LEFT: Merino wool sweater by Smartwool ($115; 800-550-9665, ); cotton long-sleeved T-shirt by RLX Ralph Lauren ($55; 866-897-7656, ); cotton flannel shirt from A5 by The North Face ($42; 800-447-2333, ); denim jeans by Nautica Jeans Co. ($59; 877-628-8422, ). RIGHT: Cotton zip shirt by RLX Ralph Lauren ($70; 866-897-7656, ); suede shirt jacket by Eddie Bauer ($139; 800-426-8020, ); denim carpenter pants from Jeans by Levi’s ($44; 800-872-5384, ).

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A) COUSTEAU TO GO

SONY’s new DSC-U60 CYBER-SHOT U is the first consumer digicam to come fully waterproof right out of the box (no housing required), and it’s only slightly wider than a book of matches. Because you hold it vertically, with one hand, it offers the most solid grip of all the shooters we tested. The trade-off: At only two megapixels, DSC-U60 images are best suited for e-mail or Web postings. But what the Sony lacks in resolution, it makes up for in compact readiness and video capability—press a button to grab 15 seconds of sea turtle footage. Just be sure to frame him carefully: The small LCD screen is fixed at an odd angle. ($250; 888-449-7669, www.sonystyle.com) GOOD CHOICE FOR: SNORKELING, SCUBA DIVING
B) FASTPACKING PAPARAZZI
The OLYMPUS STYLUS 300 DIGITAL camera is already weatherproof without a housing. But once the shooter is safely locked inside the OLYMPUS PT-016 case, you can clip it to your deck for the sea-kayak leg of your own Raid Gauloises. A macro-shooting mode allows for crisp close-ups, multiple flash settings let you—not Olympus—decide how much light you’ll need, and a small diffusion plate on the housing helps ensure that it’s reflected properly. Since you have to slide the lens cover to switch the Stylus on or off, the camera must be brought to life outside its plastic bubble. (Camera, $399; housing, $199; 800-622-6372, ) GOOD CHOICE FOR: MULTISPORT RACING, SEA KAYAKING

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DIGITAL CAMERAS are often so fragile that they should carry a warning label: for INDOOR USE ONLY. That’s changing. Most major manufacturers—including Canon, Pentax, Olympus, and Minolta—now offer rugged, hard-plastic waterproof housings specifically designed to give their digi- cams a beefy outer shell. Tuck one of these shooters inside its matching case, snap it shut, and you’ll be able to pop off underwater JPEGs at depths of 100 feet. The new cases will also protect your camera from mud, dust, salt spray, and even hard knocks. (In field tests, each of the five hermetically sealed models we tested survived intact after a four-foot drop onto a rock.) Granted, your wallet may take a little punishment—the most affordable digicam-plus-housing setup here will run you $598—but just think of all the waterlogged memory cards you won’t have to replace.

Dry and high: Make your digicam adventure-ready with a sturdy waterpoof housing.

The Amazing Pocket Fisherman and Foam Noir

A) THE AMAZING POCKET FISHERMAN!
The tiny PENTAX OPTIO 430RS offers an impressive four megapixels of resolution—that is, each image stores four million dots of information, which makes for crisp enlargements. Meanwhile, the 14 gasket-sealed buttons and dials on the PENTAX O-WP1 waterproof case give you access to virtually every photographic setting and task. Make sure you know your way around the controls, though, since some of the camera’s icons can be difficult to read through the plastic shell. If you catch and photograph nine different fish, the Optio’s sharp LCD monitor lets you view them all at once, before deleting the little guys. (Camera, $683; housing, $250; 800-877-0155, ) GOOD CHOICE FOR: ANGLING, BIRDING
B) FOAM NOIR
Is your boat already brimming with gear? Don’t panic. Even inside its waterproof housing, the four-megapixel CANON POWERSHOT S400 DIGITAL ELPH is about the size of a box of animal crackers. The WP-DC800 case allows you to access all camera functions, and you probably won’t drop it in the drink, thanks to an ergonomic thumb notch that provides a good grip. Though the housing adds bulk, it comes with a diffusion plate—a patch of frosted plastic that, especially during those moment-of-dread close-ups, helps evenly distribute light from the flash. (Camera, $599; housing, $240; 800-652-2666, ) GOOD CHOICE FOR: RAFTING, RIVER BOARDING

