You've Gotta Run It


Incredible Scenery on the MF Feather Photo by Charles Foster

You've Gotta Run It

Story by Charles Foster
Title by Keith Beck

The rapid is horrifying.

Water cascades over a huge ledge drop, roils through a violent hole, then slams into a polished granite wall. And that's just the start. Below is more turbulence, a second hole, then slower-moving water. This slack water flows under an enormous undercut. Keith Beck gazes up at the sheer cliff, a precipice that bars any hopes of portaging the rapid. "Look at those yellow flowers. Aren't they beautiful?"

We're on our third and last day of a mind-altering run down Northern California's Middle Fork Feather River. Between us and the takeout lie several solid Class V rapids, but all of them can be portaged if we choose. All of them but this one. Helicopter.

Keith, a hardened veteran of several Feather runs, had warned us about the rapid long before we started the trip. "Just so you know, there's one Class V that you can't portage. It's called Helicopter, because, when you see it, you'll wish you had a helicopter. You've gotta run it."

Nothing more was said about Helicopter as Rick Norman, Keith Dinger, Tom Gelder, Keith Beck and I prepared for the trip. Secretly, I hoped Keith was just pulling our legs.

Even on the river, the subject didn't come up. We were too busy absorbing the stunning scenery and paddling the exquisite whitewater to worry much about a particular rapid miles downstream. Or maybe we just didn't want to think about it.

The campfire flickered, driving off the evening chill and darkness. It was our second evening on the Middle Fork, and the time had come to talk about Helicopter.


	Scary Bedtime Stories Keith Beck (left) tells a hair raising tale to Keith Dinger, Tom Gelder, and Charles Foster (left to right). Photo by Rick Norman

Keith sipped some brandy. "Every time I get to Helicopter, its always the same. You look at it, and say, `No f*cking way am I running that'. So you start looking for a portage route. First you look at the river left, the side you're scouting from. Its a vertical granite cliff, maybe a thousand feet high. So you look at river right. Its cliffed-out too. Maybe there's a sneak route down the other side of the river? No, its one of the worst sieves you'll ever see over there. So you go back to looking at the rapid."

We were all quiet. What could we say? Someone threw more wood into the fire. The night seemed to have grown cooler.

Keith wrapped up his story on a cheerful note. "On my last trip, Glen Troness broke a rib upstream of Helicopter. He hiked cross country for a day and a half to avoid running the rapid in his condition. Its that bad."

I'm forced to admit to myself there really is a Helicopter Rapid. But surely it can't be that bad.

We stand on a smooth granite walkway, staring silently at the big, unavoidable rapid. We're shaded by the high cliff wall, as is most of Helicopter. Salvation, in the form of a big, sunlit pool, lies a hundred feet away.

My hopes that Keith had been exaggerating are dashed; he'd described Helicopter perfectly. I feel sick to my stomach. In eight years of boating I've never run anything that looked this bad. Even worse, I'm injured. Earlier in the day I flipped in a difficult rapid and badly bruised my ribs before rolling up. I've lost much of the strength on my right side as a result.

Keith breaks the silence. "As you approach that first ledge, paddle hard to your right. You can use that midstream haystack to line up the move. This should help you stay upright through that first hole." Keith has been reading and running the Feather's rapids with impeccable accuracy for three days, and we cling to his every word like swimmers clutching a throw rope.

"Keep paddling hard to the right, otherwise you'll wipe out in that curler."

Most of the current is crashing into the wall obliquely, creating a big, curling wave that spirals down into Helicopter's second major ledge.

"What if you hit the wall?", someone asks.

"I've seen lots of people roll in that wave. It tends to keep you off the wall. Everyone washes through the bottom of the rapid just fine."

Considering the violence of that final section I know there is no way I want to be upside-down in there. At the same time I don't see how I'll remain upright.

"Just make sure you roll up, you don't want to float into that undercut". The undercut is terrible. Over the centuries, the river had cut a notch at least ten feet deep into the canyon wall. Most of the current flows sluggishly into this notch, not emerging for twenty or thirty feet.

"I'm ready to go. Who's coming with me?", asks Keith. Eager to end the torment, Keith Dinger and I volunteer. On the short walk back to our boats Keith Beck admires the flowers clinging to the canyon walls. In one of those moments of heightened reality that only occurs in the most exceptional circumstances, I can see every petal, every leaf, of every flower with crystal clarity. They are indeed beautiful.

We slide into our boats, checking, then double checking drain plugs, sprayskirts, helmet straps. "Give me a minute or so before you take off", Keith says. He peels out and disappears from view. I hear whoops of joy from Tom and Rick. Keith has made it!

My turn. I brace my feet against the boat's bulkhead, locking my legs solidly in place. A few deep breaths to quell the sick feelings of uncertainty. Damn my ribs hurt. Focus! Peeling out, into the current, lining up for the first drop. Every stroke aimed at getting the boat lined up on that midstream rock. Airborne! As I freefall, in a moment of hyperacuity, I hear Tom Gelder. "Shit, I'm out of film!"


Showtime The author survives Helicopter's crux. Photo by Rick Norman

The photo is the least of my worries. I hit the rapid's second tier with enough angle and speed to clear the hole and easily pass upstream of the mid-river boulder, several feet from the curling wave. A big eddy sets me up for an easy exit to the pool, far from the undercut. I'm screaming with relief, and the guys on the ledge are hooting as I enter the sunlit pool. Bubbles rise through the emerald green water, hissing as they break the surface. The sun is shining on me, driving off the chill. Life doesn't get much better.

Its several minutes before I remember my ribs; something magically let me switch off the pain. They'll bother me for a couple weeks but I never felt them in Helicopter.

The rest of the team makes it through with varying degrees of success. Keith Dinger brushes the curler, braces and finishes perfectly. Rick Norman wanders a little too far left, is flipped by the big curling wave, but rolls up quickly and stays out of trouble. Tom Gelder has the most baffling descent. He punches the first hole, and survives the curler. The final hole flips him, though. He takes forever to right himself, almost washing into the undercut. Later Tom says he capsized because he was so surprised he'd stayed upright so long!

It was a happy group of paddlers that floated down the canyon that afternoon. We could deal with the remaining Class V's as we saw fit. Helicopter was behind us.

A couple years have passed. I've paddled alot of miles on alot of rivers since then. But I'll never forget Helicopter. You've gotta run it.

January 1998

This document was last updated on Sunday, March 06, 2005