Whether he’s jacking up his van or his shoulder, whitewater kayaker and original “River Gypsy” Leland Davis keeps a great sense of humor and a healthy sense of perspective.

“Bad News!” Andria informs me in an emphatic shout through the open passenger window over the din of the diesel, “The back tire’s flat.”

“How flat?”  I shout back.

“Pretty flat,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone that sounds as flat as, well, a flat tire in the middle of nowhere.

I slam it into park and set the brake, then open the door and carefully climb down to the narrow rock-and-dirt trail to investigate.  It’s a long way down – not only due to the height of the van, but because the 22-foot-long beast is perched sideways in the steep road with the tires up on a berm.  We’re trying to turn around.  A large fallen oak was the visible impediment, but the foliage hid a bigger problem – an enormous chasm-like washout.  About 10 feet of the road has washed away revealing two deeply-buried culverts which were obviously too small to handle the swollen creek in a big storm.  An ATV track hops over the three-foot berm, crosses the creek, then hops the berm back to the road.  There is no way anything larger than a 4-wheeler is traveling that bypass.

This sort of crank jack may be the most perfect torture device ever invented – I think only the post-hole digger can compete.

Turning around on a small, steep, 4×4 trail in a 22 foot van is a test of automotive aerobics that I wouldn’t wish on anybody.  My method is to try to find a wide-ish spot, put it in 4×4, and then do about a 22 point turn, usually running over any rocks, bushes, or other obstacles on the edge of the road in the process.

Upon inspection, the rear passenger-side tire is only mostly flat, not quite down on the rim yet.  Good news, because there’s no way the tire is getting changed in this position.  Hopefully we can complete the remaining 13 points of this turn-around and drive to a better spot before we’re on the rim.  I clamber back into the driver’s seat with new resolve and put it in drive, then reverse, then drive, then reverse – all while watching Andria’s directions through the passenger window and wrenching the steering wheel back and forth as the van lurches up and down the berm, accompanied by the roaring of the diesel and the crackling of brush.

Finally, we are pointed toward what we now know is the only way to drive out.  Andria hops in and we head up the road, searching for the perfect spot for our tire-changing adventure to play out.  This will require a reasonably flat spot – not only because we know that our stock Ford jack sucks and is not really up to the task of lifting this 5+ ton monstrosity, but because it might be where we end up camping indefinitely if the jack doesn’t get the job done.  Our selected spot is about 1/2 mile up the road, level side to side, and looks like as good a place as we are going to find for groveling in the roadbed.  On one side of the road, just across a drainage ditch, is a steep slope leading up to a cliff, which is filled with useful-looking flat rocks.

I quickly hop in the back and pull off the clean clothes I put on after I showered yesterday and pull my ten-days-worn dirty pants back on.  Then I get out and open the tool bin, get out the pathetic little jack, the crappy tire tool that came with the van, and the other tire tool which will actually remove the lug nuts; we bought it after a similar episode where we learned the stock one doesn’t work.  The jack is propped under the axle on top of two of our plastic RV leveling lego blocks, and I use the silly, flimsy, fold-up hinged metal arm to crank the jack to full height.  This sort of crank jack may be the most perfect torture device ever invented – I think only the post-hole digger can compete.  It starts raining, and I pause to change into river shorts and Chacos because I’m gonna get really wet.

The jack is not jacking. The van is not rising. The rain is still falling. Things are not looking good for the River Gypsies.

With the jack fully extended on two leveling blocks, the van is not high enough to remove the tire.  We knew this would happen.  I forage through the ditches for flat rocks that can be propped under the rear transfer case to hold the van up while we collapse the jack and add more leveling blocks to get it higher.  The little rivulet of rainwater running down the road soaks me, coating me in sand and bits of dead leaves as I grunt and struggle under the extended back end of the van, wrestling the rocks into place.  Then the jack is cranked in reverse, settling the van gently to rest on the rocks.  Another couple of leveling legos are put under the jack.  Andria has the spare off now and is handing tools to me while I crawl around.  There is a wild pause while we search for the small plastic piece that holds one joint of the hinged arm of the jack crank straight.  It has broken and  flown off, but we find it and reattach it with gorilla tape.  I start cranking.  Another few inches, another rock, another leveling block.  One more round with the jack and the tire will come off, so we undo the reluctant lug nuts, taking turns with the tire tool in the steady rain.  We both swear we will never travel again without a can of WD-40.

With all of the lug nuts off, it’s time for the final jack session to lift the van up where the tire can be removed and the spare put on.  I’m covered in grit and leaves, and rainwater is dripping from my nose and elbows.  I vigorously crank the jack handle for the final lift.

Click-click-click-click-click-click-click.

That’s funny, it wasn’t clicking before.

Nothing’s happening.

I turn the handle even faster.

Click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click!  F#*&!

