The Last Run

In the spring of 2011, after the third whitewater kayaker I knew drowned in action in less than a year, I wrote the following story. It was all I could do in my attempt to reason through the pain and fear. When I was done with it, I felt like a real writer. I had put all of my emotion into words. Proud of what I'd created, I shopped it around for a bit and to my surprise it was picked up by a regional outdoors magazine. Unfortunately after six months went by and the editor said it was ready to go into the magazine, the publisher decided that it was too "dark" to include in the issue. I was paid half of what they promised me, and never heard from them again.

Ironically, in the writing business, they say that my story was "killed."

I've updated it a bit here for the 4th anniversary of the drowning of my friend Carl, which comes in on October 1.

=================================

A year after his accident, friends and family members of Carl Schneider congregate for a memorial paddle down the Youghiogheny River in Pennsylvania. Schneider’s mother, Lynne, is in jeans on the left side of the photo (Eric Martin)

The Last Run

The overwhelming majority of drownings on US lakes and rivers involve novice boaters, fishermen, and swimmers. It is no different in whitewater, where accidents typically occur due to inexperience, substances or insufficient safety equipment. Drownings among expert whitewater paddlers on well-known rivers and creeks are extremely rare. So, how, after decades of infrequent fatalities among Central Appalachia’s whitewater elite, could three of its members defy classical statistics by drowning on rivers they knew well in a span of six months? It is not an easy question to answer.

The dark hollows of Central Appalachia are dense with over half a century of whitewater history. Pioneers of whitewater kayaking dug their roots here in the famous watersheds of the Cheat, Youghiogheny, Potomac, Gauley, and New rivers and many of them still call the area home. The East coast’s first commercial whitewater rafting operation, Wilderness Voyageurs, run by a former US National team kayaker, has thrived here for over 40 years. Dozens of outfitters have followed in the vibrant whitewater towns of Ohiopyle, PA, Friendsville, MD and Fayetteville, WV. In these towns, local kayakers can live a whitewater lifestyle by working as guides or instructors or by selling or manufacturing gear. The boaters here developed paddling and exploration techniques known and used world-wide. Boat and gear designs as well as safety and rescue techniques and accessories were developed and tested on these creeks and rivers. And Central Appalachia continues to develop some of the whitewater world’s most influential figures from safety officials to gear manufacturers and hundreds of professionally sponsored boaters.

The prolificacy of the sport in the area hasn’t come without a cost. On October 1, 2010, Carl Schneider drowned after being trapped mid-rapid in his kayak on West Virginia’s Blackwater River, a rite of passage run (locally one is either a Blackwater boater, or not). Nine days later, Mark Hanna drowned in full view of frightened friends and commercial rafters on West Virginia’s world-famous Gauley River at Pillow, the river’s biggest and most powerful rapid. Then, in April, Don Smith drowned on the Blackwater’s North Fork, a steep and dangerous, but commonly run creeking adventure.  The short amount of time between these incidents caused those of us who run these rivers to look deeply and reflectively at our priorities.

Schneider taught Italian at a small private school in Pittsburgh’s East End and was known for his jovial personality. When his wife left him in 2007, he escaped to the water. Within a few seasons, he had established a mountain sport lifestyle. When school was in session, he spent the weekends chasing water or, if the rivers were frozen, snowboarding at local resorts. Before long he was working the river all summer long as a professional raft guide and kayak instructor and the slopes on winter weekends as a safety ranger.

Schneider just above the famous 18-foot Ohiopyle Falls on the Youghiogheny River in Pennsylvania. (Jeff Macklin)

Carl’s presence on the river was legendary. His relaxed style was comforting to his kayaking students, and his larger-than-life personality infectious. However, he had a history of getting himself into trouble, earning him the nickname, “Carnage Carl.” Consider for example that after scouting out a blind drop on class 5 Drake Run outside Confluence, PA, I watched him unintentionally kick his boat down a snowy slope into the creek. He instinctively dove into the icy water, swimming through rapids after the loose kayak, and it nearly cost him his life. When the boat lodged on a rock, he was swept under it. Seconds later he resurfaced in a pool below.

