Floating Through the Ashes

I spent most of this year’s Labor Day weekend on the clock, soaking wet and freezing cold, longing for the cocoon of my bed, but still, it beat last year. Through chattering teeth, my coworkers and I concurred that we would much rather be cold and wet on the river than roasting under an unseasonably hot sun, every gust of wind threatening to spark up the canyon. As we watched our guests run in circles on the beach to try to keep warm while we arranged platters of sandwich toppings for lunch, I thought back to the summer prior.

I have been a whitewater raft guide on the American River in Northern California since the summer after my freshman year of college in 2016. The American is comprised of three forks, North, Middle, and South, that drain out of the Sierra Nevada and converge in Folsom Lake before merging with the Sacramento. Our company’s base camp, along with those of some 15 other companies, is near the town of Coloma, just down the road from where James Marshall found the gold nugget in 1848 that would eventually trigger the California Gold Rush. The main appeal of Coloma now, however, is the South Fork of the American, a Class II-III river that runs through town and as such is conveniently accessible to commercial and private boaters alike. Chili Bar Dam puts out a reliable flow that provides plenty of fun for paddlers and business for outfitters from Memorial Day to Labor Day. By contrast, the rafting section of the North Fork, a beautiful Class IV run about an hour outside Coloma, is designated Wild & Scenic, meaning there are no dams to control the flow, lending to a short and inconsistent spring season.

An hour-and-a-half’s drive from base camp will take you through the town of Foresthill and deliver you right below Oxbow Dam, the put-in site for the Middle Fork of the American. For more adventurous paddlers, the Middle Fork boasts several exciting Class III and IV rapids, the most notorious of which being the Tunnel Chute, a manmade channel flowing into a tunnel that was carved through a mountain ridge in the late 1800s in an effort to redirect the flow of water and access the gold at the bottom of the river bed. 18 miles of paddling takes you through a remote, forested canyon with humbling rock formations, serene flat sections, and of course, plenty of whitewater action.

Late in the afternoon of September 6, 2022, after a busy Labor Day weekend, we received word that the seemingly inevitable had happened, a fire ignited near Oxbow Dam. Encouraged by years of drought, gusting winds, and an unusually hot early autumn heat wave, that fire turned into an uncontainable blaze overnight. What followed was a brutal fight against wind, fire tornadoes, and rugged terrain, and all we as guides could do was watch the plume of smoke expand over the hills of Coloma, eventually polluting the entire region and bringing our season to an abrupt end. Evacuation orders extended throughout both sides of the Middle Fork canyon as the fire continued its destructive path until it was finally declared 100% contained on October 22 after scorching almost 77,000 acres.

And then, just when we thought the worst was over, the rain came. Climate change can be cruelly ironic, and a record-breaking drought was immediately followed by a record-breaking winter with unrelenting snowstorms in the Sierras and torrential downpour in the foothills. Though we were relieved to finally receive some water to our parched landscapes, we were all too familiar with the consequences of too much of a good thing. Thankfully our region was spared from much of the deluge that inundated other California communities, but Mosquito Ridge Road, the only route to put-in, was critically damaged by rock slides in multiple places. Chunks of asphalt tumbled down the hillside and the road was declared impassable to all but the few utility vehicles needed to operate the dam.

Despite the big question mark hovering over the Middle Fork season, guides started pouring into Coloma that spring to catch some of the high South Fork flows that we rarely get the opportunity to paddle. The fast and frigid runoff waters invigorated drought-weary river rats and provided plenty of entertainment in the form of chaotic carnage.

Then, as the flows started to drop out in mid-June, we got word that the owners of American Bar Mining Company, who own about five river miles of property on the Middle Fork, had agreed to open up their land and allow commercial outfitters to use it as a put-in site. Outfitters were eager to once again offer Class IV trips and guides were excited for a change of scenery, but upon hearing this news, I realized that a big part of me didn’t want to go out there at all. Some of it could be chalked up to pre-season anxiety, sure, the Middle Fork has some pretty formidable rapids that can be intimidating if you’re out of practice. A bigger factor, however, was that I simply didn’t want to face the damage, to see a place I loved so much critically injured and altered forever.

By early July, the Middle Fork had dropped to a reasonable flow for rafting and we had trips booked through the rest of the summer. I sucked up my misgivings and packed the gear and lunch, hopping into the van with a pit of nerves in my stomach.

