Be sure to read about the events leading up to this in A High Adventure Nightmare!

I always wondered why the cops on the ungodly number of procedural TV shows would talk about their gut. It was always “follow your gut” and “what does your gut say?” and “my gut’s telling me (fill in the blank).” I never really understood the concept of the gut until I was caught in between the choice of severe pain and possible drowning.

It was right after the debacle with the missing campers. In fact, it was less than 24 hours after that we arrived bright and early at the local canoe rental place. We were going to take the entire crew on the river for three days. I pulled into the parking lot with my crew cautiously optimistic and remembering canoe-related disasters of years past (for reference, see The Great Flood). But as soon as I saw the canoes, any fear or caution was pushed out of mind, and I was consumed with sheer excitement for the three-day river trek that was ahead of us. Ryan and I again were buddied up, and we made a bee-line straight for the coolest looking canoe.

It was a beauty. Bright red with a dark green trim and sleek like a muscle car. That was our boat, and we immediately threw our gear in to call the obligatory “dibs”. In addition to our personal gear, each boat had a few items of crew gear like food, dishes, tents, etc. Ryan and I were stuck with the bag of food. It wasn’t very big, but it was heavy. By the time we secured everything down and got in, the boat was heavy enough that water was no more than three inches away from the gunnels. I honestly didn’t think much of it, but looking back that should have been a cue for me to take it slow and easy. Being a 13 year old though, I wanted to go fast and prove that I could handle what few rapids there were.

This impulsiveness didn’t come back to haunt me until around the fifth hour on the water. Ryan and I were getting into a routine. I was in the stern doing my best to keep the boat straight, and he was in the bow giving speed and calling out the obstacles we’d have to avoid. So far we had done pretty well. We’d been through rapids, dodged trees, and so far managed to stay upright, so when we rounded a large bend in the river we thought we could handle what was on the other side.

The rapid did sort of come out of nowhere, but it wasn’t even that big. We had been through bigger that day and come out fine, but something was wrong with the way we approached it out of the turn. We hit the rapid horizontally and as the water tossed us, the weight in the food bag put us past the point of no return. The contents of the boat spilled into the river in the blink of an eye, Ryan and I included. Luckily nobody was hurt, and we quickly recovered all of our items. The rest of the day was pretty boring. We found a patch of high ground to camp on for the night, and after dinner, we all went directly to bed.

The next day we set off again in the boats. Ryan and I still had the enormous food bag, and we were determined to not repeat the mistakes of the previous day. This determination, however, did not prevent us from making entirely new mistakes. We flipped the boat again sometime in the mid-afternoon. I don’t recall how or why it happened, but I do remember that after this, Jerry suggested that somebody else take the food bag for the following day. He claimed that the narrow nature of our boat made it easier to tip, especially with a heavy load. I personally think he wanted to take it so that he could ensure that the food wouldn’t get ruined the next time we inevitably flipped.

The third day was our last day on the river. We were going to paddle all day and take out the boats around supper time. Ryan and I were a good 30 pounds lighter and even more determined than before to go a day without flipping. Little did I know that not only would we flip, but I would also get legitimately scared for my life.

It was just after lunch. We couldn’t have traveled any more than a mile when the path forked. The right side was smaller. It went straight and met up with the main river about 300 yards ahead, but it was ridden with sandbars and much too shallow for our boats. The left side was wider and looped around a large cluster of trees. The problem was that it contained a few nasty rapids. The first was maybe 50 yards into the fork and caused by a large water oak that had fallen into the river.

Now this tree was gnarly. It looked like a silhouette from a horror flick, with branches going everywhere, and a big split down the side. It reached probably ten feet above the water, and 20 feet out. There was enough room to go around, but just barely. Ryan and I knew it would be tough, and made our approach carefully. We swung wide and did our absolute best to go around, but I turned too sharply, and the accelerating current pushed us sideways back into the path of the tree. Now, this would normally be bad enough. We were going to crash and flip. That was unavoidable. As we swung out of control, however, we noticed another boat headed straight on into the tree. It was as if they didn’t even try to avoid it.

