Teeth Chattering Weather in Cedar Creek

ATLANTIC FLYWAY

Teeth Chattering Weather in CEDAR CREEK

We used to spend so many summer days canoeing the Potomac rapids that I am ashamed of myself. Splashing in the warm water is so luxurious and useless that I am compelled occasionally to go out in winter, just to pay my dues. Braving an icy mountain stream makes me feel stout-hearted and intrepid for months, even as I doze on a sunny Potomac island in July.

So, early one frosty mid-March morning, Ann and I tied our red plastic canoe on top of the car (what possessed her to accompany me I can't say) and headed off with our border collie Iko (he had no choice). Destination: Cedar Creek, a Shenandoah tributary said to have beautiful scenery and fine whitewater, which was approachable by.

We rendezvoused with our friends Charlie and Zak at the take-out, under a bridge near Strasburg, Virginia. We tied their canoe on top of ours and, leaving their car, I drove a maze of country road to the put-in 10 miles upstream.

Canoeing weather is often nasty, because many fine whitewater streams dry up in summer (the Potomac is a shining exception). This day was near perfect, with temperatures heading for the high 50s and sunshine sparkling through the leafless trees. There was still frost in the shadows, though, and stinging cold water filled my shoes as we launched our boats by a ruined mill. "Don't let's capsize today," I pleaded.

A great blue heron rose silently, with one stroke of its broad wings, the way they do, and glided downstream in front of us.

Cedar Creek was a beauty. Nearly continuous rapids tumbled over limestone ledges and potholes -strong and complicated enough to demand respect, but not violent enough for wetsuits and hard hats. We wore wool and thermal underwear as insurance against inadvertent swims. Iko sat upright in the middle of our canoe, leaning out now and then to snap at the rushing water.

The stream had cut its way down into the limestone, exposing miles of stalactites and other cave formations in its deeply undercut banks. Whitewater spelunking. We stopped to photograph each other by a jeweled waterfall, splashing from a moss-clad bank, in a scene from a South Seas travel poster. Beaver sign -girdled and fallen trees -lined the banks for miles.

Before long, Charlie and Zak, in a borrowed aluminum canoe, began to have trouble at the rapids. (Aluminum tends to stick to rocks, while plastic slides; try it in the bathtub with a beer can and milk jug.) They struck a rock, bow first, with a heavy "Clank," (plastic goes "clunk") and spun end for end. Somehow, they slalomed through the rapid backwards, still dry. Ann and I, smug, accused them of hotdogging. "How about an Eskimo roll next time?" I jeered. But I was kind of worried for them, to tell the truth.

Two hours in -nearly halfway through -the stream turned abruptly steeper and more turbulent. Ann and I welcomed the challenge, feeling our skills return. With a graceful S-turn, we negotiated a three-foot rubble dam. Charlie and Zak, behind us, scraped and ground their way through. Ann and I giggled. "Ho ho!" I yelled, "That canoe won't have much bottom left when you guys get through. Good luck next time you try to borrow it!"

Five minutes later came our comeuppance for this smugness. The main flow doglegged left, around a slanting ledge. Another plausible channel zigzagged right, then left, through a heap of of desk-sized boulders. Ann, in the bow, turned left. I headed right, for the zigzag. Suddenly we were broadside (uh-oh!), floating helplessly toward the boulders, yelling useless instructions at each other.

As we hit, we instinctively leaned upstream, away from the rocks. This blunder submerged the upstream rail, and in a moment the canoe was swamped and pinned against the rocks by the force of the stream. Ice water closed over my chest (gasp!) and head (sputter!).

I surfaced, puffing, and pulled Iko from the boat, to which he clung. He floated downstream, to wash up with Ann on the left bank. Perched on a slippery rock, awash to the thighs and shivering, I pried the canoe loose, then guided it down to a pool on the right bank. There I hauled the heavy, water-laden boat ashore in short, hard pulls, swashing water over the rails until it was empty. Then I paddled down through a couple of small rapids to pick up Ann and Iko on the other bank. By now I was pretty warm from my exertions.

A couple of hours later, as we neared the take-out, we were well warmed and barely damp. Still, the thought of dry clothes waiting in the car was a grateful one. Especially dry socks.

Then, just 100 yards from the end, we ditched again, in about the most undignified way I can think of. We bumped a small ledge ("clunk"). Although there was no risk of capsizing, Ann and I, overanxious, yelled instructions again. Iko, hearing our panicky tones, leapt overboard preemptively, overturning the canoe and all who sailed in her. In chest-deep water, I dragged the boat to the muddy left bank. As I squirmed out, shivering, I saw Ann chasing Iko, who loped toward the highway, ignoring her calls. I think he intended to hitchhike home.

Charlie and Zack snickered openly.

Then it dawned on me: I'd left our dry clothes in the wrong car, 15 country miles away. As a reward, Ann allowed me to sit with the canoe while she rode off with Charlie and Zack for our car. For 45 minutes or so I flirted with hypothermia. I put on both life jackets. I snuggled up to Iko. (Still indignant, he snorted and moved away.) When Ann returned, my teeth were beginning to chatter, and I was flapping my sodden arms and dreaming about the Potomac's blood-warm summer waters.