Deliverance (Banjos Not Included): How I survived the rip-roaring rapids of West Virginia’s New River

Our raft, wedged between two rocks, threatened to plunge all 9 of us into the rushing waters of the river beneath. We struggled, paddles in hand, to shove ourselves from the grasp of the red fist-like stones that captured us. The instructor ordered us to place all of our weight forward, causing the river to take over the inflatable yellow boat. Knee-deep in water and 45 degrees in the air, the raft shot out, like a spaceship transitioning into hyper drive. We survived.

Whitewater rafting isn’t for everyone. And even if you convince yourself that the thrill of the ride and the adrenaline exploding in your chest makes it worth pursuing, you’ll probably still shit yourself at some point. Because when you’re flying who knows how many miles per hour while 20 feet in the air above a rip-roaring river, life falls into perspective. At least, that was my experience.

In the summer of 2010, I voyaged ten hours south in my green Subaru Outback (a soccer mom car at best) to stay with my Aunt Deanie in the quaint town of Chilhowie, Virginia, where people pass the time looming on front porches, watching fireflies. My aunt, perfectly aware of Chilhowie’s low-key lifestyle, took advantage of having me around and planned a plethora of day trips to places she wanted to visit in the area. For my 22 birthday, I told her I wanted to go whitewater rafting somewhere. So we researched. And of course, where was the best place that offered the extreme sport? West Virginia. I could hear the hypnotizing banjo of Deliverance luring us into the back country. We weren’t going over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house, that’s for sure.

One of the oldest rivers on the continent, the New River’s 53-mile descent flows steady in July through what people call the “Grand Canyon of the East.” The morning of the rafting expedition, Deanie and I waddled like ducks onto a school bus overflowing with people. During the bumpy ride to the highest point of the gorge (because rivers flow downhill), a guide talked us through the safety concerns affiliated with whitewater rafting. After listening to 30 minutes of stories about people who drowned from being sucked under the water’s current, shattered their skulls on the rocks, and suffered traumatic brain injuries, the shit started flowing.

As my mind drifted and daydreamed in complete horror at the dangers I’d be facing, I realized we were no longer on the bus. Someone had strapped me into a fluorescent yellow life vest, and our personal raft guide, Nick (a beautifully rugged 6-foot tall man with curly dirty blond hair), ran through the safety precautions we might encounter while in the river. I assume that throughout this entire speech my mouth was agape and drool had begun to pool on my chin. This, of course, could have been from either the immense fear shaping itself into a hard ball in the back of my throat or my admiration of Nick’s flawless, tanned chest.

Once coerced into the raft and pushed into the water, the awareness of no going back slammed my whole body into reality, and the prickly sensation you feel when your foot falls asleep consumed me. Terror. Utter terror.

The ride seemed innocent enough at first, gently floating through the water like you do on the inner tubes of a lazy river attraction at a water park. Soon enough, however, we approached our first grade four rapids. Grade four rapids consist of whitewater, medium waves, sporadic rocks, and often, a considerable drop, which all require the ability to swiftly maneuver the raft. I sat hunched up in the front, catatonic until I jousted forward. We were stuck. Between two rocks. Hooray.

Nick’s burly voice boomed up and over us into the canyon. “Paddle! Paddle!” Gripping my oar like Excalibur, I used blistering force to cut through the rapids. I paddled harder and harder under heavy, constrained breaths, and prayed to God (for maybe the fourth time since I left Catholic school at age 13) to make it back to Chilhowie alive. And suddenly, as if God himself bent down and gave a small whistle, like a toddler blowing on the remains of a dandelion after it whitens, we popped up and out from the rocks. And I thought to myself, “I’ll never leave the porch again.”