Boundary Waterproof and Fiesrt Ascent, Mount Megapixel

A) BOUNDARY WATERPROOF
The ergonomic styling and anti-squint rubber “awning” on the FANTASEA CP-4 PRO housing shades the LCD screen from glare, making this combo a useful tool for the J-stroke set. With four megapixels of resolution, NIKON’s COOLPIX 4300 camera will crisply capture a swimming moose. But while the housing buttons let you tap into the digicam’s settings, they won’t let you turn it on and off. Because the Coolpix has an extendable zoom lens on an already thick body, this combo will appeal to paddlers with plenty of stowage space. (Camera, $499; 800-645-6687, ; housing, $179; 203-637-5192, ) GOOD CHOICE FOR: CANOEING, ROWING

B) FIRST ACCENT, MOUNT MEGAPIXEL
With a zoom lens that extends inside the camera, this is the slimmest waterproof package we tested—perfect for ounce counters. At just two inches thick, the MINOLTA MC-DG100-encased MINOLTA DIMAGE XI is thinner than all the other housing-equipped models shown here, though with the camera’s slightly sub-par 3.2 megapixels of resolution, your Annapurna shot won’t be quite as sharp when you blow it up. The housing buttons provide remote access to all the camera functions, including voice recording, so mind your language when you’re stuck below the crux. (Camera, $599; housing, $249; 201-825-4000, ) GOOD CHOICE FOR: CLIMBING, TRAVERSING

Outdoor Retailer 2003: The Gear Guy’s Roundup

More from the floor: Part II

Ice ‘n’ slice: Montrail’s I.C.E. 9, crampon compatible

Light at half the price: the Dagger Specter 15.5

PICKIN’ AND CLIMBIN’
There has always been a strange mismatch between boots and crampons. Crampons have to be designed to fit a generic boot; boots a generic crampon. But hopes to change that with its newish I.C.E. 9 boot ($350), just now hitting retail channels after a long gestation. It’s a high-end insulated leather boot, available with a matching gaiter ($85), and, best of all, a crampon specifically designed for the boot ($185). The crampon uses attachment points at each end of the sole, plus one in the middle. That lets a climber wear a semi-rigid boot for comfort, with the great ice-climbing leverage of a rigid crampon. I’m usually skeptical of gear “systems,” but this makes sense and I think will work well.

THE FUTURE OF KAYAKING?
Fiberglass boats have always been the dreamboat for serious touring kayakers. But they’re expensive—often close to $3,000. In Salt Lake City, and were showing boats made of a new dual-layer plastic called Airalite. It looks, weighs, and paddles like composite materials, but costs much, much less. The new Dagger Specter 15.5, a day-touring boat using Airalite, will run at $1,500, half the price of some composite boats. It’s what I’m getting in the spring when I pop for a new boat, that’s for sure. The Dagger people are talking seriously about abandoning fiberglass boats if the new material finds wide consumer acceptance.

DIAMONDS IN THE ROUGH
had some new headlamps at the show. Its three-ounce Zenix uses a focused LED to throw out the light of a halogen; price is $42.50. , feeling the pinch from low-cost single-wall tents such as the Mountain Hardwear Waypoint, showed a new tent made with silicone-impregnated Epic fabric. Called the Lighthouse, it weighs a mere three pounds and sells for $369. Schoeller, the company leading the way in the soft-shell category, has come up with “nano-particles,” tiny bits of material applied to a fabric surface that repel water, dirt, and stains. was showing the stuff in its new Cerro Torre soft shell, selling for $239. will soon introduce its new Expedition 850 glove ($50), which employs Polartec Power Shield and a tough synthetic leather. I wore a sample pair on Rainier in July, and was amazed by their warmth and dexterity. Finally, was showing a wrist-mounted GPS unit called the Forerunner 201, designed for hiking and training. It’ll retail for $160.

IF I COULD BUY FROM ONLY ONE COMPANY…
It would be . They’ve always made good stuff, but in recent years they seem to have really ramped up their line of offerings and its quality. Their packs, jackets, layering clothing, sleeping bags, and tents all look great. I’m anxious to try the Equinox, a lighter and improved version of what has long been one of the better (albeit heavier) three-season tents on the market. Price will be $259. It has lost about a pound, and uses a new “knee”-pole design, which puts a slight bend in the pole a foot or so above the ground. In effect, it braces the pole against wind, while also creating more-vertical sidewalls. In bags, I liked the 15-degree Helium, which uses 900-fill down and superlight Pertex fabric to create a near-winter bag that weighs a mere two pounds (cost will be $399). Marmot is also expanding its hugely popular lineup of affordable, functional PreCip rainwear. New in spring 2004: the Rim jacket, with a revised formulation of the PreCip material that is more breathable. Taped seams, stash hood, arm and chest pockets, all for $189.

