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She dug her half-paddle into the edge of the ice pack and groaned as her tired muscles strained against the current, willing her red kayak to budge. The bow of her boat was tied to the stern of a kayak similar to her own that had held her husband half an hour earlier. The nose of the yellow kayak poked up at the ice’s edge, the current sucking at the rest of the overturned boat, hidden under the covered river. She rocked her boat back and forth trying to break off some of the frozen river, trying to win a few more inches to maneuver. “Ice coming on the right!” came Peter’s voice from 50 feet upstream, where he sat with a nervous calm, on the ready in case his friend went under. Jenny turned her head to see a new ice flow float downstream from where her friends were moored against the bank. The new ice landed three feet to her right, pushing the yellow kayak completely out of sight.
Peter and I had left the rest of the group – six in all, including Tyler, Jenny’s husband, who was now in half of Jenny’s dry clothes marching in place on the side of the river -- to come help Marshall, who had been trying to help Jenny. “Really, Jenny,” I said, because I was starting to get nervous – “I will help buy you a new kayak if you just leave it. Please.”
“It’s time to get off this river, Jenny,” Peter said.
“I know,” Jenny said with a sigh, “I’m coming.”
“Has she untied the kayak yet?” I whispered to Marshall.
“Not yet,” he said. I looked at Peter and Marshall. They looked tense, forcing calm onto their faces. “I knew yelling would do no good at that point,” Marshall said later.
The day had begun with celebrations and circle. With over half the group having worked as outdoor facilitators of adventure activities together, this seemed a natural formation to start the day.
Photo credit: Hether FrayerSafety precautions: a PFD for everyone, two first aid kits, a random collection of extra non-cotton clothing in dry bags, and one rule – no one gets wet.
Non-safety precautions: beer and ice.
“Fun ‘til death!” someone called, as we slid canoes and kayaks over the foot-deep snow that blanketed the woods after last weeks blizzard-of-the-year. There were ten of us altogether, and our battle cry rang aloud along the edge of the Kalamazoo River as we chopped through ice and mud, convincing our crafts to water.
The beginning of Fun ‘til Death dated a year previous, to this very spot on the Kalamazoo. It was created by Jay as a joke to ease my mind about winter canoeing, which I had never done before –and probably never would have if Peter, a former white-water rafting guide, hadn’t suggested it. “If we don’t die from drowning,” they joked, “it will be from hypothermia, and if not from hypothermia, then surely from the PCB’s and dioxins in the river…fun til death!” Jay shook his paddle above his head with both hands and made his anarchist, forever-young face. We finished our nine-mile section of the river in just three hours, with no incidents other than the boys being uncertain about me peeing over the side of the canoe. Jay even made “Fun ‘til Death” stickers, and adopted the saying as a personal mantra.
I only broke one paddle trying to chop through the edge ice. A cheer rose from the crowd waiting to launch as our boat – the heftiest of them all – bumped and glided into the frigid waters. Next followed Peter and Steve, and Paulie and Carrie in canoes, Hether, Jenny, and Tyler in their kayaks, and finally Marshall in his solo boat.
The atmosphere among us was jovial as we paddled and floated along, rafting together often to share snacks and drinks. This year I felt confidant and prepared, with a bucket full of dry clothes, first aid kit, and PFD – I even took off a layer because I was warmer than expected. Hether took pictures as we enjoyed each other’s company and the satisfaction of getting outside on a winters day. Feeling comfortable doing something that others might deem “crazy “also gave me a distinct feeling of satisfaction. I smiled in thanks of such delightful, adventurous friends.
Everything was foreboding an easy, light-hearted trip. Even the “River is closed” signs that had spurred on our semi-rebellious repartee the year before had been taken down. Round-the-raft snacks included hot pumpkin soup and a mix of jazzed-up almonds that came with the too-easy-to-tease name “naughty nuts.” We toasted with Blue Moon Winter Ale and a shared bottle of Jaegermeister, feeling comfortable on the water.
Photo credit: Hether FrayerA little over an hour into our paddle, Ben and I were just about to pass Hether, who was turned around in her kayak, joking with Paulie and Carrie about whether she would or would not pull over to pee. She threw her head back in laughter at Paulie’s faux-serious humor at their non-peeing “pact” that she was about to break, and the next thing we knew, Hether was in the water.
