ALMOST HEAVEN WITH THE MEDICARE CREW

THOUGHTS ON HEAVY RAINS, GOOD FRIENDS, AND THE WILD AND WONDERFUL RIVERS OF WEST VIRGINIA AND PENNSYLVANIA

I am just now back from an “old boys” reunion with about a dozen kayaking friends. And when I say old boys, I mean old boys, as in, instead of saying “cheese” for our group photos, we yelled out, quite gleefully, “Medicare!”

I wish I was kidding on that, but I am not

We held our reunion over the course of five days by kayaking two whitewater rivers—the Youghiogheny in PA and the New in WVA. Most of the group had paddled on both dating back fifty years. That’s right, in the ‘70s, right after the movie “Deliverance” warned most of America’s young men off whitewater adventures in the Appalachians, that’s where we went.

The 1972 Olympics was the reason. It was the first Olympics in history to feature whitewater slalom kayaking and canoeing as a demonstration sport, and it just so happened a young American canoeist won a bronze medal. Jamie McEwan was a D.C. kid and his surprise third place against the East German whitewater favorites made him our hero.

In 1979, independent filmmaker Russ Nichols made a movie about whitewater slalom titled “Fast and Clean.” Just about everyone on our old-boy reunion was part of that movie, either as subjects or cameramen (me). Those of the group not in “Fast and Clean” were certainly inspired by it. Here’s a link to a remastered version of the full movie on YouTube. It’s free and worth a look.

So, the first thing to understand about this reunion group is that we weren’t just river runners, we were national team racers. Among us were Olympians, one a gold medalist; world champions; national champions (I’m in that group), and even a few raft guides. Each of us, to a man had traveled the world as amateur athletes in the weird, oddball, quasi-hippy sport of whitewater kayaking. And this past week, there we were, back boating the rivers that had brought us together all those years ago. To quote David Byrne, “Same as it ever was.”

The best part was how little had changed amongst us. Many of us live in the D.C. area and see each other regularly for a paddle on the Potomac River. Now you know why I was diligently reporting the Potomac River sewage spill.

For this reunion, though, we had guys traveling in from up and down the East Coast. One guy, Kent, came in from Colorado. Old friends all, we laughed at ourselves, reminded each other of our youthful adventures, traded family updates, retirement strategies, and inevitably golf aspirations.

The word got out, and there were dinners with more old friends from PA, MD, and TN who dropped in to share in the fun. We drank a few beers, a little wine, a fair amount of bourbon. But mostly, since we were running the rapids, we talked about the unseasonably heavy rainfall that was pushing every river in the region into high flood stage.

See, the first thing to understand about whitewater boaters, even geezers Like us, is we like the fear-factor excitement. With all that rain, that’s exactly what we had.

At normal summer flows the rapids on the Yough and the New have cheery little waves that break over the deck of your kayak. At flood stage, the rapids throw waves at you that hit you in the chest. Hard. At high flood stage, the waves are monsters that rise over your head and smash down on you with no mercy. And if you’re off balance, a rogue wave can flip you over backwards and pull you down deep. So, yeah, with all that rain, it wasn’t exactly a low-stress getaway.

My friend Kent took these photos on his iPhone at the last rapid on the New River, main section. That’s me getting clobbered, whitewater style.

But no one messed up. After fifty years, we still can still make the moves like when we were kids. Not as fast, not as ferocious, but skillfully wisened. Crew Medicare had four safety-first days of Appalachian fun in monster waves. Cheers!

And by the way, none of us needs plastic surgery. We’d be embarrassed to hire a personal trainer. The only addiction we have is to kayaking excitement. Whitewater boating has literally been our Fountain of Youth,

And no, you will never see waves that big in the modern Olympics. I’ll explain more about that later.

The second thing to understand about our whiterwater boaters group is how the sport has conditioned us to look out for each other. Everyone in that group has had a close call somewhere. Jon, who narrated the “Fast and Clean” clip, shared the memory of a run four of us had made on the Pine Creek Canyon rapids of the Arkansas River in CO. Two of us almost didn’t make it. Jon saved Bob, and I saved Kent. That was 1978. We were still in high school. All these years later, we’re still laughing about it over a couple of beers.

I don’t know of many other sports, recreation activities, or hobbies that reinforce the “watch out for your teammate’s survival” aspect as much as whitewater boating. The culture of river running is essentially a humanized approach to survival of the fittest. Our ethos has always been: Anyone in trouble gets full and immediate attention from the entire group until they are safe.

On top of that, good kayakers know to stay within their skill level so they don’t endanger others with their recklessness. In other words, whitewater kayaking reeks of personal responsibility and camaraderie. For us, it was an early life lesson that the two go hand in hand.

For the reunion, we knew before we even put on the river that everyone was skilled enough for the run. Then once on the water, we worked our descent as the first man down the rapid was the probe or point. Last man down was the sweep. Everyone in between watched out for everyone else. We all took a turn as probe. And that’s why our friend group has stayed so close over all these years, because there’s a deep bond of trust between men who watch out for each other.

