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| Archives and Online Features : My Backyard: Outdoor Lifestyle |
Back in the Boat
By Nancy Coulter-Parker
2006 Jan (Vol. 8, No. 1)
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My trip to Otter Bar had been a long time coming—a decade in fact. Over the years, I had heard people rave about the place, describing it with almost religious fervor. They considered it the best vacation they had ever taken, an oasis in the middle of nowhere, the best whitewater kayaking school in North America, bar none. The place had attained mythical status for me. But there was just one thing holding me back from going: whitewater kayaking.
My zealousness for boating developed slowly. I attended roll sessions at local pools trying to learn the all-important move you need to right your boat when you flip in moving water. I paddled the rivers and creeks near my Colorado home. And got my first roll on the Payette River in Idaho. I was cautious enough to keep from getting in over my head but aggressive enough to feel like I was learning.
Then a friend suggested my husband and I go paddling on the Thompson River in British Columbia. I was game. My husband cautiously suggested it might be over my head, but our friend assured me that it was only Class III. I should have known better. “Holy shit,” I thought to myself as I got out of the car at the put-in. I had never considered putting my little boat in a river so big—it was several football fields wide. Still, it wasn’t until I had launched my boat and paddled about a mile that I accepted I truly might be in over my head. The sheer volume of water (a massive 27,000 cfs) created waves that were taller than me, so that I was unable to see the path ahead. The whirlpools along the eddie lines were so strong that I couldn’t paddle through them to get into the pockets of calm water along the banks. I didn’t have the strength—more so, I didn’t have the skill.
Overwhelmed, I tired fast. Instead of choosing my line, the water took me where it wanted. I flipped. While one of my partners had the patience to keep trying his roll each time he flipped until it stuck, I doubted I would get my roll and bailed after my first weak attempt.
Bailing came with consequences. I gasped for air, then swallowed water, then gasped for more air, as wave after wave pushed me under, toying with me like a stuffed animal. I was buffeted this way for about 400 yards, and just as exhaustion and panic started to set in, my husband managed to position his boat so I could grab onto the back of it.
Back on shore, shocked and slightly hypothermic, I was joined by the rest of our group. As they wrapped dry towels around me and asked if I wanted to get back in my boat, I shook my head—maybe on another river, but not this time.
A few weeks later, I headed up to Vail for a kayaking camp. En route it started to rain and I lost control of my tin can of a 1990 Honda Civic. As the ambulance took me away, leaving my car totaled and kayak to be recouped at a later date, I thought to myself, Maybe kayaking and I were not meant to be.
Four years and two children later I had yet to get back in a whitewater kayak. I desperately missed being on the water, but I was still paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t shake the picture of how near I’d come to drowning, and I couldn’t reconcile that image with the fact that I was now a mom. Then the brochure for Otter Bar serendipitously landed in our mailbox.
My husband loves whitewater kayaking and his skills (including his roll) are strong enough that he isn’t daunted by run ratings. He wanted to go to Otter Bar to get as far away from the office as possible and do a sport he loves. I needed to go to Otter Bar to see if I could overcome that lingering fear, to enjoy the sport again and, to perfect my roll.
So we take a week off work, fly into Medford, Oregon, rent a car and head south into the Trinity Alps. Several people had told me that Otter Bar was “out there,” but unless you’ve been “out there,” it’s hard to imagine what that means. It means no other cars, no houses. From lonely Etna, California (population 791), it takes 90 minutes to go 42 miles on a forest-lined road that winds its way up and down and back up to a pass with a view of the valley before winding its way back down again. I can’t help but wonder, who lives out here? We soon found out.
A round sign with an otter in the middle of it finally appears on our left. As we pull down the driveway, acres of well-groomed lawn (which we later learn is actually mint) spread before us along with two large man-made ponds—large enough to hold many kayakers. We had found the oasis. Two dogs come to greet us, but not a person is in sight until owner Peter Sturges comes strolling out of the main building.
Sporting jeans, Tevas, a T-shirt and a baseball cap, Sturges looks more like a wiry 40-something than the 57-year-old he is (a trend I noted among most people who live in the area). He welcomes us like we are old friends, quickly making us feel like his home is ours. He leads us to the main room of the lodge where the kitchen opens onto a dining table and lounge area, where our fellow kayakers were sipping red wine and digging into plates of spaghetti. We are officially out there.
In the morning, our group starts practicing basic skills on the Otter Bar pond. All told, there are nine of us—surfers and students, investment bankers and doctors—most of whom have been kayaking before but have yet to master the finesse of running a whitewater river.