It had happened so fast, that we barely had had time to see her kayak bump against a log and dump her in to the frigid current. My mind registered simultaneous emergency response mode and disbelief. Getting wet was the one thing to absolutely avoid on this trip – and Hether, knowledgeable, responsible, hard-core outdoorswoman Hether, had done just that.
Before these thoughts even registered as more than feelings of shock, Ben and I were paddling toward her. Our group converged like a spiraling flock of birds to Hether, who, perhaps with motherly instincts, was already reassuring us: “Don’t worry, you guys. I have clothes on that should insulate when wet!”
Despite her non-cotton testimony, our group remained in emergency response mode. Peter and Steve got there first, and, although Hether could stand up in the 4-foot-deep water into which she had fallen, pulled her into their canoe and paddled her to shore. Following Peter’s lead, Ben and I went in pursuit of the overturned blue kayak, now half full of river water. We salvaged what we could, tossing wet gloves and paddle into our canoe, and quickly deciding that the now dioxin-soaked raspberry chocolate bar that Hether had been about to share a few minutes earlier just wasn’t going to make it.
On shore, Jenny was ready with dry clothes. Ben and I, unwilling to risk tipping our own boat in attempt to empty the swamped kayak, passed it through the throng of boats huddled side-by-side to the bank, where it could be turned over. I looked up in hopes of seeing a warm, dry Hether – and saw a bright red moon hovering over the snow. Nope – not ready yet. Not wanting to feel disrespectful, I tried to keep my eyes down, knowing that Jenny could take care of things, although I was interested in following the rescue, and concerned about Hether.
The next time I looked up, Hether was dressed from head to toe in many layers of borrowed fleece and, as she was accustomed to do, smiling. “I think she popped out of the water with that smile on her face,” Peter teased. Hether smiled brighter, and thanked everyone enthusiastically.
Jenny had Hether doing squats on the river bank. “Hey, let’s get paddling,” Paulie said. Paulie is a big, bald-headed, blonde-bearded man who, if you fail to recognize his ever-dependable humor, might come off as offensive. We decided that Hether should get into a canoe, and I offered ours. Ben was getting out to pee, so I suggested he take the kayak, to avoid any more shifting around on the raft of boats stacked at the shoreline. As Hether climbed in, Paulie handed her hot tea from his Thermos and a Snickers bar – “to warm you from the inside,” he said.
We shoved off, all somewhat sobered by the experience – except perhaps for Peter’s girlfriend’s boss, Steve, the least experienced paddler and least familiar among the group, who, we later noticed, chose to sooth his nerves with an increased amount of alcohol.
Paulie continued to check in on Hether every few minutes, who, despite the fact that she was wearing only the outer layer of her boots – the insulated liners having got wet in the river – reported that she was is great spirits and even a touch warmer than she had been before she fell in. My heart had slowed to its normal pace, and I began to enjoy paddling and chatting with Hether.
Then, we hit ice pack.
A small bend in the river had caused the water to slow and freeze over, leaving a soggy tundra from bank to bank. Marshall got there first and skidded across the pack with his light solo canoe toward shore. The rest of us were not as confident. Getting onto the ice with a canoe was tricky – and we weren’t willing to risk any more tipped boats. With Marshall’s coaching, we approached the edge ice one by one at right angles, to avoid pushing up the side of the canoe.
Portaging in the snow was easier than I expected. I found it much like pulling a giant aluminum sled. In fact, trickier than pulling the canoe along, was walking through the snow ourselves. Last week’s blizzard-of-the-year had left 15” tall drifts, and the best we could manage was to post-hole our way to the end of the ice pack.
Several hundred yards downstream marked our re-entry. Paulie and Carrie stood on the shore, and Tyler in the small inlet where we were putting in to help each boat with this awkward angled put-in. The maneuvering it took to place each boat and push off through the shallows left significant space between each entry. Tyler and Ben pushed off in their kayaks, and Hether and I followed in our canoe, pausing to make sure Paulie and Carrie would be able to put their boat on the water. I plunged my paddle into the water and pulled it into a J stroke. Ben was about 200 yards ahead of us, and the rest of the group still further downstream. I looked down to watch my paddle glide through the water again, leaving behind a wake of tiny bubbles. “Help! Haaalp!” came the half-yell, half-moan from ahead of us. I looked up again to see the river, and an empty blue kayak.