The jack is not jacking.  The van is not rising.  The rain is still falling.  Things are not looking good for the River Gypsies. To escape the rain, we climb into the van very carefully because it’s propped precariously with the transfer case sitting on a pile of rocks and all of the lug nuts are off on one wheel.  The GPS – which by some miracle or curse actually has this defunct road in its database – says it’s 3.2 miles across the washout to my nearest marked waypoint, where I know there is a decent dirt road leading another mile past a few houses to a highway.  That’s the closest way out of the woods.  The clock is ticking.  It’s 1:40 pm.  We have 6 hours until darkness forces us to spend the night perched on the rock pile.

Incidents like this are not uncommon for us.  The same zest for adventure and beauty that brings us to countless new rivers often leads us down obscure back roads in search of a scenic view or campsite.  Often, the very best campsites can only be reached using patience, perseverance, 4×4, and high clearance.  There is one such campsite that we love in the wilds of West Virginia, and after a grueling 10-day orgy of kayaking and socializing culminating with Gauley Fest, we felt that a second ‘night off’ camping in the wild was required after our first ‘night off’ at an RV campground.  We needed a little bit more peace and quiet before returning to the busy put-in parking lot for 5 more days, and another rest day for bodies left dangerously achy after last week’s whitewater binge.  The ‘rest day’ I took from kayaking by guiding our raft on festival Saturday really didn’t end up being restful at all.

After miles of off-roading we had finally located the campsite, which was every bit as amazing as we remembered.  We lounged around until noon the next day, then reluctantly headed out as the skies clouded up; we didn’t relish the idea of driving these roads in the rain.  I knew a quicker way out to pavement, so at a critical junction we had hastily decided to turn left instead of right, not knowing what misadventure awaited us down the leftward trail.

It’s a fine line that separates an adventure from an epic, and the most innocent decisions can tip the delicate balance, knock you off your perfect line, and unravel the beautifully woven fabric of careful planning and glorious spontaneity that create the perfect trip. Preparation is key when it comes to preventing small mistakes from becoming large problems.  On this trip, our preparation is sorely lacking for heavy jacking.  It’s time to hike out.

I’ve never been happier to be sitting in a port-a-john – I’m even getting fresh tracks.

The plan is to walk out to the good gravel road where there will hopefully be cell service. I’ll call around and find a friend to take me 25 winding miles to a parts store to get a bigger jack, which I will then carry to the van in a backpack.  I put my dirty pants back on and throw my rain jacket, water bottle, some Clif Bars, and my cell phone into the backpack. I put on hiking boots and head out quickly.  It’s 1:45.

2:05 pm.  Twenty minutes of vigorous hiking later, and I’m no longer thinking about the van at all.  I’m completely focused on what a bad idea it was to forego taking my usually clockwork-like morning dump due to the thickness of mosquitoes on the side of the ridge near the campsite.  I’m walking faster now, bordering on breaking into a clenched run on the uneven road.  Luckily, the rain has stopped.  Still, I really don’t want to hunker in the soaked woods and do the caveman with leaves.

2:30 pm.  I’ve never been happier to be sitting in a port-a-john – I’m even getting fresh tracks. This magnificent plastic beacon of modern civilization was awaiting me at my 3.2 mile waypoint, cleaned and stocked with accessories – even hand sanitizer.  The only thing it doesn’t have is cell service.  It’s another mile to the highway.

2:45 pm.  Standing on the side of a rural West Virginia highway with my thumb out, feeling strangely refreshed.  Still no cell service.

3:10 pm.  At a convenience store at a highway junction 10 miles closer to town,  feeling like I might actually pull this off.  Still not enough cell service to call, although texts will eventually go through if I resend them about 20 times.  It’s not like I have anything else to do.

4:00 pm.  Getting discouraged because nobody is picking me up or answering my texts.  The only traffic to the store is a steady stream of dirty men in baggy gray pants with reflective stripes sewn around the legs, coming down from the nearby mine for a break and a snack.  A younger guy and a woman around my age ride past me on a camouflage 4-wheeler headed for the store.  I look longingly at the ATV.  A few minutes later, they come back and ask me where I’m trying to get to.  I guess they don’t get many hitchhikers around here.  I tell them I’m going to the auto parts store.  They ask what I need.  I tell them what happened and where, and that I really need a big jack and a 4-wheeler.  The young guy, Patrick, marvels at how far I’ve come.  He wonders why I didn’t knock on somebody’s door on the dirt road and ask for help.
The woman agrees, “yeah, all people ain’t bad, you know.”

I tell them I’m not scared of local folks at all; but I know this area fills up with kayakers this time of year, and I didn’t want to bother anybody who might already be sick of having us around.

The irony that I camped last night in a decades-ago reclaimed mountaintop removal site strikes me hard at this point.  We went there to take a break from paddling a dammed-up river.

Patrick wants to help and is sure they can get us out of this mess.  “Come on Mom,” he implores, “let’s do a good deed for the day!”  They tell me to wait right there and they’ll be back.  Twenty-five minutes later they return with the 4-wheeler and a big floor jack loaded in the bed of a giant pickup.  I put $30 of gas in the truck, and off we go to the end of the dirt road where I came out of the woods.

Patrick’s mom makes some conversation on the drive.  “So what do you think of the coal mining?”  That’s a loaded question around these parts, and not the small-talk I was expecting.

