Maybe it was the low light. Or maybe we were a little on edge, worn down from long days, stout headwind, and turbulent water. Either way, the river felt dramatic and intimidating, glowing and gurgling as it pounded onto the far side of the canyon wall. The sun reached the top of the headwall above us, illuminating the biggest water we had seen yet.
Claire was already rattled. Jay had been constantly coaching her through sections, at times shuttling her board through the more technical rapids. I had already capsized twice, one of which found me wrapped up in my leash and pinned under my board. Whatever tension was on the leash failed to release, and the swim lasted over 100 m. It wasn’t a huge deal—the water was warm and there was a large pool after the rapid—but it did speak to our situation.
Martin and I watched as Jay and Claire set off across a short stretch of calm water above the rapid, aiming for an easier portage on the opposite bank. Awkward and heavy with two people and gear, they capsized almost immediately. Jay hopped back up and extended his hand to Claire, pulling her back on the board. But it was too late. The river drew them into her guts, flipping the board and swallowing them whole.
The Vjosa
The Vjosa River, one of Europe’s last wild rivers, flows freely from the mountains in Greece westward to the sea. It recently won an unbelievable battle against a series of proposed dam projects, culminating in the establishment of the Vjosa Wild River National Park to protect this valuable lifeline and aid ecotourism projects in the region.
Our goal was to paddle the length of the river all the way to the sea. We had given ourselves three weeks to complete the journey, which included approximately 240 km of paddling, plus side trips and days off.
Jay Sanavage, Martin Cavada and I have paddled SUPs all over the planet. We have dealt with grizzly bears, floods, and maelstroms, survived copious amounts of Russian vodka and hordes of naked processioning holy men. And we had spent the spring on our local river, both greasing and getting smoked on our home-town run.
Claire, on the other hand, was getting a crash course in river paddling. Getting her properly up to speed on all the ins and outs of whitewater paddling in a mere few weeks was not completely possible, but here we were. Some 6,500 miles on the other side of the world, in a country only recently opened to the modern world from its communist past. (Hopefully) ready to experience everything this newly protected river has to offer.
The Aoos—Greece
We awoke on day one to the rushing Voidamatis, the first of the many spring-fed tributaries of the Aoos River, as the Vjosa is known on the Greek side.
The plan for the day was to float down the spring waters of the Vikos Gorge. We settled in beautifully. Small rapids rushed past karst limestone cliffs and bright blue and emerald pools. Towering canyon walls rose in all directions. Shaded bends with the darkest hues of green juxtaposed moments of brilliant sun, and gnarled old-growth trees lined the banks.
As much as we wanted to keep paddling westward to the Ionian Sea, we had a side project. To absorb as much as we could about this region’s watershed, flora and fauna—some of which are considered globally threatened—we planned to wander through the mountains near the river’s source.
At the town of Konitsa, we stashed our boards and embarked on a five-day backpacking trip through the Pindus Mountains. Ancient stone footpaths wound through steep gorges and wildflowers, the higher elevation a welcome respite from the heat.
Back in Konitsa for a rest day, word of potentially bigger rapids than we had accounted for had us second-guessing our plan. On the bright side, a recent Saharan dust storm that had made the Greek sky appear polluted had subsided, and a radiant blue sky beckoned.
Below the stone bridge at Konitsa, the river was braided and shallow, exposed to the midday sun. Alex Nicolopolois, our local liaison, warned us that the Aoos was extremely low due to a low snow year. It was late in the season to start a point-to-point paddle to the sea, but we hoped to avoid peak flows while carrying 50+ pounds (per person) on our boards.
Instead, low water made our initial drop-in barely feasible. While I tried to find sneaky lines through, the crew was constantly on their knees, wading, pushing, pulling or dragging their boards.
The crux of the day came in the form of a SUP-assisted border crossing into Albania. We exited the river at the last possible takeout spot—close to the road but far enough from the border that we wouldn’t alarm the border guards. The slog continued as we shuttled gear up the embankment, cursing, swearing and sweating up the steep “trail” overgrown and ridden with brambles.