As we put on our spray skirts and slide our boats into the pond, the air is thick with anxiety—and eagerness. This is a group accustomed to being high achievers at work, and even though we’ve left the grind behind, the determination is palpable. We all want the same thing: to master the ever-daunting roll and to overcome our fears. In particular, I am relieved to find that Val, an energetic, chatty investment banker from San Francisco, has had experiences like my own. Even though she had garnered extensive whitewater experience as a river raft guide, her previous encounter with whitewater kayaking “didn’t work out,” as she puts it.
Sturges credits the frightening aspect of kayaking a lot with the way groups gel at Otter Bar. “The act of coming to grips with the fear element creates a magic,” he tells me. “People bond. Even if they have nothing in common, they can relate to what they’re doing, the challenge they’re trying to overcome.”
No sooner are we starting to feel comfortable then Creek Hanauer, one of our three instructors, shakes us up, declaring that the maxim “unless you have the roll you can’t get on the river” is bogus. Tall, athletic-looking, intense and, like Sturges, seemingly much younger than his 58 years, Creek commands our undivided attention.
“If your skills are strong, you won’t have to worry about the roll,” Creek says as he and two other instructors—Reg Lake, an understated 62-year-old white-bearded Zen master who’s famous in the paddling world for the first descents he ran in the early 80s, and Silas Beaver, a laidback 27-year-old who grew up in the valley and also guides for National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS)—lead us through the first of many paddling drills. Throughout the day, the three repeat Creek’s words. Despite their urging and Creek’s insistent call to “stop worrying about the roll,” I can’t help it. I’m obsessed. I take solace in the fact that Val is, too.
Our session on the pond is familiar yet awkward. I feel a bit like a weeble. Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down. I’m definitely wobbly. Paddling is all about relaxing the hips. You need to have loose hips to edge, turn and roll a kayak. The more tense you are, the wobblier your boat. You become a prime candidate to flip. As Creek says, “Paddling is not much of a strength sport. It responds best to flexibility and range of motion. You have to learn to talk through your bodies.” Privately, he admits to me that he loves trying to get the doctors, bankers and lawyers he teaches out of their heads and into their bodies. As I glance around the pond, it’s hard for me to picture him succeeding with this group, myself included.
Finally, we begin work on the roll. We start with wet exits, pulling our spray skirt off underwater and slipping out of the boat—the move I used on the Thompson. But the instructors ask us to hang out for awhile underwater, to get used to the feeling. No way. Claustrophobia. After snorting in a good amount of water, I gasp for air after just 10 seconds.
It only gets worse. Next, they want me to hang upside down underwater while rubbing my hands along the boat, waiting for someone else to paddle the bow of their kayak into mine so I can use it to right myself. As Reg encourages me to give the exercise a third try, I once again wish I had someone else to blame for choosing this self-imposed torture as my summer vacation.
But, just as I’m half-heartedly considering an exit strategy, we try our rolls. Not wanting to hang out underwater, I actually stick one. It’s not pretty, but I bank my boat on a good note.
Each morning, we meet in the living room to go over the day’s lessons before loading into vans to drive to the nearby Klamath River. In spring and early summer when water levels are higher, the Cal-Salmon River, a small, free-flowing tributary to the Klamath which runs through Otter Bar, is the resort’s draw, particularly for intermediate to advanced boaters—you don’t have to travel far to the put-in and you can take out on Otter Bar property. This late in the summer, however, the water levels are low, so we need to shuttle a bit farther away to the Klamath. It’s worth it. I had no idea such remote beauty still exists in California.
Over the next two days, we graduate from the pond to a Class I river with some Class II rapids. We break into small groups and spend hours in a line like ducks following our instructors through rapids and in and out of eddies, all the while learning how to listen to our bodies. We swim in the river when we want to cool off (or when we miss a move). We eat lunch on the shore and marvel at the crystal-clear water and the osprey flying overhead. Every once in awhile the sounds of the river compete with the rotors of helicopters flying overhead. When I ask Silas about it, he explains that it’s common to have choppers overhead in the summer months, patrolling in this, the harvest season. Apparently, our remote setting is good for more than just kayaking.
Back at the lodge, I tell Sturges how much I like the instructors. Not surprisingly, the resort is inundated with applications for would-be staffers, including many pro kayakers, but Sturges is particular about who he hires. “We lean toward people who are teachers first and paddlers second. That doesn’t mean they’re not great paddlers, but we need people who like to teach and who like people,” he says. “Good instructors know how to become the person they’re teaching so they can get inside their head.” He adds, “Yes, you’re dealing with a challenging sport, but you have someone there who knows what you’re thinking. They talk about it and go over it and they care. They want you to get it.” And that’s just what I feel from Creek and Silas and Reg. They don’t just want me to get my roll, they want me to love the water again.