Ben was in the water, flopping around like an over-dressed fish.
My heart lurched as my arms went into full-forward motion. It was a tense but lucid moment; time rolled forward in a crawl, and my every thought and action appeared in minute detail. “Swim! Swim, honey, we’re coming!” was all I could think to do or say as we power-stroked downstream. Really, there was nothing else to do but get there, and fast. Ben could not touch bottom. For a fleeting moment I felt my heart in a life where Ben was suddenly not there – a moment of heavy emptiness made me shudder, and know beyond any doubt how much I loved this person.
I saw Ben splashing forward, reaching for the edge of the ice that clung to the shore. The ice broke under his weight. He tried again, and again the ice crunched beneath him. My arms strained against the weight of the water, pulling to get us there faster. As we approached, Ben tried the ice again, this time spanning his long arms and legs out spread-eagle fashion, body flopping up onto the ice like a walrus inching it’s way onto a rock. Our canoe slid over the edge ice just as Ben made it to land and flopped himself into the snow.
I scrabbled up onto shore – it was slick, even in boots – punching a hole through the ice closest to the edge as I went – as the others pulling up behind us reminded me to slow down, before I got wet, too. I grabbed Ben’s hand and urged him out of the snow into a standing position. “S-s-s-so c-c-cold,” he shivered.
Trying to hurry while still keeping my voice and movements calm, I began striping off layers as fast as I could. Each piece of clothing must has been five times its normal weight, and glued to the layer beneath with dripping, icy water.
Off came hat, PFD, giant wool sweater, two layers of long underwear, cotton tee-shirt – not a great wardrobe decision on this day – plus four layers on the bottom, including snow pants, two pairs of socks and boots. Hether had grabbed a sleeping pad from the canoe for Ben to stand on, and Marshall had thrown his entire dry-bag up onto shore – an entire set of dry, non-cotton clothes. I spoke to Ben as each layer came off, telling him exactly what we were doing, reassuring him that he would be taken care of, and soon be warm again.
Fleece jacket on top and head covered with a Norseman-style hat, one wet layer remained. “Honey,” I explained, “we are going to have to take your underwear off, too. They are soaked.”
“Yes, yes we will,” Ben agreed, his compliance logical and almost child-like. Almost as if to reassure me that his brain hadn’t been frozen into the past by the icy water, Ben turned to the congregation of canoes that had gathered at the shore to lend their assistance, and, with a half-smile, called “Don’t judge me, people – it’s cold out!” Off came the undies and on went Marshall’s fleece pants and wool socks. I took Ben’s hands and did what Jenny had done with Hether, squatting up and down on the side of the river with him like a winterized Jane Fonda.
“It’s time to get paddling,” Paulie said again, this time more urgently than the last. “That’s what’s going to keep you warm.”
A quick group decision was made – not astonishingly, with full consensus almost immediately – that no one else would be getting into that damned blue kayak. We towed that cursed craft behind one of the canoes. Ben got into the stern seat of the aluminum canoe with Hether and I, while Paulie pulled out yet another Snicker’s bar and hot tea. “I brought these along in case I went in,” he said, “I never imagined having to use them for two people.”
I sat backward in the duffer seat with Ben’s numb left foot against my stomach. I felt useful and relieved, and ready to be off this river. I wasn’t sure we had enough clothes among us to redress someone else. “But,” I thought, “the blue kayak is off duty, and we are nearly to Plainwell, on top of being hyper-aware of the reality and danger of falling in. The chances of that actually happening are minimal.”
It did.
“AA-ER – ELL – IN!!” came the muffled shouts from upstream. The river had opened up for several hundred yards in this area, where we had just begun to see farmhouses on the outskirts of Plainwell. Tyler and Jenny had stayed behind the group to pee on the side of the river.
“WHAT!?” I shouted into the wind.
