Trip 5: Kenn Falls
May 2008
CAUTION - RISK OF ENTRAPMENT AHEAD
The sign at the edge of the river was the kind of no-bullshit message that tends to make you pause. The obvious sound of rapids could be heard just ahead and it was clear that the river was accelerating all around us: we had arrived at the top of Kenn Falls.
Our excursion was to be a short, two-day jaunt that would combine lake, river and ocean paddling, ending in the UNESCO World Heritage site of beautiful Clayquot Sound. During all my years of blasting to Tofino for surf trips, I’d always wanted to explore Kennedy Lake. With the help of Google Earth, it didn’t take long to piece together an interesting route that would get us from lake to sea. Only problem was this unknown stretch in the river called Kenn Falls where fresh water meets salty sea. How bad can these rapids really be?
This question proved difficult to answer since no guidebook or person I could find had any beta for me. Only one way to find out.
Dave, Heather and I set off under blue skies and gusty conditions from the far eastern end of Kennedy Lake. The lake depth and wind conditions changed constantly creating oddly bumpy conditions forcing me to wear a full suit even though the air temperature was in the twenties.
Our route took us along the norther edge of lake where we explored some beautiful mini rock harbors and lunch spots surrounded by alpine views. We opted for a shorter first day and lazed in the afternoon sun at an empty beach. We styled our camp, drank our wine, swam and soaked up the hot sun. No bear sightings but plenty of fresh scat to remind us to hang our food that evening.
As usual, Dave rocked-in the new day with strong espressos (”very well-ground”) under light drizzle and grey skies. The morning paddle to the head of Kennedy River was eerie calm - making me feel half-mad and crave the distractions of the ocean. Spirits were high as we entered the gentle current of the river though there was little to inspire us here in terms of views as we were now surrounded by cutblocks on all sides and muddy riverbanks.
After several kilometers of meandering turns, an awkward pee-stop, and surprisingly little in the way of wildlife, we saw the ominous sign next to the hatchery. I scoped ahead to get a closer look at the rapids and turned about quickly before getting caught in the sweep of the current. It didn’t look good.
Luckily for us two First Nations fellows were working the hatchery and were quick to offer some local advice; specifically to stay close to the left bank. The conversation quickly moved to whether we’d seen the local beaver that roamed this part of the river.
I remained skeptical of both this beaver and these damned rapids but my paddling partners were surprisingly keen. Who was I to stop them? We ran through a quick rescue scenario and debated whether they should run it with rudders up or down. Heather kept hers down, while Dave kept his up (first mistake). Let it begin.
I wish we’d had some video footage of our entry to the first set of rapids. I was in the lead and let out a war cry just before taking the plunge. I scared the shit out of two fly-fisherman who were casting just above the falls as I hurtled pass them. The run was a combination of sheer terror and exhilaration and I kept wondering whether anyone had ever attempted whitewater paddling before on a paddleboard! It worked surprisingly well and although it took a full-body effort to steer the boat and avoid being pulled off every time I plunged into a standing wave, I was mostly in control.
Crunch. My skeg bounced hard off a submerged rock. Shit. Stay left. One more set of rapids. I pulled the boat hard port side into a giant eddy at the bottom of the last set of four stretches of mostly Class 3 rapids. Here the high tide was pushing against the current in a narrow canyon that looked ideal for fishing. The sun was shining. I was stoked.
Within a few seconds Heather landed the last drop with her paddle above her head in a signal of triumph. No sign of Dave. Then I heard loud cursing. Dave had been unable to recover from a tail spin during the first drop and there he was swimming with his kayak and paddle wearing only a PFD and a pair of shorts. I still don’t know how he’d managed to hold on to his kit for that long is such cold water. We quickly grabbed him and helped him claw his way to shore (still cursing). Once again the paddleboard was the ideal rescue craft and I smiled watching Dave crawl on top of her in his PFD and thinking how ironic it was that this was Dave’s first time on a paddleboard. While Dave stripped naked on slippery boulders in this remote canyon, I began pumping his kayak empty and we couldn’t help but let out of few chuckles.
It was then that Heather gasped “George, your boat…”. I’ll never forget her tone of voice. My board was listing heavily and there was an open, three-foot gash below waterline in the stern. We stopped laughing. We were fucked.