Après paddling, we explore the property’s trails, hang out in the hot tub and enjoy massages. When asked how this whole place got started, Sturges explains that in 1972, he had an epiphany. “Some friends of mine from Colorado wrote me and said they had found paradise.” He visited them in between stints working as a commercial fisherman in Alaska, and he too found the area stunningly gorgeous. “I said to myself, ‘I think I’ll be here awhile.’ Little did I dream I’d be here the rest of my life.” Thirty-four years later, he and his wife Kristy (a former local school teacher), run the biggest business in the valley and have two children: Rush, 20, a pro kayaker, and Alli, 16, a junior in high school.
In 1981, Sturges bought the property that would become Otter Bar. And over the past 25 years he has transformed the rundown religious compound it once was into a cozy getaway that enrolls just 14 guests at a time and sprawls over 62 acres. Initially, Sturges’ vision was of a wilderness retreat, a place for “people to come and groove on the area,” while fly-fishing and kayaking. “Gradually the kayaking overtook everything else,” he says, “which is really a nuts concept when you look at it.”
Even though he’s quick to credit the finest wood working to local artisans, Sturges has hand-built pretty much everything here—the cabins, the massage cabana, the beds in the rooms, the ladders, book shelves and dressers all have a Hobbit-like natural look to them. And as he shows us around, it becomes clear that he’s not really the dropout from the 70s he seems at first but a hard-working, Type-A doer. Otter Bar is clearly his labor of love, and that is a part of its magic.
Each night we eat the two on-site chefs’ amazing food—shrimp on skewers of rosemary branches, sundried tomato caesar salad, mouth-watering home-baked apple turnovers—at a long candlelit table set under the stars. Away from the city lights, the night sky is explosive. Guests, staff and instructors dine together. And in this mellow atmosphere, Creek, Reg and Silas seem to gain insights into our personalities (especially after a few glasses of wine). Night after night, Joe, a pediatrician from Southern California and Reg, take turns catching the whole table’s attention with a run of jokes. “What does a Deadhead say when he runs out of drugs?” deadpans Reg. “Where’s that shitty music coming from?” We erupt in laughter, as more wine is poured.
Val is dubbed the Julie McCoy of the group, the one who rallies us to jump in the river after dark (with clothes or without). One night, Sturges’ neighbors, a father and son duo on acoustic guitar and stand-up base, play music. Out of nowhere Katya, a quiet, soon-to-be freshman at Boston College on a father/daughter trip with her dad, stuns us all as she joins the duo in singing “Summertime.”
“This whole social interaction is part of the magic mix,” Sturges says. “The guides are having fun with people because they’re not burned out on the public. Most businesses rely on more volume. They don’t have the same heart.”
On the fourth morning, we practice the roll, over and over and over. With Creek by my side, I hang out underwater, I hang out halfway underwater. I begin to feel comfortable. My claustrophobic panic starts to subside. Relaxed, I flick my hips and twist my upper body, moving my paddle from front to back, over and over, until the task doesn’t seem so daunting. I can do this, I think. And lo and behold, I do. And it actually looks and feels good. And I’m not the only one. All around me, boats are flipped and righted.
I hit the water with a new confidence—a confidence that seems to infect us all. The next day, we paddle a longer segment of the Klamath. Creek, Reg and Silas gently nudge us to push ourselves even more. It is still our heads holding us back, not our skill. Emboldened, Val purposely paddles into the rapids and hangs out upside down, waiting patiently until Silas positions his boat so she can right hers against it. So I do it. I strike out into the whitewater and roll. As I right my boat, a gleeful smile takes over my face.
Then, On the second-to-last day, we pack our gear into dry bags and load them onto a raft. We say goodbye to our oasis. We spend the day paddling, and that night, we camp out riverside under the stars. Sitting by the fire, we rejoice at how Katya completed a roll mid-rapid, how she inspired us. We talk, tell stories, drink wine and listen to Creek’s pig poetry. Silas’ brother Wind (who rowed our gear-laden raft) plays guitar and sings like Bob Dylan, before Lou, who is learning to play the blues guitar, softly strums us a song. Then Jim tells a joke. As the night deepens, one by one we all quietly make our way to our beds in the sand, knowing tomorrow will be a short paddle to the take-out, our goodbyes and re-entry into the real world.