“AA-LER – ELL – IN!” was the slightly more audible reply. I looked at Peter and Paulie’s canoes, then at Ben and Hether. “I think she said, ‘Tyler fell in’,” I said almost quizzically, as if I couldn’t quite believe my own words. But I knew it couldn’t be anything else.
About-face went our boats, and upstream we went. For as much water as we seemed to be pushing back, our progressed seemed remarkably slow. When we had gone about a hundred yards, we could see Jenny hopping around in her robin’s egg blue long john’s, trading clothes with Tyler, who was standing stocking-footed in Jenny’s yoga pants. If the situation had been less dire, we all would have broke out laughing. We scrambled together as many clothes as we could, got Tyler in a canoe – his yellow kayak haven been swamped and carried downstream – and paddled ourselves to the best take-out spot we could locate in the vicinity.
The question about what to do floated around in the air. We swatted at it with shocked fists, while Tyler marched in place in his stocking feet on a mat on the side of the river. While a few of us threw scraps of ideas into a pot, Marshall took off without warning to scout the river ahead. Jenny followed in pursuit of the yellow kayak.
We could see a farmhouse in the distance on our side of the river. We wondered if it might be better to abandon the canoes and walk out. “We could come and get them later,” Carrie suggested, “no one would be out here.”
I agreed. “I don’t think we should put back onto this river – especially the three people who have already fallen in. We don’t have any more dry clothes.”
“But Plainwell is not more than half a mile from here,” someone else said. “Let’s just finish and get out at the take out. Besides, how are we going to get through these marshy woods with three people who don’t have full boots on?”
Meanwhile, Steve, the oldest among us and the only one who had continued to take in alcohol after Ben’s flip, climbed out of his canoe and was immediately delivered flat on his back to the slick ice on the bank. He laughed, got up, and fell again immediately. He laughed harder. “Steve,” said Carrie, “Steve, don’t get back up. Just crawl. Crawl over here where it’s not so icy.”
Peter, now alone in his canoe, said that he was going after Jenny. “Peter, please…we don’t even have a plan yet,” someone said.
But he was insistent, shifting things around in his boat to get ready for the solo paddle. Rafting guide or not, as we were – with three river dunkings, one hour of remaining daylight, and without plan or enough dry shoes - I didn’t think solo canoeing was a smart idea, even for an experienced paddler. I threw in my last slice of opinion before beating Peter at his own stubbornness.
“I’m coming with you,” I said, as I stepped into the front seat and fished for the paddle behind me. I waved to Ben, Carrie, Paulie, Tyler, Hether, and Steve, hoping they wouldn’t decide to get back on the river.
The paddle downstream was tricky. The current sped up in some places and eddied harshly in others, and required us to navigate the branches of a half-downed tree before ending abruptly in ice pack, where Jenny was wrestling the kayak.
I followed Peter’s directions from the stern, with the goal of keeping our communication as straightforward as possible. I was more than a little afraid. This was beyond my paddling experience, and I was more than happy to let Peter take the lead. “How’s it going?!” Peter yelled down to Jenny and Marshall, who had just returned from his scouting expedition. “Hmphr jser drk!” was the unintelligible response.
“Paddle forward on your left…ok, now draw twice on your right…ok, take a break,” Peter directed.
We had just spun a one-eighty. “Peter?” I said, casting my doubt at this situation.
“We’re going to hit the opening in the branches backwards,” he said. “That way, if anything goes wrong, all we have to do is paddle forward to get out.”
Peter angled us toward the widest spot among the branches, hoping for nothing beneath the surface. The tree hung down like slender fingers sweeping the black water. As the tip of the canoe approached, Peter gave the command to forward stroke. “Let’s try to get a better angle on this guy,” he said.
This time, we slipped through the opening in the branches and turned ourselves around, slowing against the current and pulling over to the steep, grassy bank just upstream from Jenny. Marshall, who was on shore, helped me clamber up the steep bank.
My jeans – a horrible outer-layer choice that morning – had gotten damp during Ben’s clothes changing, and I had removed then at our last stop, which left me marching in place in my double long underwear and boots on the thick snow. When Jenny did not yield to our petitions to abandon the kayak, we hobbled and gobbled into positions we hoped would help her dislodge it as quickly as possible.
