Class V - Part I

In the heart of West Virginia there lies a monster.

It's not a winged fire-breather nor a red, pitchfork-wielding demon with a bifurcated tail. This monster doesn't even rear its devastating head every day. In fact, it's only reanimated for a few weeks each year, in October, its thunderous voice echoing for miles down the switchback canyons.

This monster is worse than those. This monster is a river, the Gauley River, and our paths crossed on an Indian-summer day in late 1989.

For most of the year, the Gauley is more like a stream, meandering lazily through the West Virginia hollers. It's power is only unleashed when the Summersville Dam is opened during a few short weeks each Autumn. Then, the dam spews nearly 2800 cubic feet of water per second, flooding the rocky banks with frothy, white foam and killer, world-class rapids.

When the river finally turned its gaze to me, I'd known Akers for ten years or more. His real name was Tony, but I never called him that. It just didn't seem to fit, for some reason. He was always Akers, and most of the time he called me Sling.

"Going white-water rafting next month," he told me one day, sipping enthusiastically on his apple-flavored Slurpee. "Wanna go?"

I fought back the brain freeze that was starting to envelope my cranium and gave him a quick glance. He was just starting to back his vintage Volkswagen beetle up out of the 7-11 parking space. White-water rafting was something that interested me, and Akers knew it. Together, we'd gone down the New River on several occasions, each time feeling the adrenaline rush that comes from supposed near-death experiences.

"New?" I asked assumingly, having never even heard the word "Gauley".

He took a quick slurp and swallowed hard. "Nope," he said. "Gauley."

The Upper Gauley is only ten miles long, but it boasts of 5 class V rapids. Anything more difficult than a Class V is deemed unnavigable. By contrast, the Colorado River has three Class V rapids in its nearly 300-mile stretch.

That night I called the rafting outfit's number. Several slots were still open, they said, and it would only cost $50 apiece. That price would cover the raft, the guide, lunch and transportation to and from the river. Sounded like a bargain to me.

Over hot dogs and potato salad, I brought the subject up at dinner that night and found two more takers, my brother, Marc, and my dad. We called back the next day and gave them credit card numbers and names, reserving our place on the large, rubber rafts. It was only the day after Labor Day, but we were all now set for our dance with destiny's devil.