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Perched atop the raft s inflated sides, feet braced under the cross tubes, the paddlers responded quickly to Kirby’s commands. Apparently convinced of his crew’s competence, he repeatedly guided the raft into the largest of the standing waves and through the narrowest and fastest chutes that dot the rapids.
Even an eight-man raft feels tiny as it bobs in the Gauley’s gigantic whitewater, riding up the front of a standing wave, bending in the middle as the bow breaks the crest, then slamming down into the trough behind as a wall of water rolls over the boat, drenching everyone inside.
It sounds dangerous, and it is, although caution and experience go a long way toward lessening the risk. “I’m not one of these macho guys who thinks I can go out and kick the river’s butt,” Kirby said as he prepared the raft at the put-in. “I know better — I can’t.”
All day, Kirby’s precise maneuvering and quick commands put the raft right where he wanted it — in the middle of the biggest whitewater on the river — time after time. On only a couple of occasions did the raft even touch the many rocks jutting through the Upper Gauley’s turbulent rapids.
Through Insignificant, Iron
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