As you may know, the Gauley River in the mountains of West Virginia is home to some of the most challenging whitewater rafting and kayaking in the country.
During “Gauley Season” in early fall, when the Army Corps of Engineers releases water from Summerville Dam, the river attracts thrill-seekers by the thousands.
And the thrills are memorable. On the 10-mile Upper Gauley are dozens of rapids, including five rapids rated Class V — the top of the scale.
In southern West Virginia, notable whitewater is found on the Upper Gauley, the Lower Gauley, and the New River. Over the years, I’ve rafted those three a dozen times.
I’ve written twice about the experience on this blog. One story was about my first day on the Gauley. The other story recounted an incident on the bus ride after a day of rafting.
For years, in addition to the aforementioned hair-raising rapids, the Upper Gauley was famous for something else: the put-in at the base of Summersville Dam was itself legendary.
In the old days, the put-in was within a stone’s throw of three massive overflow tubes spewing 21,000 gallons of water per second into the river.
The Upper Gauley put-in, September 1997.
After carrying their rafts down a long gravel path from the parking lot, the rafters would lower their boats into a narrow eddie, climb aboard, and brace themselves.
Their senses would be under constant assault — from the deafening roar of the water tunnels, the random blasts of artificial wind, and river water blowing in all directions at once.
Straining to hear as their guide shouted instructions, the rafters would paddle forward furiously, slamming into solid waves of whitewater three and four feet high, trying to break through the eddie wall* and catch the main current.
If they were lucky, they generated enough momentum to penetrate the wall and enter the mainstream.
If not, the raft would be rejected and spun to the right, back into the eddie. The fatigued crew would have to start all over again.
Rafters waiting to challenge the eddie wall, September 1997.
Naturally, there’s a video on YouTube that documents it all.
That scenario — a put-in almost as impressive as a major rapid — ended in 1999, when a new hydroelectric plant was constructed on the site. One of the overflow tunnels was re-routed to power the plant. The other tubes are still functional, but are rarely used.
A new put-in was created for the boaters 300 yards downstream, around the first bend, on a peaceful shelf. The roar and the challenge are gone.
One morning in the fall of 1998, before heading home to Georgia, I walked out onto the top of Summersville Dam and stood gazing at the put-in below. I was there to take photos for posterity.
In previous years, I had taken plenty of shots of the put-in. But all my photos were taken at long distance with compact and single-use cameras. I wanted serious, close-up, action shots. That day in 1998, I was ready with a real camera: a big Nikon with a zoom lens.
That was the era of film cameras, and my Nikon was loaded with 35mm slide film. For half an hour, I wandered around the top of the dam taking pictures of the rafting action below. In all, I shot three rolls of film, 36 exposures each. I just knew some of those shots would be terrific.
Satisfied, I dropped the three rolls of exposed film into my daypack and put a fresh roll in the camera. I wanted to make one last stop before starting the drive home.
That stop was the scenic overlook at the north end of the New River Gorge Bridge. The overlook is near the visitor center, halfway down the gorge, at the bottom of a steep wooden staircase.
From that spot, you get a spectacular view of the massive bridge.
I took a series of photos, packed up, and started driving south on U.S. 19 in the direction of home.
But soon, I realized that my daypack wasn’t next to me on the passenger seat.
I knew immediately what happened: I had left the pack at the scenic overlook. I remembered taking it off and placing it on a bench while I took photos. Maybe, with luck, it was still there.
I turned around, drove the 15 minutes back to the bridge, and scampered down the staircase.
When I arrived at the overlook, no one was there. Neither was my backpack.
I checked at the visitor center. The pack had not been turned in. I left my contact information there, but never heard anything. My precious film simply was gone forever.
Fifteen years later, and I’m still smarting from it.
Many times, I’ve kicked myself for not driving back to the dam that day to take new photos. At most, it would have added a few hours to the trip. I didn’t do it, and that was a bad decision.
As for the black-hearted villain who stole my daypack, I’ve often wondered if he (or she, or they) had been curious enough to develop my film.
If so, I hope they got as much enjoyment from the photos as I surely would have.
Actually, no — I don’t wish that at all.
The hydroelectric plant that screwed up the put-in.
The present put-in for the Upper Gauley, located well downstream. Yawn.
* On my first Gauley trip in 1994, when the videographer interviewed the rafters, my friend Chris grinned into the camera and said, “Hi! I’m Eddie Wall!”
