Yangtze River Adventure

The water crashed over our four rafts with such force that two of the oarsmen were blasted into the river, a raging torrent thrashing about like a giant brown dragon trying to rid itself of pests. Our four 18-foot long rafts, lashed together in a 36-foot by 24-foot diamond, were headed for a gigantic wave curling above us. Chu and Zhang had to get back in before we hit it. The rafts seemed to pause on the up side of the next wave, Chu and Zhang scrambled aboard as the wave tilted our craft to a nearly vertical position and then dropped it over the downstream side of a deep hole of brown and white, churning wild water.

"HANG ON," Ken roared, as the river smashed against the canyon wall and twisted into angry reversing curls and boils. Again we were hurled about like corks. I was tossed into an opening between the lashed rafts. I paused in this watery cradle long enough to see another wall of water slam over us. I scrambled back to my place next to Ken at the left oar, only to see him get flipped off the seat, like a rag on a stick, toward the front of the raft, almost going over the bow. Another wave hit, and Ken was ready, feet braced. The oar caught a powerful current, but the other end was held in an unbreakable grasp. With a loud crack the oar became Tibetan firewood. I unlashed the spare and Ken fitted it to the oarlock, ready for yet another crash of furious water. Would it ever end? We didn't know. We didn't know if a giant waterfall was just around the corner, nor did we know if we would be able to stop before going over. That is what makes first descents different from any other type of river running.

The sequence just described was just one of the many unforgettable moments on our descent of the Upper Yangtze River, the third longest river in the world and China's greatest. We will return to this part of the river, but first some background.

There was a time in human history when everywhere anyone went was unexplored, dangerous territory. Those who went first made it easier for all who followed. Explorers who returned let the rest know that it could be done. Those who didn't return caused the next to be cautious, to be better prepared. Just knowing someone had climbed a mountain, run a river, or traversed a continent gave confidence to those who followed. Hearing that people have died doing what you intend has the opposite effect.

Being the first into the unknown is missing from our lives today. It is an urge most people never get to play against. The Yangtze River Expedition gave some of us a chance to get back to our roots and push against fear with confidence and courage. Attempting a first descent of a major river gave us a chance to see how deep were our roots. When the whitewater appeared, when scouting was impossible, when stopping was out of the question, that was when I saw the essence of living. There, on the cusp of death, was the peace of existence so deep, so exciting, that it could become addictive. Mountain climbers face it. Soldiers in battle are changed by it. It is the extreme edge of life.

I got my chance to be part of the expedition when I was assigned by Sports Illustrated to photograph Ken and Jan Warren in Tualatin, Oregon, with the large mound of equipment that would supply the adventure. After taking the photos I asked Ken if the expedition needed anyone else. He replied that he already had a photographer, David Shippee, but he did need a climber, who would be needed if the expedition became trapped in a rock-walled canyon. The next day I returned to show Ken my climbing photos and talk about my climbing skills, which I felt would be just what he needed. I also told him I was a good dishwasher. Ken agreed to take me as climber and general grunt.

In just a few weeks the expedition team was on a plane for China, hoping to be on the river the first week in July. We landed in Hong Kong, then went by train and plane to Golmud, just south of the Gobi. We stayed two nights there, at 9,000', to get our bodies used to the higher elevation. We moved all the supplies into large waterproof coolers and river bags.

We spent a week acclimating at 14,500', and our first night there many of the team showed green gills. Dave Shippee never did get used to the altitude and after a few days of laying sick in his tent he returned to lower elevation at Golmud while the expedition took trucks, yaks and shanks mare to the source.

On July 21st, we unloaded the two hard shell kayaks and the 5 inflatable kayaks from off the yaks. The first leg of the expedition, from the source to Tuotuoheyen, would be in the kayaks, not rafts, because the river was too shallow for loaded rafts. The yak team carried all the heavy stuff for the 8 day trip, and they would meet us at the end of each day when we set up camp.

The weather was clear and cold for most the time and we had uneventful paddling in ideal conditions. Each morning would break with the night shadow edging away to the west as the sun crept toward us across the plateau. Once we came out of the Tanggula mountains we kept at about 14,500' most of the way to base camp.

Dave Shippee had returned from Golmud, having regained his vigor at the lower altitude. He was hopping about taking pictures and helping where he was needed. A day before departure, David Shippee was sick in his tent. Some hinted that he should not go further. He told me, however, that he was going on the river no matter what. So the morning of the send-off he was up and at 'em, showing he was ready.

By the time he got ill again we were 50 miles downstream. The doctor, David Gray, started him on fluids and medicine. He was not eating or drinking. By the end of the fourth day he was really sick so we pulled over on the north bank below some hills and a broad plain. Three of us got ready to carry him ashore, and David Gray tried to rouse him by telling him to drink, and think of his wife. Shippee mumbled, "It's not worth it," then he slumped in our arms. We carried him to his tent. By midnight he was dead. Water in his lungs made it too hard for him breathe.