Turning off from Foresthill and onto Mosquito Ridge Road, the burn scar immediately comes into sight. As the van descended down the canyon, snaking around the occasional Road Closed sign with no concern, I looked out at all the homes that were fortunately saved, with thin perimeters of unburned soil separating them from the blackened earth. Charred pines stood eerily over the martian landscape, skeletons of manzanita trees leaving ghostly reminders of what once was. I tried to keep things upbeat with our guests in the van, emphasizing how grateful we are to be able to get out on the Middle Fork at all. But inside I was missing the usual conversation that would take place at this point in the drive, the oh-look-how-beautifuls and the wow-what-a-views.

Before I could dwell on the loss too long, our driver turned off right before the first of several rock slides and onto a dusty road unfamiliar to me. The mining company had graciously outfitted our new put-in with a bay of port-a-potties and plenty of flat space to rig boats. The land’s primary steward, John, directed our 14-passenger van into place much like a marshaller might direct a commercial airliner. Over the coming weeks, I would come to know John as a sort of guardian, a final point of contact before embarking on our journey. He and his co-owners would often bring lawn chairs and a drone out to the top of the Tunnel Chute to watch boats descend the frenetic waters, posting the footage to Instagram later so that guides would have plenty to talk about over after-work beers.

The river wasted no time in reminding me of her dominance. The spring floods had shifted the mechanics of the Tunnel Chute and changed the entrance strategy, not an uncommon occurrence but still unbeknownst to me. I entered the rapid the same way I had in seasons prior, resulting in my boat violently crashing nose-first into the wall and jolting me out into the raging current. At the mercy of the flow, I held my breath as I was thrashed around in the spin cycle, knowing the river would eventually release me into the flat pond below. I finally surfaced after what felt like minutes but was realistically under 30 seconds, lungs burning and lip bleeding from smacking it on the boat on my way out. My boat had an exciting run without a guide to steer it, and two of my paddlers were unceremoniously ejected at the final drop. My coworker, Zeb, helped me catch the swimmers and recover my boat, and thankfully everyone was unharmed and in good spirits about such an eventful start to the day. We laughed it off, caught our breath, and continued downstream.

There’s nothing quite like a good whitewater swim to snap you back into the present moment and make you appreciate even the air you breathe. Yes, much of the canyon was effectively destroyed, but the river is still as alive and powerful as ever and life persists. Throughout the remainder of that season, I encountered bald eagles, river otters, and a beaver among countless other wildlife that survived the fire. The rains deposited wildflower seeds in the ashes and signs of primary succession were already starting to show. The sense of camaraderie on the river was palpable as guides shared jokes, carnage stories, and gratitude, and a season that I once dreaded turned into one of my favorite yet. 

Part of the reason I’ve loved my job so much is that I believe getting people outside is one of the most effective ways to inspire them to protect their environment. When people see they have a place in nature as part of a broader ecosystem, I think they are more inclined to take collective responsibility for its wellbeing. I realize that with all of the tragedy and loss of life that natural disasters bring, mourning the aesthetic value of a place seems trivial, but I think the scar goes far deeper than surface level. When we downplay the biological necessity of thriving wild places, we draw a line of separation between nature and humanity. Play is an integral part of human existence, and as the realities of climate change become omnipresent in our lives, our outdoor play spaces become increasingly vulnerable to destruction and devastation. Between extreme weather changes and increasingly severe natural disasters, virtually every outdoor enthusiast can expect their hobbies to be impacted in some form or another by anthropogenic environmental destruction, but it’s not gone until it’s really gone. Grief is inevitable, but we as a species will have to reflect the resilience of nature if we are to stand a chance against these disasters of our own making. 

There’s another burn scar on the Middle Fork, further downstream, from a smaller fire that burned for a few weeks during my very first summer of guiding in 2016. As seasons go by, fewer and fewer guests ask me about it because the greenery is starting to fill in and it’s not quite as obviously scorched. I, however, look at that burn scar every day, admiring the efforts of those little shrubs but at the same time, wondering if it will ever look anything like it once did. It serves as a reminder that as horrifying and tragic as natural disasters are for all those involved, the wounds will scab over, perhaps even heal, with time. The canyon will probably never recover to its full glory in my lifetime, but it will morph into something else as life takes over, and as long as the river keeps running, there’s something worth fighting for.