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YOU’VE NEVER been here. Of that I am reasonably certain. And I know you’ve never sea kayaked here, because we were the first. But if you go, one thing’s for sure: You won’t get lost on your way to the put-in. In Australia’s Cocos Islands you can, quite literally, walk off the plane, carry your folding sea kayak 100 yards to the water, assemble it, and paddle off—no need to make reservations, rent a car, or secure a permit. But first you have to get here.

Modern-day Niña and Pinta: the author’s and photographer’s kayaks beached on Pulu Beras

To arrive in the Cocos, fly to the middle of nowhere and hang a left. The 27 isles (only two of which are inhabited) form an atoll in the northeast corner of the Indian Ocean and lie 1,620 miles northwest of Perth. Photographer Paul Kerrison and I arrived in April, intent on paddling among the uninhabited islands that horse- shoe around the barracuda-and-bonefish-filled lagoon. We would camp. We would fish. We would do little else.
Half of the 120 residents of 2.4-square-mile West Island are waiting outside the airport when we arrive. With only two flights a week, greeting new visitors to the Cocos is a social occasion rivaled only by good surf or happy hour. Twelve-year resident Terry Washer meets us on the ground and gives us a tour of the settlement. This takes about 20 minutes. Among the establishments are a restaurant, a bar, a dive shop, a small school, a supermarket, and some medical facilities. All the buildings are one story. Washer, 52, is owner of the Cocos Surf Shop (a glorified souvenir stand with little in the way of actual surfing gear), and one of a handful of volunteers who assist Cocos tourists (currently arriving at the dizzying pace of ten to 15 a week). He is a middle-aged version of the prototypical Australian surf bum: blond and tan. The man is long past the point of taking life any other way but easy. While walking to the shoebox-size tourism office, I see through the palm trees what appears to be an impressive left surf break curling up about 90 feet from shore.

“Looks like some nice waves,” I say.

“We don’t talk about the surfing here,” Terry replies.

The message is friendly but clear: We know you’re here to write about us, but that doesn’t mean we want our surf splattered all over the pages of your magazine just so some billionaire can come build a casino with a view. It is a shared, not altogether secret, sentiment on the Cocos—we got it good, let’s keep it that way.

At the tourism office, Terry shows us an aerial map of the islands and we put together a rough five-day itinerary. We’d spend the first night on a tiny nub southeast of West Island called Pulu Blan, about an hour’s paddle away. We’d return to West Island on day two, resupply with food and water, and paddle seven miles across the lagoon, spending the next two nights on any of the small islands on the southeast side of the atoll. Our fourth and fifth nights would be spent on either Home or West Island, depending on time, tide, and muscle soreness.

Having hatched a plan, we walk over to the local market, a concrete, two-aisle affair filled with the scent of fresh produce that, like us, has recently come off the plane. We grab granola bars, PB&J, and a loaf of bread.

“I’m sorry, you can’t buy that,” says the clerk, pointing to the bread. I turn the loaf over and see a name written on the side of the paper bag. Fresh bread, we are told—fresh anything, for that matter—is a commodity ordered in advance. We may purchase only the frozen variety. So we do, and 30 minutes later we’re on the water, the setting sun warming our shoulders as we paddle wide-eyed across the turquoise expanse toward our first campsite, about two miles away. Everything Paul and I know about the Cocos Islands at this point could be scribbled on a gum wrapper, with room to spare.

THE NEXT MORNING we dally around our makeshift campsite, a stretch of searing-white sand ten feet from the water that we share with a few dozen palm-size crabs. We pay no mind to the rapidly dropping tide—a crucial mistake that turns our first morning paddle into a sunbaked trudge across the flats. When we finally reach the beach back on West Island, the temperature is in the nineties and we are dying for nothing more than a cold Pepsi. But that would be our second mistake. The sign on the door of the restaurant tells the story. Lunch: 12 to 1. We are late and thirsty.

After tracking down drinking water and waiting for the tide to rise, Paul and I head back out across the bay, intent on reaching the east side before dark. But two windy hours later we are only halfway. It is then that we remember something Terry’s daughter Emma, 21, had said back in the tourism office as we scanned an aerial photo of the lagoon.

“You don’t want to paddle across those,” she said, pointing to dark spots in the water. “Those are black holes. That’s where they live.”

They are tiger sharks, second in size and ferocity only to the great white, reaching a length of 18 feet and weighing more than 2,000 pounds. At the time we laughed it off as superstition, but we later heard credible talk of at least one, possibly two, resident tigers that occasionally take refuge in these holes. Paddling across these freaky, deep patches of indigo, where the bottom drops abruptly away to reveal nothingness, is so unnerving that I soon stop looking down altogether. It is during one of these hole crossings that I hear a yell from Paul that freezes me on the spot. Looking in his direction, I see an enormous white fin, five times the size of the reef-shark fins we’ve been seeing all day, slicing swiftly through the water just beyond the bow of his boat. I’ve never felt so instantaneously terrified in my life. When the fin disappears, Paul suggests that I paddle up behind him so that we can present a much larger silhouette to anything looking up from below.