Ryan and I crashed first. The side of the boat slammed into the tree and we were dumped with the boat in between ourselves and the tree. We regained our bearings in time for the other boat to crash head on right next to Ryan. With nowhere to go the still upright boat stalled with its bow stuck in the branches. I started shoving our overturned boat around the tree, and Ryan followed it, picking up loose items as he went. He took it to a nearby sandbar where he turned it upright and began bailing out the remaining water. I, on the other hand, was still with the other boat at the tree.

By this time, the current had started to turn the boat flat against the tree like ours. I was caught between the boat and the tree and was doing my best to keep it from falling to the same fate as my own vessel all the while yelling at my comrades in the boat to paddle backward and clear the tree. They did, and they were almost in the clear when things got even worse.

The next minute and a half would be one of the scariest I have experienced as of yet. The starboard bow was pressed against my upper chest with the gunnels against my chin. The branches of the tree were pressed into the back of my life jacket, crunching and scraping as I maneuvered to get the boat around the tree. I was struggling to find footing. All of the activity had worn down what little rocky sediment was left after the localized erosion from the tree. Then out of the blue, a second boat came barreling straight towards me. I yelled at them to turn, but their canoe was out of their control as well. They yelled back at me to get out of the way. In a panic, I looked around for an escape route. To my left was the first canoe and what used to be the tree’s upper branches. Over time, it had become a tangled jumble of dead, soggy wood that was nearly impermeable without a machete. To my right was a drop-off, where the water had passed under the trunk and eroded away the riverbed. Behind me was the tree itself and swimming out of the way was easier said than done. I had no room to move my arms and my PFD refused to let me maneuver to a horizontal swimming position. I was trapped.

If I did nothing, I would surely get whiplash and a couple of broken teeth. If I tried to go under, I wouldn’t be able to come back up because of the numerous obstacles. I didn’t know what to do. My stomach jumped into my throat and I realized that there was no way to avoid being rammed head-on by the canoe.

This was the point at which I realized what a gut feeling was. The two boys barreling toward me continued to scream at me to get out of the way, but as they got closer and closer, I began to feel calm. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew that whatever it was, by God I was going to do it. I slowly sank into the water. I felt my feet planted flat on the bottom of the river with the cold water against my cheeks. My left hand grabbed the gunnel of the canoe that blocked my escape route. The bow of the oncoming boat closed in, and with a foot remaining between me and impact, I leapt up, pulling myself up as I did. The boat slammed square into my chest, knocking the wind from my lungs and pinning me against the tangled mess of a tree.

My life jacket took the brunt of the blow, leaving me with only minor scrapes and a bruised sternum. The boat quickly bounced off of me, and like the first canoe, began to turn sideways. I had survived impact number one and had about twenty seconds before the side would deliver the second. Regaining my breath as I went, I pushed against boat the first boat to get it clear of the action. My comrades that remained in their seats began paddling again, and barely cleared the oncoming side of the second boat. I turned again to brace for impact. I grabbed the gunnels with both hands and hoisted myself up so that it would once again hit me in the chest.

By this time, Jerry had left his canoe on the same sandbar that Ryan and the others were recovering on, and rushed over to help. He pulled the canoe away from the tree, releasing me, and allowing the boat to reroute around the rapid. I used the last of my strength to begin to paddle my way towards the shore. As soon as I was in reach, Jerry grabbed me by my PFD and pulled me into shallower water.

We all recovered on the sandbar, with people who avoided the pileup racing downriver to pick up any lost gear. I thanked Jerry through gasps and bent over with my hands on my knees. I looked up at Ryan with relief and he glanced at me. Neither one of us spoke, but we agreed then and there to not do that again. We were going to wade our way past any future obstacles like that.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. We went backpacking for a couple of days and then headed home. I’ll never forget the gut-wrenching dread of inevitability, though. I’ll never forget the feeling of trusting a gut instinct that, in this case, saved me from even worse harm. Luckily, I have not had the need to follow my gut like that since then, and I hope that I won’t have to any time soon.

This, however, is only the second of three stories that have in some way led to my distaste for finding myself wet. The third happened years later when I wrangled horses and involves a 12-year-old girl, a difficult animal, and a thunderstorm.

– Nickel

Part 1

Part 3