Maybe it’s my age (37), or maybe it’s being a mom. Or perhaps what we want or need out of a sport simply changes with time. But as the week draws to a close, I begin to accept that I am comfortable on Class I and II water. Sure, I can see myself paddling Class III rapids, but that’s no longer my objective. As Creek says, “Fun is a really variable product with a lot of people. Don’t scare yourself off the river.” What I want is to be able to take my kids on Class I/II paddling trips. To comfortably lead them into the beautiful canyons and places I have been. And I want to be able to do it without being filled with the fear that has haunted me when I’ve been out of my league. I want to have fun.
Back home, something Sturges said sticks: “In order to really experience life, you have to have a struggle to know you’re alive. In the old days, I’d be scared shitless at the put in. I was so adrenalized that I’d do it and have a great time, but I was on the edge. When I think back on it, I think maybe I shouldn’t have been there. Some people thrive in that situation, but others like to be in control all the time. We supply education where people realize it’s okay to be in control and if you’re not having fun then why are you doing this?”
This was my biggest revelation. To focus only on the danger of whitewater kayaking is to lose its beauty and all the other things it has to offer. You can travel on a Class I river and encounter riffles that are as simple and peaceful as driving on a washboard-ridden dirt road. Rivers can take you into sublime canyons, away from people, to hidden pockets of canyonlands that even hikers can’t reach. Even fear became a positive. In a controlled setting, it can empower you by allowing you to overcome attainable challenges.
The magic of Otter Bar isn’t in the fact that it is a phenomenal kayaking school at all. Rather, it is a place where you get to know yourself, learn your potential and accept your limitations, whether in a boat or a boardroom. Only then can you become a better paddler.
If you go: Camps run weekly April 16 through September 16, 2006. Seven-day classes, including food, lodging, shuttles to and from the local airport and the essential kayaking gear (boat, spray skirt, pfd, paddle and helmet) run $1,990. For more info or to sign up, call 530-462-4772 or check out www.otterbar.com.
What to Bring: For a rundown of all the paddling gear you’ll need, go to www.ruhooked.com.
WHAT WE WANT
Four campers share why they came to Otter Bar
Lou Lancero
Profession: cardiologist
Age: 51
(Attended camp with daughter Katya Lancero, 18, who was about to enter her freshman year at Boston College) “This is our special father/daughter, no Mommy trip. Growing up in the Phillipines, I felt I had a ‘special upbringing’ because I was the first born and especially since I was a boy. My sisters (I had five of them) did not have the same attention from my parents as I was given. So I resolved to give my daughters a lot of exposure to activities that they normally would not do on their own. To cement the bond, Mommy couldn’t come, so I had to choose an activity my wife did not like to participate in and, therefore, would not feel left out of. Thus, kayaking. We’ve been to Nantahala Outdoor Center [in North Carolina] and sea kayaking in Santa Cruz, California. I feel we are closer together for doing it, and it has also given Katya another perspective of what she can do outdoors.”
Jonathan Lanken
Profession: Investment Banker
Age: 29
“Generally, I look for an adventure of some sort, a new experience, hopefully a nice combination of civilization and active pursuits. Learning a new skill is nice but not essential, and I often will take vacations to brush up my less-often used skills (such as skiing and diving). Getting away is also essential—my profession is often high stress with substantial time demands so I generally prefer vacations where I am somewhat unreachable and truly able to relax. Too much connectivity can be a bad thing.”
Valerie Burman
Profession: Investment Banker
Age: 34
“I chose to go to Otter Bar because of its reputation as one of the best kayaking schools and because I just wanted to get away. Also, because I have very little time to plan a vacation so it was important to choose a school where everything was taken care of—just book a plane ticket, pack some clothes and don’t even think about anything else.… I try to spend my vacation time being productive, by either learning or refining a skill that I will keep using in my regular life. I also was hoping to relax, get some exercise, spend time quietly enjoying the outdoors, and of course work on my kayaking skills!”
Jim Richards
Profession: Surfer/Retired Marine Mammal Trainer
Age: 70
“On vacation I look for adventure, to get away, meet people and learn a skill. My appeal for Otter Bar started with it being off the grid. I came to Otter Bar not really knowing what to expect and I would return in a micro-second! In particular, they made me feel at home.... I came wanting to learn the roll, and my most memorable experience was my first unassisted roll. It was intense but, I’d rather wear-out, than rust-out.”
Last Updated: Apr 10th, 2006 - 14:27:46
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