I gripped the gunnel of the canoe. Something seemed off. Moments earlier, I had a paddle in my hand, confidently steering the boat through a rapid unworthy of a name.

My legs brushed against the boat, and cold November water splashed my face. I twisted around, somehow having ended up at the bow. My dad floated nearby, holding fast to a rope tied to the stern. A quick assessment—the boat was right-side up, paddles accounted for, my dad gave an a-ok.

While a slight miscalculation had prompted our cold swim, daydreaming of adventure months earlier prompted our trip to the New River in West Virginia. Working the fields of our family’s Massachusetts vegetable farm consumes us from February through October, but for my family, the slower winter months mean adventure and vacation. Wandering the rainforests of Costa Rica, snorkeling the reefs of St. John, and most recently, sipping cortados at the base of Mallorcan cliffs.

Warmth wove a common thread between our trips, along with a lack of tourists and an activity that the whole family would enjoy. The idea of a father-son trip to New River in West Virginia was different. We traded beds for sleeping pads. Water, over and between rocks, would guide us forward instead of a wooden path through the trees of a tropical paradise.

At 64, my dad has had his fair share of adventures. Biking around New Zealand, paddling between South Pacific Islands… His stories include bus fires, plane crashes, scorpion bites, and cyclones. If you open the right box in his house, you might find trophies from his days of canoe racing the rivers around New England. That was 40 years ago, though.

Decades of farming change a body, but so do life and age in general. The ground may seem a little lower, bins of apples a little heavier, and bolts a little tighter, but three days of canoeing followed by a day of biking was still within reach.

So, that became the plan. We drove to Thurmond, West Virginia, from Massachusetts, stopping on the way for a couple of float bags, just in case. My car was filled with gear. Unlike my last trip, we had plenty of food, including a daily, full-size chocolate bar. I even bought a new inflatable sleeping pad so my dad could live in luxury.

Thurmond is a ghost town in the middle of New River Gorge National Park, a point where the river narrows, where Class III rapids become IVs and Vs. In its heyday, it was a coal industry hub, complete with a hotel and movie theatre. Now, in the park’s off-season, plaques with a few sentences of local history guard the empty buildings. This was our take-out. We found a spot in the bushes to stash our bikes, extra food, and some spare clothes.

We drove 40 miles upstream, assembled the canoe, strapped in the dry bags, and pushed off below the Bluestone Dam. The water was low and calm. We picked our way between rocks and scraped the bottom on our way to Brooks Falls.

Runnable in higher water, Brooks Falls is a sizeable drop that spans the river. With the low levels of water and confidence, we chose to portage. A road along the river made for easy walking, but we still had a lot of gear and a heavy boat. We walked slowly, carrying the boat by its ends until we reached an overlook. Over a snack, we game-planned the next 500 meters or so.

I am 25 and in the phase of thinking a true adventure requires a healthy dose of suffering. So, I volunteered to be the mule and carry the boat, paddles, and my backpack before returning to help with the rest. After all, I had to get my money’s worth out of the portage yolk. In the meantime, my dad would start shuttling the food and his gear. The pride of a guy used to carrying his own boat came out.

Some people would be eager to carry less weight or do less work. Not my dad. He pushed for us to carry the boat end-to-end, an idea that only made sense if we wanted to share the burden of the portage equally. After a few back and forths, he agreed to my initial plan. I made it down the road quickly, dropped the boat and gear, and jogged back to help with the rest. He was carrying everything in one trip.

I laughed to myself. Some things never change, especially with a stubborn farmer, and I knew he would insist the heavy, awkward load was easier than returning for a second trip. But a lot of paddling remained, and I’d rather a longer walk than a strained muscle.

We paddled onward. As the sun dipped below the canyon rim, a bald eagle flew in front of us, just above the water. A heron quietly left the shallows. Otters played in some of the faster-moving water.