Skin scratched and bleeding, we hauled a mix of boards, Bill’s Bags and our own personal dry bags through pastures to a small gravel road, then to a hot, desolate one-lane highway. We would grab a board, walk it for a while, drop it off, and go back to grab more gear, leapfrogging toward the Greek checkpoint.
Finally, we turned a corner and saw the tumbleweed ghost town border post, Tre Urat. There were no cars. No movement except Jay, hauling two boards and a giant backpack; it was hard not to laugh at our predicament. With tingling fingers and aching shoulders, we crumbled into the shade of the concrete building.
A young female border guard greeted us with perfect English and a warm smile, visibly confused by our ungodly amount of gear and tattered state. In an attempt to heighten the mood, Martin dipped into a side building and emerged with a duty-free bottle of Jack Daniels. We praised the ancestors with a stinging slug of whiskey and pressed onward.
Approaching the Albanian border, the warm Greek smiles were immediately replaced by the incessant yap of police dogs frothing behind a gate. The softer Mediterranean architecture morphed into communist block buildings and barbed wire. The border was all business. A male Albanian border guard in blue fatigues barked, “Passports” with a stone face.
Passports stamped, we continued on. Down a windy Albanian highway where Communist-era clunkers and ’80s Mercedes AMGs buzzed by, too close for comfort. We were back on the Aoos—now called the Vjosa—just as the sun sank behind the surrounding peaks and ignited the surface of the river in gold.
Back in the Flow
I kicked back on a veranda, mellow tunes playing and, layers and layers of green hills stacked in front of me. I sat, mesmerized as a woman de-stemmed fresh cherry onto the floor below. Birds swooped in my periphery, taking down the slowest of insects. There was life everywhere: butterflies, moths, insects, beetles, swallows, vultures, crows, croaking frogs and toads.
With the trudge of day one and the debacle of day two, that picture-perfect Hollywood drama, behind us, we were now destined for smoother sailing.
When we decided to bail on the river that day, we realized we needed to regroup and get a better idea of the canyon. Upon reaching the road, we decided to hitchhike to the southeastern Albanian city of Permet. A big part of this journey’s appeal was the ability to experience a wild river but also stop in cities and towns. We wanted a mix of camping and culture, the creature comforts of soft beds, hot meals and ice-cold beers.
As it turned out, the fellow who picked us up was Robert: the first independent river rafting outfitter in Albania. With the beta we needed, we decided to take a day to paddle the sportiest section without our 50 lb. bags.
Jay, Martin and I hopped on our boards. We glided through boulder gardens and the occasional Class III rapid before paddling back to our hotel in Permet in time for the kickoff of Albania’s first match in the Euro Championship.
The following morning, we eased out of Permet, past tattered footbridges and waving adolescents, onward toward Këlcyrë. With a drop in elevation, our paddling conditions smoothed dramatically as the four of us set back out without the frequent stops of days past.
Although the natural environment was stunning, things quickly began to change. Trash, plastics and debris from the annual floods began to line the trees and roots clinging to the river’s edge. Car tires were abundant, topping trees in perverse decoration. Burlap sacks gathered down low as grocery bags and tattered rags fluttered in the afternoon breeze.
The spectacle of our destruction of this planet was dumbfounding. Clearly, the river park was just the first step in returning the Vjosa to its thriving self. Even if all the refuse was collected, what would keep it from happening every year after the spring runoff? What needed to happen to clean up this fragile ecosystem?
For the next series of days, we moved steadily downstream. With flatter waters and soaring temperatures, we took solace in the unknown.
Castles and communist-era architecture cast Albanian history in stone and concrete in towns with hard-to-pronounce names—Tepelene, Memeliaj, Gjirokaster. Rest days at the Ferma Albanik Eco Lodge with owner Elona Bejo and random pit stops at whatever establishments we could find added flavor to our truly unique journey.
