Leaving the West Branch

Florida author John D. MacDonald called them John Wayne days in his Travis McGee private detective series. Those days when your Winchester never runs out of bullets, the stars are perfectly aligned in the heavens and every move you make turns out exactly right. Mostly things don’t run that way for me. If I drop a bag of groceries getting them out of the car I can count on it being the bag with the eggs, not the canned goods. I worked for years as a whitewater guide on the West Branch of the Penobscot River and I can tell you those kind of perfect days were tough for me to find on the river but my last day truly was a John Wayne day.

For those who haven’t gotten off interstate 95 in Maine at the Medway exit and then turned left towards Mount Katahdin the West Branch of the Penobscot is a true gem tucked away in the shadow of “The Mountain”. It’s hard writing about the region without succumbing to cliched triteness and overblown hyperbole because the cliches are true. It is that beautiful and unique. It is the only place like it in the world and it is wonderfully spectacular. For those of us privileged to know it the area is a magical place of peace, beauty and unforgiving challenge unequaled in the east. And, although Mount Katahdin is usually the focal point for those who frequent the area, for some of us, the West Branch is the point. The Mountain lives in the background watching and maybe winking, or smirking, as we take one more quick glance at it’s beauty over our shoulders before we drop into Abol Falls.

The West Branch was the premier river during Maine’s log driving era and it remains so today. The Kennebec and the Dead are respectable in their own right but there is only one Penobscot and Penobscot Guides, women and men, like the Penobscot Men of the past, stand at the top of the heap. When a Penobscot Man walked into a Bangor bar or brothel the rivermen who rode the logs on those other rivers stepped aside and made room. Bangor’s waterfront brothels may be gone but the heritage of the West Branch and the people who work on the river remain.

The Penobscot is unforgiving and it’s lessons are harsh as the hobnail boots of drowned rivermen hanging from trees along the bank once attested. We might refer to the river as she and speak of her in reverent tones but woe to the guide who forgets where he/she is. The West Branch can be a nasty bitch and every guide I knew who worked on the river for any length of time had plenty of dents and dings to show for it. Blow the line at Exterminator in Ripogenus Gorge at 3600 cubic feet per second (CFS) and the Penobscot will show you quick damn in a hurry who’s really in charge out there. A cubic foot of water is about the size of a basketball and when you cram thirty six or thirty eight hundred of them in the steep, narrow confines of Rip Gorge you really aren’t going to ever need any more. You find out what people are made of when they swim the Gorge bouncing from rock to rock until some kind soul throws them a rope at Dead Moose Eddy. Penobscot guides don’t need to brag or talk much, there’s a sense of presence and knowing that speaks for them. When you’re part of a crew that can take ten boats and eighty people through Ripogenus Gorge and the Cribworks when McKay Station is maxed out and the Dry Way isn’t dry not only right side up but clean, smooth and pretty you have to know you’re good. It’s good to be good and to be with other people who “know”. And, it’s a Good Day when the river lets us play.

Penobscot guides communicate with a wink and a nod, a hand signal below the stern tube of a raft, not waving paddles, shouts and blowing whistles. The communication is better for its’ subtlety because it shows the skill and expertise of the crew of guides and their understanding of each other. Guests who pick up on the signals read confidence and skill, not fear or indecision, although respect edged by a little healthy fear can help keep everybody in one piece. The river speaks to us too, at least it does to those who listen.

Most Maine companies run sixteen foot rafts. Solid dependable boats that in the hands of a skilled guide will take people on what for many will be the ride of their lives. Ain’t no Disney World cable on that riverbed. The boat goes where you put it and whatever happens is on you. Sixteen feet is a step up then one, two steps on the next three thwarts in a four thwart boat to the front compartment. Sometimes a guide has to get there and it has to be now. It can’t be after breakfast or whenever the mood strikes and I found that while I was still getting there that sixteen feet was starting to seem like a long, long way. I was making it because I’d been around for a long time and could read the bad stuff as or before it happened. I wasn’t as quick as I used to be and sometimes my brain was telling my feet to move and my feet were talking back and taking their own sweet time. I could still make the cut but I was starting to wonder for how much longer.

Sometimes in Maine during late July or early August we get one of those payback for winter days. The climatic equivalent of MacDonald’s John Wayne days. Clear, dry, warm and perfect. My last day on the West Branch was like that. Just the barest hint of a breeze moved the morning mist as the sun rose on a cloudless brilliant day. In addition to the perfect weather my son was home from California and working a day as a guest video boater. He grew up on the river and seeing him standing at the falls with a camera in his hand backlit by the morning sun glittering in the spray was a special treat for me. Guests bring what they bring and, while most are o.k., some need professional help and providing that help through the day is an integral part of being a guide. My crew that last day was wonderful. Nice people who appreciated the beauty of the river, listened to what I was trying to teach and, in addition, paddled well. A guide can’t ask for more.

From the first drop at Sourdnahunk Falls on the day got smoother. The sun climbed and brought the air up to and past the water temperature. My lines for once were all good. The rocks had their raft magnets turned off and I didn’t miss any of the fun little pieces of water as we moved down through Abol and Poc. The level was 2750 CFS. Perfect. Big enough to kick ass but low enough so that all the important rocks are exposed. My guests laughed at my jokes and paddled when and how I asked. There was an Osprey fishing the deadwater at Abol Campground. Lunch was on time and my chicken was cooked through with no pink center but not so long that it turned into dried up jerky.

I slid through Exterminator like butter and went right of Fist Rock, broke the rules and ran Little Heater then turned the boat so my guests could look back at Ripogenus Gorge through the picture frame Little Heater makes when you look back upriver. We moved gently downriver past Troublemaker and eddied left at the Bailing Eddy. When our turn came we left the eddy high and rode the wave train under Telos Bridge into the Cribworks. We surfed down the marker wave above the First Chute, paddled smoothly through and went just right of Guardian Rock then dropped into the Final Chute. I looked past the helmeted heads of my guests at the back side of Katahdin standing above Bone Crusher and Big Eddy and listened to The River whisper good bye.

We finished out the day. Caught a nice surf in the second drop at Big A and ferried across to the takeout. We loaded the boat on the trailer, I shook hands with my crew and then told the trip leader I was done. I walked up the hill to the Golden Road without looking back. I haven’t been on The River since. It was time to go and for once in my life I listened and left.