Snake River Challenge

Life on the water is a different kind of life. Experiences you have on and in the water change your perspective of nature and the sheer power that it holds. I grew up on the water. Kentucky is ranked the #2 state in the US for flowing watersheds, topped only by Alaska. The state is filled with rivers, creeks, streams, springs, falls, underground caverns, and feed lakes. We used to joke growing up, no matter if you lived on the North or South side of the county or in the heart of the city downtown, the one thing everyone had was a creek in their yard. It wasn't far from the truth.

I grew up with summers wading the creek. Toting barrels of spring water from the east side of Paradise Mountain in Knott County to the house on the hill during reunions. As scouts, we participated in all the water sports we could, and in high school, after a little persuasion from my dad, I joined the Bass Fishing Team to justify the need for him to buy his own bass boat. As the only female on the team, I was determined to always place in the top, and spent countless nights and weekends on the water of every surrounding lake with my dad. Somewhere in an archived issue of Bass Masters Unlimited, I am featured on the inside cover and in the headlining story of the impacts of competitive bass fishing on student success. The photo shows me on the bow of the boat, bundled with coats, toboggan, earmuffs, hot hands falling out of my pockets, standing barefoot, with a 14-pound largemouth fighting the water as he is lifted out into plain view. Moments like those make respect for life on the water so powerful.

But my draw to the water wasn't just external. My love for being in the water started with my Mom's determination to teach me not to fear it. You see, my Nan was terrified of the water and, like all fearful people, taught her daughter, my Mom, to also live in complete fear of it. The first time my Mom swam she was in her senior year of college. She was about to graduate with a Bachelor's in teaching, and the only thing standing between her and a 27-year career in a high school classroom teaching calculus and statistics was a mandatory physical education class that required 4 weeks of swimming. To this day, she will tell you she worked harder for that C- trying not to die in the pool of Berea College than she had worked for anything in her entire life. And she did.

At the age of 3, I began structured swim. I was a few lessons into the local YMCA summer swim program when the instructor told my mom I had something. I began swimming competitively in the summers when I turned 5; by 7, I was not only swimming in the local summer league, but I was also advancing so quickly that I began to swim for a regional team year-round. I was good. I mastered every stroke, aged up in practices to swim next to those that pushed me, and longed to be in the water as soon as I got out of it. But swimming at my level, driving 45 minutes one way to practice 3 nights a week and across the southeast on weekends for meets, wasn't really in the means for our family. Now, as a pre-teen, I was supposed to be oblivious to such matters. I wasn't supposed to hear the late-night conversations about money. I wasn't supposed to look at the price tag on the new practice suit; I wasn't supposed to be responsible for anything other than loving what I did well. But that's not me. My parents always made it work, until one day they couldn't.

It was a few years into the aftermath of the recession of 2008 when my dad lost his job. He had been traveling across the state of KY on a 4-3-7 schedule for years, trying to continue to make ends meet. The company, because of the recession, was downsizing, and it only made sense to let my Dad go. It wasn't 2 weeks later that I hung up my suit for the last time. Seasons were changing and winter practice was about to start. One day, I told my mom in the car that I wasn't as happy in the pool anymore. I feel like as a mother now myself, she got it, but we never talked about it again after that. It wasn't until I went to college that I realized how much being in the water did for me. If you have known me for 5 minutes, you know that I would much rather be up until the wee hours of the night than before the sun, except there were months you would find me tracking across campus at 5 a.m. to lap swim with the communities seniors before my first class of the morning. Until I found a man who created a truly safe space for my mind to rest, swimming laps anywhere was the closest I have ever come to unlocking my very own "nothing box." I loved the water.

The summer following my 16th birthday, I had the opportunity to participate in the challenge of a lifetime in the Snake River in Wyoming. It was 5 days after I boarded a Southwest flight to the base of the Grand Tetons, and we had already spent days exploring both Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks, kayaking the main lake bodies, and riding the ridges of the mountain scape on horseback at the ranch. This day, in particular, we met up with a large group at a dive shop in downtown Jackson Hole to get our dry suits fitted. Of all the rafting I had done in my life in areas of Kentucky, Tennessee, and Carolina, I had never been on a white water trip that required fitting for a dry suit, but this was a new adventure. I was maneuvering through this tiny dive shop that could not have been more than 16x24 feet with well over 16 adults crammed in. I was one of the first out of the changing area when I heard the shop owner reiterate, "Remember folks, the water is hyperthermic cold. You are in dry suits, not wet ones! That'll be important later..." After getting fitted we bussed almost an hour to Idaho where we met our raft guides and got an overview of the Snake River.