Of course, when the guy you follow has a bad line, and he flips, chances are you will, too. And that’s exactly what happened on our first Yough descent: Norm got tricked by an eddy line and flipped. Chris D followed right behind him and flipped. Then I followed Chris D and flipped. Each of us rolled ourselves upright. Immediately. As in ASAP immediately. No damage, no injuries, only a bit of embarrassment, which was good for a lot of ribbing for the rest of the week. But, hey, we made our whitewater rolls under pressure. To our comrades, that was like pulling off a successful trust fall.

And it’s not that we see whitewater boating as a men-only sport. We have kayaked with plenty of women over the years. Same rivers, same rapids, same respect. In fact, in the whitewater slalom events, the women run the same course as the men. It’s not shorter or easier, it’s identical. And there is no doubt in my mind there are plenty of women rive runners boating right now who take on much bigger, scarier rapids than I ever did.

Now, here’s an iPhone photo taken by Norm that I think captures the mood on the Yough in PA. He made this image from his boat on a quiet stretch. Norm is an Olympic gold medalist, 1988 Seoul Olympics, flatwater two-man kayak, but he started off as one of us, a D.C. whitewater kid. Not bad with a camera either.

That’s the other side of floodwater trips, as intimidating as the rapids were, there was always a calm stretch in which we could admire the surrounding beauty. Not a movie, TV production, YouTube short, or Tik Tok vid, but real God-given nature, unspoiled by development.

Here’s another photo by Norm. Our friend Eric, who grew up on the Yough, pointed out a sleeping bald eagle just as I drifted beneath him. As I looked up at him, he woke up and looked down at me. I’ll never forget his piercing yellow eyes staring down at me. Amazing sight. I can’t imagine what he was thinking.

But there is a sadness to this story, and it is this: We were the only kayakers on the river. The water and weather conditions were ideal for thrill seekers, and yet there were none. We, the Medicare Crew, who grew up on those rivers amidst crowds of other boaters, had those wonderful, scary rapids to ourselves. The realization that no one else had made the the effort to get out there was depressing.

Sung to the tune of Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

Where have all the kayakers gone? Gone to iPhones everywhere.

Where have all the young men gone? Gone to video games everywhere.

More sobering is that both rivers have hosted rafting companies for decades. Their customers numbers are way down from what they were in the ‘80s and ‘90s. Americans who used to go whitewater rafting in the Appalachians now try the artificial rides in theme parks, or they just stay home and post weird stuff on social media.

Kayaking numbers are also way down. I see that on the Potomac every time I go out. It’s not just distraction. Our modern internet culture of influencers offering immediate gratification has replaced determination with pacification. There is something profoundly disturbing about that, as if we are being seduced into surrendering our independence and the instinct to fight for it.

And it’s not lost on me, how ironic it is that I can only make that statement on an internet-supported media platform. Hmmm.

Finally, about the Olympic whitewater kayaking events. In 2028, they will be held on an artificial course in Oklahoma City. It should be a good, made-for-TV race that will get coverage if an American wins a medal. Courses now are shorter and easier than when we raced. In other words, most whitewater slalom racers don’t spend nearly as much time running rivers as we did.

Most whitewater slalom events are now held on artificial courses. It wasn’t like that back in our day. “Fast and Clean” has a whole segment showing us setting up our own race course on the Ocoee River in TN. Years later, that exact stretch of river was converted to an artificial whitewater course for the Atlanta Olympics. I had a lot of friends racing and coaching there in ‘96. Quite exciting, except that the artificial course is now empty and unused. Taxpayer dollars went to build what turned out to be a boondoggle.

During our years of racing and training, we were jealous of the government support our European competitors received. In our era, we Team USA boaters paid our own way. I cooked French fries at a Roy Roger’s to save money for my 1978 trip to Colorado. But now it’s clear to me, government support has changed whitewater slalom from being a great outdoor sport for rebellious thrill seekers to being a quasi-amateur sport for rules followers who choose the artificial over the natural. There will never be a “Fast and Clean” about Olympic slalom as it is now.

Sad.

And that’s why our time on the New River was so satisfying to me. Based on information at the New River Gorge National Park visitors center, it’s the oldest river in North America, dating back sixty-six million years. So it was already flowing in its present riverbed roughly sixty-five million years before ancient man was able to control fire. The New’s headwaters are in the high peaks of North Carolina. It flows into the Kanawha River in West Virginia, which then flows via the Ohio and Mississippi into the Gulf of America.

The New River valley was first inhabited by man ten thousand years ago when the Ice Age tribes hunted woolly mammoths and saber tooth tigers there. It’s a fascinating part of the world, well worth a visit. Because on one hand, the New River is an ancient source of life, dating back to the time before the dinosaurs, and on the other hand, it’s a modern era lesson as to how we all got here. And whether you believe in God or not, you may come to understand, as I do, that celebrating life in such an ancient setting with friends and brothers you have loved long and well means you are Almost in Heaven.

Almost.

This is the second essay in my Lucky Helmet Chronicles. There will be more. Upgrade your subscription now to catch all the action. And many thanks to all my paid subscribers. Plenty more Biden corruption reporting on the way.