The first thing on all of our minds was Jenny falling in – or rather, not falling in. The second thing was beating the sun, which was currently setting pink and orange behind the farms to our west. Peter played safety guard in the canoe – at the ready to go after anyone in the water. Marshall leaned over the bank – a straight three foot drop to the water – stretching in reach of the rope on Jenny’s kayak. I held on to Marshall, to keep him from falling forward face-first in his concurrent goodwill and exhaustion.
Jenny agreed to leave the kayak if it was not out in the next five minutes. Having made that concession, she gave one last burst of energy into her half paddle. Having made roughly four feet of progress toward shore, she stretched her paddle out far enough for Marshall to grab. Marshall and I pulled Jenny, Jenny pulled the kayak, and a second later, the ice gave birth to that long bulk of yellow plastic.
We pulled Jenny onto shore, followed by Peter and all of the boats. After a brief moment of celebration and hopes of walking out, we realized we were on an island.
Peter got on the phone with the other group – they were ok, had walked out to a nearby farm and were waiting for Jillian – Peter’s girlfriend – to pick them up. Next on the call list was Jillian, who was worried. “I called 9-1-1 for you guys,” she said, “the police man wants you to call him back so he can get a GPS reading on your location.”
Peter’s eyes got wide. “You called 9-1-1!?” he bursted into the phone, “fucking 9-1-1?? Don’t call them back, please – we don’t need a $10,000 helicopter rescue. We’re not lost. We’re getting off the river, but we’ll be ok. Please, just don’t call them back.” He sighed and hung up the phone. “I need to apologize,” he said, and called her back.
We could see the dam up ahead, which we knew was close to the take-out, and began searching for the safest place to put in along the other side of the island in order to get there. Marshall looked white in the face. “Marshall, are you alright?” I asked.
“I’ll be fine,” he said.
We helped each other get boats into the water and paddled to the other side of the river – a trip that took less than 30 seconds. We got onto land again and began dragging our canoes across the snow, over the dam, and into the woods. Peter led the way, and I followed. Mid-stride, Marshall looked faint, paused, and sat squarely onto the bow of his canoe. Again I asked if he was alright, and again he told me he was fine – he had needed his inhaler before, but had gotten it out, and soon it would take effect. After cresting the hill that marked the dam, I noticed that Marshall and Jenny were not behind me. I ran back to find Jenny putting a sweater inside of her boots – the liners of which were now on someone else’s feet – and Marshall helping her. I breathed a sigh of relief that neither of them was passed out on the snow. Jenny dug in her bag and got out two carrots and an apple. That carrot tasted like the richest, most incredible food I had ever eaten. It was a burst of energy.
In the last trace of daylight, we found a spot past the dam where we could fit through an opening in the edge ice with our boats. As we glided along slowly in light from the rising moon and ever more frequent houses along the river, we began to reflect on the day’s happenings.
At the originally planned take-out, we met Jillian and the rest of the group.
The next day, five of us snow shoed through the farm field to retrieve the rest of the boats. The “naughty nuts” were still there, in their ziplock baggie, and we ate them.
“Do you think this will ruin winter canoeing and Fun Til Death?” I wondered aloud to Peter. “I’m not sure if I’ll come back to this river in the winter again,” I said, as we were putting the boats in the water to paddle our way back to the pick-up spot in Plainwell.
“No, I’ll be back,” Peter said, and I thought for a moment.
Through this Fun Til Death experience that had slid closer to death than many of us had anticipated, I had already taken some valuable lessons. There is certainly no more acute way to learn the importance of anticipating the unanticipated, and of holding respect for the power of Mother Nature high in one’s mind, than to come face to face with a situation in which the waning of these could hold dire consequences.
This experience was also a clear window to the power of a group of people willing and able to support of one another. Even in our worst moments, the confidence that I felt in this group’s willingness and aptitude to help each other did not wane; coming out here had let me see their true characters, and their true characters were good.
Fun Til Death is not “reckless abandon til death” -- neither is it “try something but don’t go back if you are scared til death.” Fun Til Death lives on.
