet tooth. But for us it was the chance to be endlessly abused by water, to bounce our bodies off rocks, and to fill our pants with a mixture of relief and a touch of follow through. But above all it was an excellent weekend to learn the CAP maxim for safe white water paddling: let Darren go first. .