The Snake River is the largest contributory of the Columbian River and is fed only by the runoff of melting snow from the Rocky Mountains. The river is at its prime in Mid-July through early September when the snowmelt is at it's highest. The river is notorious for being dangerous, having a wealth of rapids cap at 4-5 categories during peak season. It was late July, and the rafting that year broke records with combined snowfall, rain, and water levels from the annual melt. I was beyond excited to get wet, and experience the most intense water of my life. At least that's what I thought. Our guides looked like typical raft guides: a hodgepodge of men and women in their late twenties and early thirties living in old RVs and not yet ready to commit to anything serious. They were wild, rugged, and were somehow responsible enough to be in charge of keeping a floating inflatable of amateurs alive on the most dangerous water I've ever experienced. What could go wrong?

Reality started to set in when we arrived at the put-in. Vans of other tourists came out of nowhere and filled over 6 12-seater rafts. The entry to the water was steep and rocky, but the backdrop to the already visible white rapids was the most picturesque grey and white topped Teton's, untouched that day by a single cloud in the sky. I don't remember anything about the debrief except for one thing. The rapids were rough. The water was high. The odds we would lose at least one person in the water was also extremely high, and the chances of capsizing an entire boat were equally likely. When that happens, the only way you will not die is to lay flat. If you attempt to stand up, the river sweeps you, and you die. Don't stand up. As a seasoned swimmer, that made total sense to me. After looking around, I had already pegged a 4-foot-5-inch Asian lady wearing a fedora with a disposable camera tied around her neck to be the one with the highest probability of not getting back on the bus. With that conclusion firmly locked in, we loaded the boat, and here she came into mine.

The trip was incredible! The views were spectacular! The water was a whopping 57 degrees, and we felt it every time we plunged into the abyss of a Cat 5 rapid. I'm not going to lie; there were times when I thought our raft stood no chance. We would watch the 3 floats ahead of us paddle with all their might to propel hard enough to get over the ledge before nose-diving with a prayer that they came out at the bottom right side up; sometimes, you really couldn't tell. I had never seen white water so massive. They can always tell a rafter by their foot placement. The further you wedge your feet into the raft's side under the bubble or the ledge for seating in the row in front of you, the more secure you are. It was on this particular rapid at a cat 4 that my Uncle, sitting beside me in the raft, who was also the furthest thing from any type of outdoorsman, almost lost it. The only photo we have from the trip we brought back home printed was of the raft guide holding onto his life jacket as the front half of his body propels forward to the point everything above his thighs was overboard. Who else was reaching into the dark pool of water to rescue him? Me.

It was about an hour into the trip, and our guide, who I was convinced was the coolest person ever at this point, said that he trusted his raft enough to give us the opportunity of a lifetime. Hello?! What? Tell me more. Around the bend and past the upcoming bluff the water calms at that part of the river. There is about a quarter of a mile where, if we wanted, he would allow anyone who willingly wanted to jump off the side of the raft into the Snake River, and he would help us get back in. This particular rafting company was known for giving tourists this unique opportunity, which they called the Snake River Challenge. Why on earth was it just this company? Well because there was a catch, a catch that had a huge risk involved. The place that was deemed the least risky was at the edge of the bluff. You had to jump completely off the raft into the freezing cold snow melt far enough you wouldn't touch the raft. Then you had less than a quarter mile to swim back to the raft before you plunged into the next rapid, that while was only mid-range at a 3, had hit a 4 status that week. And if you were one of several that jumped, your guide was the only one physically strong enough to pull you back into the raft in time. That was it. All the con's in a decision tree on the table. What did my teenage self hear? The opportunity of a lifetime, new uncharted waters; you get a 5-cent blue plastic bracelet to take home as proof you did it because it says, "Snake River Challenger" on it.