“Why do I have to paddle in back?” I ask.

“Because that’s the half they bite off,” he replies.

In retrospect, Paul and I both believe that we really saw the underside of a large manta ray. At least, that’s what we’re telling ourselves.

AFTER ANOTHER close call with the tide, we finally reach the island of Pulu Pandan, where we pitch our tents in the dark under a dozen coconut trees and are soon asleep, exhausted from our four-hour crossing. The next day is not pleasant. A burly storm coming straight from Java builds slowly throughout the day, and by late afternoon we are treated to 60-mile-per-hour gusts, with 700 miles of ocean fueling the waves from behind. A direct hit by a cyclone would be devastating to the Cocos, but with a total land mass of six square miles, the chances of that are as remote as the islands themselves. Yet many have come close, including Harriet in February of ’92, which pushed to within six miles of shore and sent wind speeds to 101 miles per hour. Today it’s far too gusty to paddle so we spend much of the day attempting to catch dinner in an arm of the lagoon 20 feet from camp. Paul finally reels in a small sweetlip and we cook it while taking refuge from the storm on the deck of one of the small fishing huts the Cocos Malay people have built throughout the islands. Amazingly, I get cold.

We wake the next morning to the sound of a small outboard pulling up to shore. Two men get out, check to make sure we haven’t disturbed their hut, and hand-dig half a dozen crabs from the sand before heading back out to bigger water. The storm has cleared and Paul and I are soon on the water ourselves, paddling two miles toward the Cocos Malay settlement on Home Island.
Cocos Malay people make up about four-fifths of the atoll’s population of 500. They are descendants of the original inhabitants, who were imported as slaves from throughout Indonesia to help cultivate the coconut-oil business of John Clunies Ross, a Scottish sailor who settled in the Cocos in the late 1820s. He and his family ran the islands for the next 150 years, until selling them to Australia in 1978. The islands are now managed by a locally elected governing body called the Cocos Islands Shire Council, composed of members from both Home and West Islands. Despite the integration with Australia, the Cocos Malay have kept intact one of the world’s least-known cultures—tourists weren’t allowed on the islands until 1991, unless they made arrangements in advance for a place to stay.

The sound of prayers floating off Home Island makes its way across the water as we approach. It is the second of five prayers the devout Islamic Cocos Malay people say daily, and the beauty of the old language removes the soggy memories of the previous day. We beach our boats among the jukongs, elegant wooden sailboats, lining the shore, evidence of the islanders’ impressive woodworking skills. I take a short walk along the narrow, palm-shaded streets and notice that the buildings of Home Island have an orderliness to them that brings to mind a military base—not surprising considering the Cocos were used during World War II for that very purpose, serving briefly in 1945 as home to more than 8,000 Allied troops from Britain and India. The people here are dressed brightly, in reds, oranges, and yellows. I see a small slice of America—a Michael Jordan tank top on a nine-year-old boy.

After a whirlwind tour of the island that included everything from taking in a sailing race to watching a circumcision ceremony, we decide that we have no desire to paddle over the black holes again. Instead, we load our kayaks onto the 50-foot ferry shuttling people back across the lagoon.

YOU’D THINK residents of a place so far removed, with a total land mass smaller than that of some American malls, would socialize among themselves whenever possible. Not so. The Cocos Malay on Home Island and the Aussies on West Island operate in dual worlds separated physically by a seven-mile lagoon and culturally by religious differences and nearly 200 years of isolation. Though interisland camaraderie is on the upswing, the two groups are content to keep to themselves. “We’re starting to do a little more together but they’re very protective of their culture,” says one West Island resident. “It’s hard socially because they forbid alcohol—and we’re Australians, so we drink like bloody fish.”

Later that night, while drinking with the Aussies on West Island, we are introduced to their culture, including a unique style of tequila shot that involves drinking only after squeezing the lime into your eye and snorting the salt up your nose. We leave the next morning as most people leave any tropical island: reluctantly, with a promise to return. When I ask Terry what the greatest thing has been about living on the Cocos for more than a decade, he says something about watching his two daughters grow up here.

“Anything else?”

He doesn’t answer, just smiles and nods toward the waves breaking nearby.

“I understand,” I say. “We can’t talk about that.”