Despite his reputation for close calls, Schneider paddled at an expert level and by the time he drowned he was among the top of the region’s heap of river rats. He logged countless runs on the area’s most notorious rapids and continued to ramp up the fear factor by paddling at night or in high water, or sometimes both. Because of this, even though the incidents came less frequently, the nickname stuck.

I paddled with Carl nearly every weekend for several years and we were also neighbors and close friends. After one of his near-misses on Big Sandy Creek near Bruceton Mills, WV, I had told him that I wished he’d use more caution. I explained that if he drowned it would have a tremendous negative effect on me. I never actually expected it to happen but when it did, paddling whitewater was the last thing I wanted to do for some time. Many of our friends were also impacted and responded by seeing little water time. Nick Yourd, one of Schnieder’s fellow raft guides, expressed it well in 2011: “shit that never has scared me is stopping me from boating. I would run Meadow, Sandy, Upper at any level last year. But I’m scared now to get on anything.”

Carl Schneider’s death was the second ever by a kayaker on the Upper Blackwater. It was an ideal day with his boating crew: off-duty raft guides capitalizing on some overnight rain. Beau Smith, a friend of Carl’s, was leading a separate crew and was in an eddy above Flatliner Falls when Carl paddled over to say a quick hello before dropping over the relatively small 4-foot falls. It would be the last time anybody saw Carl’s notorious smile and signature handlebar mustache. Within seconds he was wedged upside-down between boulders with thousands of pounds of hydraulic pressure holding him in place. It wasn’t until his friends secured a rope to his kayak that they were able to extract him from the pin. Since then, one other kayaker, a young DC boater named Bob Norr, drowned in the exact same spot. At least two others have been pinned in the same spot at Flatliner in the prior 15 years, though they were able to free themselves thanks to lower flow.

Friends and family members of Carl Schneider on his beloved Youghiogheny River a week after his accident (unknown)

Mark Hanna was a successfully self-employed tradesman who owned his own company and paddled whitewater nearly every weekend. Pittsburgher Kent Reigel was with Hanna when he swam out of his boat on the Gauley. The swim put Hanna head first into an underwater rock sieve and the strong current prevented initial attempts at extraction, even though he could be seen from above the water. After pulling his kayak to the riverbank, Reigel’s 16-year-old son walked up to the scene. “I stopped him to let him know what he was about to see,” Reigel recalled in a shaking voice. Hanna was dead by then, but efforts to revive him were still in progress. All Reigel and his son could do was watch in horror.

Mark Hanna at Rattlesnake rapid on Tennessee’s Daddy’s Creek.  (Jeff Macklin)

Just when it seemed that things had cooled off, Pittsburgh Attorney Don Smith was killed on a solo run of the North Fork of the Blackwater in Tucker County, WV in April 2011. Smith was an exceptionally good boater and had run the North Fork more than anybody else, anywhere. He logged countless runs on all of the local class 5 waterways, often showing others the way. There is literally no class 5 creek in Central Appalachia that Smith had not paddled. His nickname, “Blackwater Don,” was known nationwide and when out-of-towners came to Northern West Virginia to paddle the expert runs, it was often Smith who led them. He paddled the North Fork solo at low water regularly. And so it was Smith who acted as the unofficial steward of the class 5 Tucker County streams, notifying the boating community about shifts in rocks, down trees blocking passage, water levels, and even shuttle road conditions. In all likelihood his efforts prevented many accidents before his.

Don Smith carries his kayak out of the North Fork of the Blackwater after an autumn run.  (Curtis Heishman)

When one of Smith’s regular kayaking partners, Curtis Heishman, couldn’t reach him on his cell phone after knowing he’d been on a late morning run of the North Fork, he didn’t take it seriously. “It was common to not get a hold of Don,” he said of his friend. If anybody was going to solo the North Fork successfully, it was Smith. Unfortunately, at the foot of a double-waterfall called Rainbow Room, Smith became trapped on a log. How long that log was there before it snagged Smith is still a matter of speculation. Uniontown, PA native Dave Carey found Smith’s body the next day and recovered it and then paddled the North Fork several more times that week. When asked how he was able to go back so soon after dragging his friend’s body out of the dangerous river, he responded, “The water level was perfect. Don would have told me I was a pussy if I didn’t.”