The next morning we put his body into a yellow river bag. Gary and Toby were digging a grave. We had a ceremony for David. We buried his body high enough on the plain that I think his grave was above flood level. This was the river at the top of the world, still close to 14,000 feet, cutting across a plateau without trees, without permanent settlers, but not without beauty.

About two kilometers above Yushu we saw a raft on the bank. Closer inspection revealed a sign, written by the support team telling us to let them know when we were arriving so they could roll the cameras. I got out and ran ahead, as our radios didn't reach anyone. The joyous occasion of arrival was dampened considerably.

Four members left the team at Yushu. On our second morning the team voted to tell Ken they were having problems. I don't remember that vote as a mutiny vote. I was selected to ask Ken to a pow-wow so that the dissidents could ask him to turn over the leadership to Ron Mattson. They accused Ken of mismanagement and blamed him for Shippee's death, or at least for not calling in helicopters to rescue him. The matter was not up to a vote, Ken stated. This was his expedition and if anyone wanted to leave they could.

This is the incident Outside magazine called a "mutiny." One could hardly call it a mutiny when four quit and the expedition continues. The captain retained command, he was not cut loose, set adrift on a bus to Chengdu.

Before Yushu, when I had been a passenger in Bill Atwood's boat, I had felt it a great privilege when he allowed me to row his raft. Thanks to him quitting, along with Toby Sprinkle, David Grey, and Gary Peebles, I now had my own boat to row. By following Ken and Ron in the whitewater sections, I was able to row some intimidating rapids.

The scenery was stunning, with the surrounding mountains coming to a steep stop at the river, which wound around great projections of land like a snake, making the distance between two points stretch from a quarter mile into 5 miles. Small villages interrupted greenish brown slopes and fields planted in what could have been oats.

This one stopped us. It was too big for single rafts and we thought we had better portage. My raft was picked for the attempt at an overland haul. We spent hours getting the gear out and then dragging, tugging, lifting the 18-foot gray mass over the boulders.

Ron suggested lashing the remaining three rafts together, to form a craft three boats wide. This they did, and were able to run the maelstrom. Ron rowed the left side, Chu Siming, in the middle raft with a movie camera, and Ken was on the right oar as the three rafts slid toward the center slick. The drop was about 15 feet, a slanting tongue licking a giant boulder in the center where the rafts disappeared momentarily.

They emerged with a cascade of water pouring out of the boats and then crunched the left rock wall, where they were again inundated, scrunched onto another rock midstream, and then, clear going downstream.

Paul radioed back that there was a large drop ahead and we should pull over to the left side of the river if possible. We did, just in time. The hole would have given single rafts a bad time so all four were diamond-rigged together making a craft 36 feet long and 24 feet wide, controlled by two men on each outside oar and two steering in the rear raft.

"Pull over! Ohmygod, it's un-runnable!" There he goes again, we thought. We had just finished bailing after the last big hole. Taking Paul's advice, Ken, Ron, Chu, and Zhang pulled toward the left bank. Ahead was the smooth straight line of the drop. Beyond that, the dancing plumes of a fierce river ballet gave us a clue to what Paul saw from his rocky vantage point. We were not able to pull over this time. Too late to stop, river going too fast.

The left side of the four-boat rig plunged straight over a ten-foot-high rock, making a 12-foot long rip in the floor of the left raft; the one Ken and I rode. The sounds of the twisting frames and rubber and the crashing water deafened us, again. This water was bigger than the day before, and just as relentless. Monster, King Kong-sized water, no, Godzilla, waves bigger than a house. Somebody afterward said 30-foot waves. It was like being on the ocean.

We had survived the River of Doom. It might be fun to go back some day and view this portion of the Yangtze from the vantage point from which the Chinese teams had declared this un-runnable, even in their enclosed rubber balls.

After two days of hiking with fewer calories than a Jenny Craig diet, we were now in heaven, or at least Shangri-La. The village had about 50 mud brick homes, two to four stories high, with only a door on the first level. Bama cleared a space in his main room, above the animal stable on the first floor.

The trail to Batang crossed two passes that seemed to be around 15,000'. Snow and sleet formed at the rocky, highest points, and then the rain continued as we dropped back to the jungle-like foliage of the lower hills.

Ron and I agreed that the trip was over. No fixing the rafts and getting back on the river. The rainy season was upon us as the expedition had taken longer than anticipated. When Ken asked us what we thought, we were ready with one answer: let's go home. Ken nodded his head, but I could tell he was disappointed. We had covered 1,100 continuous miles from the source, however, and that was enough.

When we got home we began to get an inkling of the misinformation that had spread about what happened on the expedition. Stories in The Oregonian, especially those by Rolla Crick, were excellent, given that no one had been able to talk to us, but rumors of our troubles were greatly exaggerated.