Boats: You’ll need a folding kayak if you want to island hop. We brought one Alu-Lite from Klepper ($1,980; 800-500-2404; ) and one Kahuna from Feathercraft ($2,300; 604-681-8437; ). Each comes with a carrying case, weighs less than 40 pounds, and easily fits within most airlines’ baggage restrictions. My favorite break-down paddle is the carbon two-piece Wayfarer from Epic Kayaks Inc. ($385; 206-523-6306; ).
Fishing Gear: You’ll want two travel rods: an eight-weight for bonefish and a 12-weight for giant trevally, barracuda, and black-tipped reef sharks. I brought an 890 RPLXi from Sage ($525; 800-533-3004; ) for the former, and a Scott STS 9012/3 ($570; 800-728-7208; ) for the latter. Pack steel leaders and plenty of saltwater-variety flies.

Clothing: Bring only pants or shirts made from quick-drying material, like nylon Supplex. My favorites: Cloudveil‘s long-sleeve Cool Shirt ($75; 888-763-5969; ); Tarponwear‘s Imperial Cargo Pant ($66; 800-291-9402; ), and Ex Officio‘s Double Haul shorts ($49; 800-644-7303; ).

Camping Gear: We each brought a tent, which came in handy during the mini hurricane. Mine was a Solitude from Mountain Hardwear ($195; 800-953-8375; ), and Paul’s was a Clip Flashlight CD from Sierra Designs ($189; 800-635-0461; ). We both brought the lightweight (2-pound, 3-ounce) Polarguard 3D Cross Mountain sleeping bag from Big Agnes ($129; 877-554-8975; ).

The Cocos Islands offer everything you need—surfing, scuba diving, fishing, and sea kayaking—and nothing you don’t. It may be pricey to fly there, but once you arrive, you can easily get by on less than $50 a day (including bar tab). The only golden rule is this: Be polite and ask permission from the residents before you pitch a tent on any of their pristine blond beaches.

Getting there: Round-trip flights from Los Angeles to Perth on Air New Zealand (800-262-1208; ) cost $1,850-$2,100 per person. Two flights per week on National Jet Systems (book through Island Bound Holidays, which can also arrange accommodations, 011-61-8-9381-3644; ) depart from Perth for the five-hour trip to the Cocos Islands. Round-trip airfare runs about $872 per person.
Where to stay: Camp free of charge virtually anywhere, but you need to run your plans by the Cocos Islands Shire Council first (011-61-8-91-62-6649). There are only five lodging options, all on West Island. Try the recently renovated Hermit Lodge (doubles US$340 per week; 011-61-8-9162-6515; ), which has two apartments and a four-bed, bare-bones, backpacker-style bunkhouse, and is just yards from the beach. The three Balinese-style Cocos Cottages (doubles, US$548 per week; 011-61-8-91-9244-3801) sleep four people and have giant verandas.

Food: Think PB&J and grilled burgers: There’s only one grocery store and one restaurant, both on West Island and both open only when they want to be. To stave off those hunger pains, take your fly rod and head to the flats to fish for trevally, sweetlip, and barracuda.

Getting around: You can rent a car, bike, or scooter on West Island, but you don’t really need any of them. A small bus picks passengers up from the dock at the north end of the island, where you can take the free 25-minute ferry ride to and from Home Island four times daily. Plan on spending at least one day on Home Island, but respect the Muslim residents by wearing conservative clothing. Terry Washer at the Cocos Island Tourism Association (011-61-8-9162-6790; info@cocos-tourism.cc) can answer any questions regarding diving, surfing, fishing, and camping. For further information visit .

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ONE MUGGY JULY evening in Vermont, I met my friend Billy Nutt on a leafy bend of the Connecticut River. Billy had spent five years on the U.S. Kayak Team, and now he paddles for sheer fun. The current swept into a rapid called Sumner Falls, in the middle of which was a honking, glassy wave with a curling top.

Dropping in: Burnt Ranch Gorge, on California’s Trinity River

We surfed. We took turns windmilling up out of the eddy and onto the wave’s smooth face, getting kicked to the top, spinning and skipping down fast into the trough, the whole motion arcing and quick like the dive of a swallow. We played for hours—blowing enders, rolling, yelling. I didn’t realize it had gotten dark until a south wind blew a warm rain over the river and the sky rumbled. A thread of lightning cracked the night and in the instant’s glare I saw leaves blowing over the water and the far hills, and felt the whole river slipping with tremendous speed under the shivering kayak, and I thought, There is no more than this.