Don Smith paddles over Double Indemnity, a falls just above Rainbow Room. Rainbow Room claimed his life in April 2011. (Max Blackburn)

Smith's passing was a profound mark in the annals of whitewater paddling. Alden Bird, author of the Northeast US’s current most extensive whitewater guidebook, Let It Rain, put Smith’s drowning into perspective. “Allow me to amplify this. That . . . Don Smith, who virtually lived at the North Fork put-in and who was acutely aware of the new wood danger . . . constituted the first fatality on his home river speaks very strongly about the risks inherent even for the best-informed, most highly skilled among us.” JB Seay, locally grown boater and blogger at Creek West Virginia (creekwv.blogspot.com) wrote, “It's miserable to keep losing friends, peers, to what is essentially play. Some people paddle so much that it's the major component of who they are. . . . is [the coincidence of their fatality] only because they have a higher exposure?”

It has been suggested by many adventurers that 'he died doing what he loved' is a cliché that needs to be retired. As it is certain that none of these guys loved being stuck underwater in a compromised situation, holding their breath and spending every ounce of energy they had trying, unsuccessfully, to free themselves, it is a reasonable proposal. That Smith was solo leaves open the possibility that he was breathing with his head above water for some time while he struggled, eventually succumbing to fatigue or hypothermia. Like Seay, I sometimes think in probabilistic terms. The fact that Smith paddled the North Fork as frequently as he did increases the likelihood that he'd have a fatal accident there. But didn't he know the river so well that he’d be better at reacting to accidents when they came? The mind swirls.

Personally, with each tragedy, I have become more contemplative in my approach to kayaking, an activity that at one point was the primary driving force in my life. An obsession takes over and I read everything written – fact or opinion – about the event. I talk to friends and acquaintances who were there, those with most knowledge of the waterways involved, and others who may have other details. It gives me the insight to write this, but more importantly it’s my attempt to control the uncontrollable and I'm not the only one. Regional online forums buzzed for days about Smith’s accident, just as they had after Carl and Mark died nine days apart in October of 2010. 

Carl Schneider at the Pittsburgh restaurant where he worked. (Ashley Rose)

Ironically, Smith was the one to notify the community online about Schneider’s accident and then publicly consoled Hanna’s son online. Smith also specifically directed remarks to Hanna’s close friend, Marty Sullivan, who was the first to grab hold of his leg after he went into the sieve. “It’s tough to be there when things like this happen. I hope you're doing ok Marty. Please don't forget to think of the people who are still with us that were caught up in the accident. I've seen a lot of stuff go down over the years and have definitely lost some sleep and felt maybe some PTSD afterwards.” Sullivan has been paddling Central Appalachian creeks and rivers consistently since 1972. In that time, he has lost friends and acquaintances to the river, but claims that the three casualties between October 2010 and April 2011 represent “the worst I’ve ever seen.” Because of this, Sullivan paddles more conservatively. “There are places I’ll never paddle again.”

Hanna’s death-trap came just below Pillow Rapid, which is a nationally known rapid through which thousands paddle on a typical Gauley release weekend. Among the dozens who watched him become trapped, there were doctors, EMTs, and veteran guides. A defibrillator on a commercial raft was available. Despite the virtual hospital present, the Gauley still took Hanna from his friends and family forever.

The lessons (or lack thereof) of Schneider, Hanna, and Smith are clear to American Whitewater Safety Director, Charlie Walbridge. “For Carl Schneider, the only lesson learned is that Class 5 water carries serious risks and you may not recover from a mistake. Mark Hanna taught us that the ‘clean’ run-out of Pillow is not clean after all.” (Despite its enormous size and notoriety, Pillow has been thought by some to be so benign that boaters routinely get out of their boats to leap from a boulder and swim through it, myself included.) “I've stopped running the Upper Gauley because my roll isn't strong enough. Don Smith might well have survived if he'd paddled with a partner, according to those who recovered his body. Solo creeking increases risks significantly. The saddest thing to me about many high-end accidents is that they're hard to prevent. We all make mistakes, and hard rapids are often intolerant of that.”

