I am writing this from the blissfully tranquil lounge of Sukute Beach, far from internet and cell reception, steps away from my tented camp, a swimming pool, and the powerful, seething river. This is my last night here, last of five heart-pounding days in the water, and as good a time as any to tell the tale of Whitewater Kayak School.
So let's begin with some generalizations about whitewater kayaking. Thrilling. Terrifying. Gives you the upper body you've always wanted. Much more difficult than it looks.
Day One: Manish, our short Nepali guide, teaches us the first skill of whitewater kayaking, the self-rescue. Flip the kayak, pull the spray skirt, and escape to safety. Looks easy enough. I enthusiastically slide into the pool and start rolling. Just before hitting the water I have a sudden realization that I'm going to be upside-down in the pool and my nose will fill with water. A half-second later I am flailing about underwater, a rush of pain to my head, and then gasping at the surface. Perhaps unlike any other sport, learning whitewater kayaking begins with a trial by fire, and I wonder if I will regret a week of this.
But it gets better, and I get better. By day two I've figured out the Eskimo roll and we're flying down the lower section of the Bhote Khosi, probably in water that is a little wild for a beginner. It's sort of a "sink-or-swim" experience, literally, but in keeping the kayak pointed straight and paddling like hell, we follow Manish through the waves. And it is a hoot.
We've run the river at least once every day, and it's always a wild mix of fear and exhilaration. It's tough to beat the feeling of pushing off from a big wave, getting some air, and then getting shot up by the next swell. That is sort of counter-balanced by the frustration of failure, since even a small whirlpool can succeed in swamping the beginner and flipping their kayak. I liken the whole thing to skiing, where the only way to improve is to run the hill, over and over again. But unlike skiing, where you can stop when you get overwhelmed, kayaking affords no such luxury. A flip means that you have to either contain your panic of being underwater and complete an Eskimo roll to right yourself (was only able to pull it off once in fast water), or you pull the skirt and swim to shore and eventually drain your kayak and try again. There's a terrific sense of accomplishment at reaching the end of the day, followed often by dumplings, then a hearty serving of pasta, and some of country's greatest hits during the evenings in the lounge. John Denver has never seemed more out of place than in rural Nepal.
Today we attempted a section upstream, that the cheerful Nepali guides have all built up as an intense section with Class II rapids, proving that by labelling something with Roman Numerals it becomes instantly more intimidating. There was a certain amount of trepidation as Manish and I scouted the rapids on foot, and he showed me the correct path we would have to run through the torrent of water successfully. Apparently, in real whitewater kayaking, there are these features called "holes", which you have to avoid, since the churning water will quickly flip your boat, or even trap you. Great. How will I recognize a hole Manish? "When we cannot see the water below a wave, that is a hole." Sounds obvious enough. A few minutes later, trying to follow our route through the melee, I learn to recognize holes more effectively when I am sucked into one the size of a minivan.
So it's been good. I would love to do more of this, and maybe will have a chance later on, or even back in Canada-the-frigid. It'd be cool to be good at kayaking since it's really fun, and the journey aspect of it, including lots of sunny afternoons floating downstream through steep valleys and past fishing villages, has a certain allure. In the quest for an infallible Eskimo Roll I am reminded of an old golf cliche: "You have to get worse before you get better." Add a "Practice makes perfect" to that and I've certainly got a long way to go. In the meantime I am looking forward to getting back to the city, where the only rolls I'll have to worry about are cinammon ones.
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