And there isn’t. Rivers and boats are God’s compensation to man for all the really dry stuff—like taxes and work and August. Americans are discovering this in astounding numbers. Between 1995 and 1999, the number of us whitewater kayakers increased by nearly 40 percent, to five million paddlers. Seventeen million people canoe; nine million like to raft. And what a place to live and boat: From the glacier-fed, grizzly-haunted rivers of the Yukon to the icy, bell-clear streams of California’s Trinity Alps, from the desert canyons of Utah to the steep, lush ravines of West Virginia, North America is particularly blessed with rivers of great beauty and wildness—and kick-ass whitewater.
This summer, as the mercury rises and the days parch and curl, don’t get mad. Get in a boat. Cool off and splash around. Get a bunch of snow-melt up your nose. Here are ���ϳԹ���‘s favorite runs in every part of the continent and for every taste—wilderness expeditions, raucous Class Vs, perfect day runs, gentle family canoe trips. But be forewarned: River running is a terminal condition. It gets in the blood and makes you do dumb things, like take annual canyon trips in blizzards. Like quit your job, and neglect your pets and your piano lessons. So paddle at your own risk.

Class V: Enter the White Room

Get lost in the froth of Colorado’s Gore Canyon

There’s no place like foam: Gore Canyons Tunnel Falls

JOHN JAYCOX’S ’71 Volvo is a river runner’s machine, cluttered with paddles and congenitally musty with the smell of damp polypropylene. He gunned it up the broad-pastured valley of the Blue River, beneath the rugged escarpment of the Gore Range. It was late July, and a furnace wind poured through the open windows. Everywhere, the creeks and rivers were low, showing their bones. But not the Upper Colorado.
Gore Canyon is a six-mile chasm with a half-dozen distinct drops packed into about three miles. It’s quintessential, accessible Class V, and relatively remote—the only things keeping you company are the railroad tracks bedded high above the river.


We parked by the tracks—they smelled of creosote and scorched sagebrush—and put in off a high rock. I just followed John, the undisputed Lord Gore. One of the best boatbuilders in the world, he won the upstart Gore Canyon Race six times in its first eight years. He even built a kayak just for the event: the Gorepedo. We flew over the first big drop, Applesauce—a ten-foot fall cascading into an ugly foam pile. John hammered for a tiny gap in a horizon line strung with boulders—Gore Rapid. He disappeared and I launched off the Shaq-high ledge into a pocket eddy hemmed in on one side by rock, on the other by a tearing, funneling current. I took a deep breath and peeled out hard, slamming into a curling haystack. I shook the water off my face and yelled with pure glee.
The next two hours were filled with unremitting speed, and the strange joy of moving rhythmically in a world comprised completely of dark rock, boisterous water, and a swath of sky. In the gentling tailwater, John paddled next to me and grinned. His hair stuck out of the holes in his homemade helmet. He never tired of this. We paddled out past ponderosas, willows, a single fly fisherman, and the sudden, surprising swales of green ranch land.
DETAILS: Put in at the confluence of the Blue and Colorado Rivers near Kremmling; take out at the Pumphouse Recreation Area. No permit needed. Timberline Tours (800-831-1414; www.timberlinetours.com) runs full-day raft trips through Gore Canyon for $155 per person, from August through October.

Easy Drifting: What, Me Paddle?

Pack the cooler, then float and bloat on Montana’s Smith River

The mild river: slow mo on the Smith

IT’S 58 MILES from the Smith River’s Camp Baker put-in to the Eden Bridge take-out—a lazy five-day float, if you want it to be, which I always do. That’s because halfway through the canyon in a kayak or raft or canoe or inner tube, after two and a half days of bumping off rocks and drifting in circles, of casting for brown and rainbow trout, something mysterious begins to happen.
Five days of laziness requires a bit of surrender. On day one, while the river bends through cottonwood groves, I crack open a beer to prepare. In a few hours, when the canyon swallows us, there will be no turning back. Rock walls rising 500 feet soon sprout from the river’s edge. We pass high caves and trees rooted in ledges. We see red cliffs and gray cliffs and cliffs growing crystals, like thousands of white teeth, in their fissures. In places the river widens and ripples over fist-size rocks, and then collects itself in deep turquoise pools. If I’m guiding, I suggest tossing a fly there. Or maybe here, in the big boulders. We pass clearings in the thick Douglas firs, boat camps, an occasional cabin. The river turns and braids, and we can pull over and hike to see ocher cave paintings left by the original Smith River floaters.
Or maybe not. The river can quiet your ambition. This is how it works: I once guided a woman from southern California who’d just turned 40. She liked to catch fish, and she did, but for the first few days she was lonely. She said she missed her children, she missed her husband, and when it got chilly and the wind blew, she wondered aloud how she ever got here. But late on the fourth afternoon, when half the canyon lay in blue-green shadow and the caddis flies were hatching so thick they looked like mist coming off the water, I found her lying on the bank, curled up in the grass. I asked her if she was all right.
“Yes,” she answered. “I’ll be ready in a moment. I’m having a really big feeling right now.”
DETAILS: Montana Outdoor Sports in Helena (406-443-4119) rents rafts and canoes for $27-$29 per day. For a permit, call 406-454-5861. Lewis and Clark Expeditions (406-449-4632) offers fly-fishing trips on the Smith from May through July.