Darkness came quickly, and we found a place to tuck our tent beneath a grove of trees on an island. The last time I spent the night in a tent with my dad was nearly 20 years ago. Instead of a mountaineering tent, we had used an old pup tent—the classic kind with the two poles that tended to collapse when bumped on a midnight trip to the bathroom.

Times had changed. We each had our own door and vestibule. The wide-eyed kid learning to make fires from his dad and eagerly pouring tinned fruit cocktail on his Cheerios was long gone. I had my own camping tricks now. The student had not become the teacher, but the dynamic had shifted. My dad asked what to help with instead of showing me the ropes. Instead of following blindly, I felt a responsibility to tighten the reins if or when the adventure seemed to drift too far into the type two fun category.

The second day of paddling began with our only other portage. We both carried gear for three-quarters of a mile on the road. While my dad cooked breakfast, I jogged back for the boat. This time, the conversation about the portage was short and agreeable.

Our confidence rose with each paddle stroke. We squeezed through narrow lines on shallow ledges, ran the rapids how we planned, and ended with a relatively dry run on the biggest rapid of the day. Another evening of pasta with a chocolate dessert led us to the comfort of our inflatable sleeping set-up.

When we woke, the weather had changed from the warm sun of the first two days. It was brisk and breezy, with more clouds than clear sky. For the first time, my dad donned his wetsuit. I stuck with running shorts.

Within an hour, we were weaving between rocks in a small stretch of whitewater. Unnamed, the rapid didn’t appear on the map, but it had character. My dad called out rocks and directions with decades of experience, but it only takes one rock in the wrong place.

We swam.

It took an hour in the patchy sunshine to warm back up. My dad’s black wetsuit was a sponge for the warmth of the sun’s rays. Instead of being excited about the swim, laughing it off as part of the fun, it shook my confidence. I felt strange. Maybe with the weight of the boat and the heavier pack comes the weight of being responsible for our well-being, too. Accidents and injuries have longer repercussions as we age, and I felt a need to avoid risky situations more than usual.

We ran the next set of rapids before taking a long snack to reset our mojo. The rest of the day flowed, rapids grew, and we reveled in every turn of the river as our time neared the end. A few flat sections, a “zesty chute,” and we were at the take-out.

Whitewater just downstream thrummed as we tuned up our bikes and packed the paddling gear. A celebratory dinner and yet another chocolate bar sent us to bed to rest up for our 56-mile day of cycling.

By mid-morning, we were descending the last stretch of gravel road. It was slow going — 12 miles of what the park ranger called a “car-eating road.” Skinny-tired touring bikes were not much better.

I stopped at the tops and bottoms of the hills, making sure my dad was keeping up. The extra caution he took slowed the pace, but we had all day. After having white knuckles on the gravel, we welcomed the sight of asphalt. Until we realized the smooth but steady uphill showed no signs of ending. Our reality became clear as we climbed: One of us needed to take a break, and one of us needed to go get the car. I left food and water with my dad and accepted that the rest of the day would be a solo grind.

The hill continued, finally ending at a Dollar General ten miles later. I hoped my dad had found the waterfall that I passed — it looked like a good spot for a nap. If he missed it, at least he had his choice of benches outside of churches. We were in the heart of West Virginia, after all.

I wound through backroads in beautiful autumn forests before reconnecting with the banks of the New River. What would our next father-son adventure look like?

As I neared the car, my legs protesting their undertraining, I could admit that future trips together would look different from the extremes I dream of. But, the demanding physical challenges that I seek are still possible.

The narrative surrounding aging and adventures can be touchy. My dad has not lost the ability to hold his own in the outdoors; he has just earned an easier portage and a lighter pack. He paid his dues 40 years ago. Now, it is my turn to shoulder the boat and carry the heavier pack. A few decades down the road, I will have my chance at trusting the overly ambitious youth while I call out rocks from the bow.

***

Guest Contributor John Gove is a storyteller who focuses on the intersection of adventure and the environment. Whether deep in the backcountry or just outside the city, he points his camera toward the stories that take a little sweat and discomfort to tell.