The gravity of these accidents has changed boating for many of us in Central Appalachia. Beau Smith stopped boating for months after Schneider’s accident and has seen little river time in the past four years. “For me, Carl's accident shattered the whole notion that being a better boater makes you a safer boater.” Unfortunately for those who continue to paddle class 5 water, JB Seay’s standard, to paddle “engaging, difficult whitewater . . . far enough back from the edge of their abilities to be safe and comfortable” is tricky to define when you’re on the river. I’ve certainly changed my paddling endeavors and now embrace a more conservative style.

Don Smith (center) stands in a safety position at Rainbow Room on the North Fork of the Blackwater. Smith ultimately drowned at this rapid, in the channel shown on the right of this photo. (Max Blackburn)

Is there a silver lining? It is there, unspoken among those who were affected: lessons learned, enhanced vigilance, and communication within the boating community. On the heels of Schneider’s and Hanna’s accidents, various organizations met to formally discuss rescue protocols. A meeting that involved WV state park officials, rescue volunteers, and local whitewater boaters took place in Tucker County, home of the Blackwater River. At that meeting, rescue personnel asked local kayakers to assist in swiftwater rescues. This is one of the few instances nationwide of a partnership between professional first responders and private enthusiasts. Because of Carl’s job as a raft guide, his accident solidified unions and communication between the guide community and recreational paddling community. Each spring since then, Three Rivers Paddling Club, to which both Schneider and Hanna belonged, hosts a swiftwater rescue clinic in the mens’ names. Money raised at the first clinic, as well as donations at Schneider’s funeral, were given to the Tucker County volunteer rescue group. They needed to replace a defibrillator that was dropped in the Blackwater after it had been used unsuccessfully on Carl. Impromptu vigils, honorary river trips, and memorials at the sites of the drownings have brought the boaters who knew and loved Carl, Mark, and Don together. In a few weeks on October 5, Carl’s friends will attend the fifth annual Carl Schneider Memorial Paddle on the Youghiogheny River in Ohiopyle. At the first such gathering, Carl’s father, Bob Schneider, clad in neoprene and floating in an inflatable craft, found his own silver lining in the discovery of what his son meant to the people with him on the water. He said, “it is gratifying that Carl influenced so many in a favorable way and that so many returned his friendship with such loyalty, warmth, and love.” But of course it’s not worth it; when it comes down to it we all want our friends back.

Days before the 2011 Carl Schneider Memorial Paddle on the Youghiogheny River in Pennsylvania, a decal portraying his handlebar moustache and wide grin appeared on this trolley in Schneider’s whitewater hometown of Ohiopyle, PA. (Ben Scoville)

Don Smith died in April 2011, just as the spring creeking season was getting good. Instead of joining, I watched from the cyber-sideline as our region’s famous creeks hit the “juicy” levels perfect for kayaking. I even decided against doing my favorite annual kayaking event, the Cheat Canyon downriver race, in early May. My excuses for not getting out – work and family – were only part of the reason. As I began to get back out, the first few times I got in my boat, images of Carl, Mark, and Don blurred my focus as I admired the water, boulders, and trees for their entrapment potential rather than for their perfect natural coexistence.

Whitewater is a strong addiction and eventually I was able to find the focus I needed to paddle the rivers I love. But it is different now. For several years I had been taking Molly out to see the beautiful rivers we're lucky to have here in Central Appalachia. Before long we were back on the river together, too, enjoying the river. That August, we paddled a section of the Youghiogheny River that was new to her. I had been down it dozens, maybe hundreds, of times over many years and in all conceivable conditions. Despite my confidence and knowledge of the river, as we approached a crucial rapid I did something I had never done there before. I portaged.

Carl Schneider at ease on the banks of the Youghiogheny River in Pennsylvania. (Ashley Rose)