Expeditions: Lewis and Clarking It

Discover the real frontier on Quebec’s Bonaventure River

AHH TABERNAC, I swore, as my boat ricocheted from one rock to the next, pinballing its way down the snaky headwaters of the Bonaventure River. It had been less than an hour since the put-in, and already I was spinning 360s and popping water-wheelies in my solo canoe. “Tricky little devil, eh?” said Claude, one of the two French-Canadian brothers who were my guides. “Look dar,” he said, pointing. “An eagle.”
Sure enough, a bald eagle with a wingspan the length of my paddle was glaring at me from a low stump. I swear the bird cackled when, in the nanosecond I took my eyes off the river to watch it take flight, I heard a thunk and was whipped over the gunwales. The next thing I knew, I was bobbing boatless through Class III froth. They don’t call it the Bonaventure, or Good ���ϳԹ���, for nothing.


True, you’ll find more harrowing whitewater on, say, Quebec’s Magpie or Rouge, and the Feuilles has bragging rights to the most Arctic wildlife. But the Bonaventure lays claim to an eerie timelessness; you half-expect to see tepee settlements from 16th-century Mi’kmaq Indians lining the shore. I felt almost silly in my fire-engine red canoe and wanted to trade it in for a birchbark version. In the six days it took to paddle 76 miles to Chaleur Bay, we passed only 12 other humans: seven fishermen and five paddlers. And that’s a crowded week. Fewer than 100 people paddle the Bonaventure River each year.
By the fourth day, I had reached the most Zen-like state of blissed-out harmony I could achieve while still being lucid enough to paddle. The river lacked the things that can turn canoe trips into heinous nightmares: mosquitoes, portages, and hypothermic weather. But it still proffered up enough of the raw elements—icy whitewater, old-growth forests, and guides who stood up in their boats while navigating the fray.
Other than my clumsy canoe exit, the only catastrophe was losing four bottles of chilling chardonnay to the swift current. The loss would have put a dent in cocktail hour that night, but Ulysse, the other brother, pulled out a bottle of cognac left over from the chocolate flambé he’d prepared earlier in the trip. “You gotta have that French taste on this of all rivers,” he said, winking.
DETAILS: Quebec ���ϳԹ���s (888-678-3232; www.quebec adv.com) runs six-day canoe trips on the Bonaventure from May to early July for $995 per person.

One-Day Blasts: Workman’s Comp

New Mexico’s Taos Box, a better way to spend your 9 to 5

I FIRST HEARD about the Box at the end of a cold, rainy Gauley season in West Virginia. Six of us river guides were sitting under a tarp in a rafting company’s gravel parking lot, playing poker and talking about rivers we were dying to run. At the top of most everyone’s list was the Rio Grande through the Taos Box, a sheer, 800-foot-deep canyon cutting 17 miles through a lava plateau west of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. We agreed to kayak it the following summer, but three years went by before we actually made it to New Mexico.
We put in at the crack of dawn and let the silty water carry us past blooming cholla cactus and sage. After several miles, the riverbed constricted and the rapids began dropping steeper and faster, now Class III-IV. We corralled in the calm water above Powerline Falls, a 14-foot cascade, to hear instructions from Jake, who’d run the Box before (“Start center. Angle right.”), and again above three-quarter-mile-long Rock Garden (“Look for the munchy hole in the center, halfway down.”). And we cleaned ’em. With four miles to go, the canyon walls had turned almost black in the afternoon shade, and we charged the continuous rapids Blue Angel-style, hopping between eddies and boofing small ledges without stopping.
In the final half-mile, the Rio squeezes through one last channel, rounding a sharp bend. I entered the rapid and, with no eddies to catch, aimed blindly downstream. Harv, a 200-plus-pounder who favors tiny kayaks, took it straight on, just to the right of me. Midway through, he dropped over a surging pour-over and disappeared. “Harv!” someone yelled from upstream. I turned, fighting the current. But within seconds, Harv popped to the surface, helmet askew on his big round head, grinning and cackling. The Box will do that to you.
DETAILS: Sangre de Cristo Mountain Works in Santa Fe (505-984-8221) rents kayaks for $25 per day. Kokopelli Rafting ���ϳԹ���s (800-879-9035; www.kokopelliraft.com) runs one-day raft trips through the Box for $95 per person from May through July. The World Outdoors (formerly The World ���ϳԹ���) runs a six-day multisport trip in New Mexico, including a day on the Taos Box, in June, August, and September, for $1,650 per person (800-488-8483; www.the worldoutdoors.com).

