From Scared Kid to Professional Rafting Guide My Story by Joan Petit

I cried the first time I went whitewater rafting. I was about eight years old and my family was vacationing in Colorado. I gulped when my dad said he had planned a rafting trip for us on the Colorado River. Although a bit of a tomboy (I loved tree climbing and bug hunting), I was not a brave soul. And it seemed to me that any river that had the same name as a state must be scary. The splashing rapids disguised my tears and my terror-so well in fact, that my dad organized another trip for us the next summer, to raft down the West Branch of the Penobscot, in Maine. My only memory of that trip is when the guide yanked on my arm to keep me in the raft as I started to slip into the frothy waters of a big rapid. The rest of the family had a fantastic time. However, I couldn't see the fun in it all through my stress and fear. Aside from the rafting trips, my family rarely did much outdoors. The only camping trips my sister and I took were with family friends, when my parents were on vacation without us. Yet, although whitewater terrified me, I was still drawn to the wilderness. And so, years later, when I started college in North Carolina, I was inspired to join the Outing Club. During my first month there, without any significant camping or hiking experience, I backpacked up and back down Mt. Mitchell, the highest peak east of the Mississippi. The trip organizer had informed us that one liter of water was "the minimum amount necessary for survival" for our weekend trip. Not knowing any better, I went to the local outdoors shop and bought only a one-liter Nalgene bottle. This bottle, filled with water, was my only water for the trip. One liter of water, no iodine, no water filter, several miles in the backcountry-a recipe for disaster. The rest of the club wasn't prepared any better than I was and the trip was indeed a disaster. (Remember that hydration wasn't yet the buzzword for hikers that it is now.) Yet, I stuck with the club, and over the next two years I had some great adventures: hang gliding off the sand dunes at Kitty Hawk, more backpacking, lots of camping, and a kayak lesson in an indoor pool. I was still too scared to try kayaking on a real river. Camping and backpacking became my favorite pursuits during those years. One summer after college, a friend and I traveled to the mountains of western North Carolina over Fourth of July weekend, to backpack in Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest. We underestimated the driving time and the crowds, and all the hotels were booked. Our poor planning led to us sleeping-fitfully-in the car on the side of the Blue Ridge Parkway. The next day, exhausted, we decided to delay our backpacking trip. I had a college friend who worked for a large whitewater outfitter in the area, so I looked her up. She took us to the lake to kayak. She taught us the basics of the Eskimo roll-the move that kayakers do when their boat flips. When I successfully rolled my kayak on my own, I was hooked. Over the winter and into the spring, I went paddling on some easy rivers at home. That next year, motivated to become a better kayaker, I got a job at an outfitters, in the rafting reservations office. Most raft guides are also canoeists and kayakers who love to introduce their sport to others. I quickly found some friends and co-workers who were willing teachers. After work, we'd head out to easy Class II rivers, and I would practice basic kayak moves. I lacked natural talent (then again, I've met very few "natural" kayakers). What I possessed was enough fear to keep me safe, and enough dedication to keep me learning. By the end of the summer, I paddled the Class III Ocoee in eastern Tennessee. Of course, I was gripped with fear the whole time, but I also had a big old smile on my face. Much to my family's amusement, I also became a raft guide. My reservations job required that I raft all the rivers that we booked, so, I ended up on several different whitewater rivers that summer, including the challenging Chattooga in north Georgia and Nolichucky in east Tennessee. Although I was nervous to raft again, kayaking on whitewater had taught me a lot about rivers: how to read water, how to navigate a boat, and what to avoid. The rafting bug hit hard, and the following year, I became a full-fledged raft guide. I started on some of the milder rivers, and worked up to the Class IV Nolichucky. My job was flexible enough to allow a split/job share situation: I would guide for a week, then dry out in the office taking phone calls for a week, and then head back to the river again. Can you imagine a better deal? A few years later, after more enthusiastic paddling, I enrolled in a kayak instructors' workshop, to become a whitewater instructor. I had the least nerve and confidence of all the students in the class, and I think that's what helped me become a good teacher-I remembered distinctly how scary whitewater could be. And teaching kayaking isn't about being the best paddler; it's about sharing your love for whitewater with your students. I worked two blissful summers as a whitewater kayak instructor. I loved it. I particularly loved telling my very-surprised family about my outdoorsy triumphs. Too much paddling, however, took its toll, and one morning, while leading the pre-paddling stretches, I pulled my back. I stopped teaching and returned to the office. But, instead of fleeing the mountains, I realized I didn't want to go back to my city life. I now live in the middle of the woods in rural western North Carolina. I hike regularly, and I still paddle occasionally. I finally realized that even though I wasn't pushing my limits on challenging rapids, in either a kayak or a raft, I still couldn't get enough of the trees and the mountains and the rivers. And it only took me twenty years, and an abandoned career as an outdoor professional, to figure that out.

Joan Petit is a writer, teacher, and mild adventurer in western North Carolina.