Before you know it, I was standing on the ledge of the raft waiting for the countdown. I wasn't paying any attention to the life threats of my Uncle, that we all knew couldn't save himself inside the boat, much less me, when I chose to jump. And then it came, my time. I looked out at that mountainscape, screamed my most authentic teenage dream scream, and leapt like it was the last time I would live. Then I felt it. Death. The cold, dark sting of death. My mind knew exactly what to do in the water, but my body was in a complete and utter state of shock from the freezing temps of the water. I was in the water, as a competitive swimmer, and I couldn't move any of my limbs. Then I heard it. Panic. Panic from the guide. It turns out that when I lept off the raft, I really did leap. I was in the middle of a decent current, being pulled from the raft, and my body was standing straight up. I could hear the guide as I bobbed in and out of the water, "Lay flat! Float! Don't stand up! You have to come back! Lay down!" I could hear it in their voice and then it got in my head. "Whitney, you are in shock. Whitney, you are in shock. Your body is in shock. You have no choice. You can't die in the water. Move. Swim. Breathe." I repeated those words in almost a subconscious state as I watched myself move closer to the boat.

Even now, if I close my eyes, I can see the deep navy of the water around me. Contrasted by the beautiful light blue of the cloudless sky as I almost rhythmically come up out of the waters and back again into the freezing temperatures. The only other thing in my image is a faded yellow raft with two figures outlined in red hovering above it. I can see my arms move, never out of the water. I can feel my abdomen contract as I try to let my muscle memory lift my back end up from the pencil position. I was freezing, I was in the water, and I wasn't swimming. Every second, every paddle, and every ripple pushed me closer to the boat. I wasn't in arms reach yet when I felt the first hand ream the top right strap of my life jacket. It was the man from the second row, coming to help, except he didn't help. Instead, he pulled my jacket so hard in the wrong position that when the guide tried to lift me up, the device came up without me in it. I was staring at my second clip in the line of 3 on the front before he realized and let go. I was now responsible for getting myself back into the raft. In shock.

At this point, I could hear the rapid. I could feel the real panic in the voice of the guide. I could see my uncle sitting on the raft seat in complete defeat, and my body wouldn't move. One last pep talk, or I die. "Whitney move. Just one swift pop-up from the deep. Just get out of the water. You have to get out of the water. Whitney, this is an adventure. This is what you love. This is what you are in, not of. Move!" I found a strap on the side of the raft they attempted to tie. As I held onto the strap, I plunged myself straight down a full arm's length into the freezing water. Water filled my dry suit, which was no longer supported by a life jacket. Then I pulled, kicked, and propelled myself back up out of the water for the last time, eyes completely closed. My arms straightened at my pelvis, which gave me enough height on the side of the raft for the guide to grab under my armpits as I swung my water-logged right leg up to the side of raft, gaining enough height that the man from the second row could grab it and together they wrestled me into the raft like an oversized tuna fish they had caught at sea. But I was in. I was safe now; out of the water.

It took about 5 minutes for me to recover from the immediate shock. I don't think the guide ever made that trip, and to this day, my Uncle still tells me I took 7 years off his life that day. I think about that day anytime I want to try something new, something exciting. I think about the man at the dive shop when we all returned. You see, the difference in wet and dry suits is divers are encouraged to pee in their wet suits to stay warm in the freezing waters (a lesson I would learn again when I obtained my scuba diving certificates). Still, you can always tell when you needed a cover story when you came back wet in a dry suit. I think about how it took the entire trip from Idaho to feel my toes again. I think about the cheap royal blue plastic bracelet I wore for years before I took it off, which I still have. And I think about the moment I thought I had it all. I thought I had water conquered. I thought I was brave enough, tough enough, and practiced enough to do anything.

I learned a lot from the shock. I learned to recognize it for when it came again. I learned that I could overcome it. I learned that I couldn't prepare for it. I also learned that I would never let something that I believed to be so beautiful be tarnished by it. I still find the water to be a majestic place. I've challenged myself to find peace in it. I've explored its depths diving. I've let it consume me and caress me in falls and with how I share it with people. My spirit of adventure lives on in the opportunities. I have the ability to weigh out the cons, knowing when the moment comes, I'll always leap anyway.