Urban Renewal: Escape from New York

…and Boston, and Chicago…Six wet weekend getaways

Three hours from Boston:
The Saco River, New Hampshire

Tiny rapids, miles of sandy beaches for swimming and camping, rope swings, excellent fly-fishing—PG-rated family entertainment. Contact Saco River Canoe and Kayak (888-772-6573, www.sacorivercanoe.com).
One hour from Atlanta: The Cartecay River, Georgia

Smaller, less-crowded, and, uh, safer than the Chattooga, the Cartecay snakes through rolling pastures and thickets of flowering mountain laurel. No banjos anywhere. Contact River Right Outfitters (www.riverright.com; 706-273-7055).


Four hours from New York City: The Deerfield River, Massachusetts

The city’s closest big-water fix. Don’t miss the four-mile Class III-IV section between Monroe Bridge and the Dunbar Brook Picnic Area. Contact Zoar Outdoor (800-532-7483; www.zoaroutdoor.com).
Three hours from Chicago:
The Lower Wisconsin River, Wisconsin

The Lower Wisconsin hosts nearly 300 species of birds, more than 45 species of mammals (river otters, badgers, and the occasional bobcat), and myriad fish (from walleye to American eel). Who cares if it’s only riffles between Spring Green and Boscobel? Contact Bob’s Riverside Resort (608-588-2826; www.bobsriverside.com).
Two hours from Portland:
The White Salmon River, Washington

Flows from dark to light in ten miles, from BZ Corner bridge through shadowed, 150-foot lava cliffs to Northwestern Lake in the high-desert sun of the Eastern Washington plateau. Contact River Recreation (800-464-5899; www.riverrecreation.com).
Six hours from San Francisco: The Trinity River, California Must-make moves on eight- to ten-foot chutes and falls test your agility on the ten-mile Class V stretch from Cedar Flat to Hawkins Bar. Contact Tributary Whitewater Tours (800-672-3846; www.white watertours.com).

Schools: Current Curriculum

Immersion course in kayaking, rafting, and canoeing

Otter Bar Lodge
Forks of Salmon, California

Otter Bar’s weeklong whitewater kayaking programs are held on California’s remote Salmon River—but comfortable cabins and gourmet meals obliterate any sense of roughing it. All-inclusive courses start at $1,790 per person (April-September). Details: 530-462-4772; www.otterbar.com.
Nantahala Outdoor Center
Bryson City, North Carolina

Like some addled university sponsored by Red Bull, this place has it all: courses in kayaking, canoeing, and raft guiding on rivers like the Nantahala and Ocoee—plus cozy cedar cabins for recovering from the day’s lessons. All-inclusive two-day canoe or kayak classes cost $380 per person; four-day classes, $750 (March-October). Details: 800-232-7238; www.noc.com.
Madawaska Kanu Centre
Barry’s Bay, Ontario

Canadians know canoeing. Let hotshots from the international whitewater canoe circuit show you how it’s done on the Class III-IV Madawaska River. Two-day canoe courses run $225-$245 per person, including shared accommodations and meals; gear rental starts at $13 per day (MayÐearly September). Details: 613-756-3620; www.owl-mkc.ca.
Zoar Outdoor
Charlemont, Massachusetts

Zoar is based in the bucolic Berkshires, but their kayak and canoe courses on the Class I-IV Deerfield River are anything but laid-back. Two- to five-day programs run $255Ð$525, including lunch and equipment (April-October). Details: 800-532-7483; www.zoaroutdoor.com.
Canyon River Equipment Outfitters (REO) Flagstaff, Arizona

Some of the country’s top rafting guides are graduates of Canyon REO’s expedition-style courses on the Upper San Juan and Chama Rivers. Six-day courses run $550 per person (in May and, when demand is high enough, August). Details: 800-637-4604; www.canyonreo.com.

Tickets to Ride

When there’s only one thing between you and your dream river: permission

Trying to score a permit for a restricted-access river? You’ll up your chances if you aim for weekdays and keep your group size small. Consider having a permit party with potential tripmates in December (most applications are accepted from December through February). Each of you fills out an application; if even one person gets lucky, everyone can go. Here, the country’s hardest river permits to land.

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