In Këlcyrë Gorge, we once again found ourselves back in an enormous limestone canyon. Locals cooled off in the Vjosa’s chilly water as springs rained down fern-covered walls.
Changing Currents
Sitting on a small platform of circular rocks and concrete outside a small church shrine on the banks of the river, we enjoyed a rare patch of shade. With the sun close to setting and a solstice full moon rising in the east, haze rose in the air.
The sharp smell of oil refineries had emerged. Elona had warned me that things would change as we neared the oil town of Fier. This was also the region where the river widened, and weariness had begun to set in.
After being halted by hunger and headwinds, we had no choice but to camp under a bridge on day nine. It was hot, humid and dirty. But rather than taking refuge in the river, we sought to avoid the smallest splash. The normal plastic waste and debris had turned into full rubbish piles. Dogs yapped loudly; even the frogs were freaking out. It was one of those places nobody speaks of.
We tended to hide in the shadows on this journey, floating just out of sight of the general population. We existed where the sheep walked, and the fish swam. Emerging out of nowhere, only to disappear again after we were rested and fed.
Just as we tried to close our eyes and sleep, we were abruptly awoken.
A single small splash resembling a leaping frog was quickly followed by a rapid succession of increasingly larger “plops.” A tentative glance out of our tents revealed the shadowy silhouette of a small vehicle on the downriver bridge. There was a person, dumping bucket after bucket of sloppy refuse into the river below.
Martin and I dissected the night’s events as we passed the final bridge over the Vjosa. The phrase, “Beautiful photos, Sad generation,” was scrawled in large, spray-painted letters.
For whatever reason—chance, misfortune, luck—we had slept on the banks of the dirtiest part of the river. Despite its rancid nature, it truly opened my senses to the real story. On the one hand, the Vjosa had won a major battle. On the other, we humans have a long way to go.
The Wild Blue
Approaching the Ionian Sea, the river’s gnarly top-sheet magically turned back to aqua blue. The mouth of the Vjosa teed into a desolate stretch of beach, the blue of the river fading into the whitecaps of some low but tumultuous breakers, A small spit of sand created a peninsula, insulating the fresh water from the incoming salty water. We took our final strokes on the Vjosa surrounded by trash and debris redistributed by the sea.
As with any epic adventure, we are forced to accept the good with the bad. While it can be difficult to separate the beautiful moments from those less savory, I do my best to daydream about the former—the little places, those hidden bays and unexpected fern groves.
I let my mind wander to where blue water cascaded into the next pool. Remember the endless eddies, flocks of sheep, the calls of the wild; even the incessant barking dogs. Envision the unknown around the bend, tributaries with names hard to pronounce and quickly forgotten. Faded building facades and aging vehicles, the salty bite of feta, and the vision of a country in flux.
On our journey, the pristine highland sections of river seemed completely disconnected from their lowland counterparts. Yet together, they create the Vjosa ecosystem. As numerous people who speak for the protection of the Vjosa told me, conservation is a work in progress.
While my mind tries to track our journey in separate sections, it’s important to keep our eyes on this project as a whole. The Vjosa Wild River National Park is the first of its kind and also, a work in progress.
I originally heard about the river and its need for protection through Patagonia’s “Blue Heart of Europe” Campaign. Patagonia heard about it through athletes and environmentalists living in the Balkans. Hopefully, our journey will inspire others to discover the Vjosa until eventually, we tell a brand-new story.
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Guest Contributor Ryan Salm has made it his career to travel to the far off reaches of the globe, sharing his experiences through photography, cinematography and photo journalism. Ryan’s most recent projects combine action sports with unique locations and possibly unknown cultural events. In a world in which societies and cultures are changing at alarming speeds, capturing these distinct events remain at the cornerstone of Ryan’s recent work. You can find more of his work at RyanSalmPhotography.com.