I think for a moment before I reply.  “Well, as long as I want the lights to come on when I flip the switch, I can’t really complain about coal mining.  Power’s got to come from somewhere.”  I’m pretty sure that was covered in the coursework for my environmental science degree in energy management.

This brings nods of approval.  I have the sneaking suspicion that her husband’s immaculate, raised, mud-tired 2500 Dodge crew cab in which we are riding was purchased with the fruits of coal mine labor.  I do offer up that I don’t like mountaintop removal.  They agree that they don’t like it either, but they seem resigned to the reality.  The irony that I camped last night in a decades-ago reclaimed mountaintop removal site strikes me hard at this point.  We went there to take a break from paddling a dammed-up river.  The life of a river gypsy is replete with such ironies.

Later, as we drive up the dirt track on the ATV, Patrick tells me that he’s 21 and has been laid off from his job driving a fuel truck.  He’s divorced.  He says he might end up getting a job at “the pit,” which is what they call the mountaintop removal site nearby.  He says girls around here like the guys in the pants with reflective stripes on them because those pants have deep pockets.  Although he’s lived here most of his life, like most locals he’s never had the pockets for a raft trip down the Gauley.  He’d like to try it, so I get his number and promise we’ll take him in our raft next year.  Maybe he’ll like it enough to train as a raft guide one day.  I hear chicks dig guys with life jacket tans, too.

A half hour before shouldering my boat to walk to the river, I pop 4 ibuprofen. This is the kayaking equivalent to Pac Man chomping a power pellet.

When we arrive at the van, we both go right to work getting the tire changed.  By six o’clock the spare is on, I’ve given Patrick a few bucks for his help, and we’re ready for the long drive back over the mountain to pavement.  Before dark, Andria and I are back in the put-in parking lot telling tales of our adventure to friends, and looking forward to a day on the river tomorrow.

***

The temperature is perfect, and the sun shines gently down.  I hurt all over.  My rest days have been erased by the past day’s epic; my shoulders and arms are on fire from the crank jack, and my legs are stiff and sore from the speed hike. A half hour before shouldering my boat to walk to the river, I pop 4 ibuprofen. This is the kayaking equivalent to Pac Man chomping a power pellet :  for a limited time, you can go completely berserk on everything in sight;  but when it wears off, every ghost in the machine will be out to get you again.  This is the day I’ve been waiting for, though – the last day of 2800 cfs releases.  It’s Thursday, the crowds are gone, and it’s my last chance to squirt the river and get a session at Last Chance – a mystery move spot at the take-out that is inaccessible at higher water.  My body is not willing, but my mind will not be denied.  As I slide into the water, I think again what a privilege it is to have this opportunity for aquatic self indulgence.

On the river, it’s just me and a tiny sliver of glittering fiberglass swirling inside an atmospheric orb of warm green water and bright blue sky.  The water washes over and around me as I cruise through the brilliantly foamy chaos of rapids, and eddylines open up like elevator shafts into the river’s dark embrace.  At the end I cycle alone in the mystery trance, a zombie lost in water and time.  Paddle up, surf across, sink the bow, kick the hip – BREATHE IN – vanish and swirl, swirl, swirl.  Last chance, Last Chance.  It’s the perfect day I’ve been seeking.

The following morning I realize that was the last paddling day of the trip.  My body won’t take any more.  If I went, I would be boating just to boat, to make a point, to complete a mission – the pain and fatigue would win their wrestling match with fun, and injury would follow close behind.  This trip will end 4 days sooner than planned.  The reason why is a mystery.  Is it because I paddled too hard yesterday?  Or maybe on the 6 days in a row last week?  Was it that we didn’t have a sufficient jack?  Or maybe that we took that left instead of staying right?  In truth, it’s no different than our off-road misadventure: it was strictly a matter of lack of preparation.

In past years, I’ve arrived at the Gauley fit from summers of kayaking, ready to paddle hard for many days in a row.  This year, I spent much of my summer in the back of a raft.  Rafting is a ton of fun and great exercise in its own right, but it’s not good preparation for a beefy two weeks of kayaking.  Attempting this was like driving far into the backwoods in a beefy 5 ton vehicle with only a little factory jack – a recipe for misadventure, or worse.

A couple of weeks later, ghosts from the trip still haunt me.  One shoulder is tweaked and I’m missing paddling days – whether from the jack or the squirt boat I’ll never know.  I just know that I took the ride a little too far.  The lesson?  I should temper my expectations for future vacations based on realistic assessments of my level of preparation.  Just because I want to go down a road or a river doesn’t mean I can or should.  The ghosts are always out there, and the higher the level or quantity of adventure I seek, the harder they give chase.  The goal cannot be simply to achieve the greatest volume of recreation in the available time, but to optimize for long-term fun.  I must balance prudence with judicious audacity, and the goals of the mind with the abilities of the body in order to maximize overall enjoyment.  After all, fun isn’t measured in river or road miles, but in how much you enjoy the ride.

Plan wisely – travel well.

Leland