Dogged by the Dog: Rafting to the Capitol in a Pool Boat
by Ryan Behan
The phone rang; it’s early May and finals week at Norwich University. It was my friend, Andrew.
“Hey, Ryan! What’s going on this afternoon?”
“Well, I’m reading right now. Why, what’s up?” I replied.
“Let’s take the Dog to Montpelier,” Andrew’s voice was full of excitement.
Take the Dog River north from Northfield to Montpelier, a twelve-mile trip on Route 12, by water, who knows? It was already 11 am. There is nothing like having a friend who is more ambitious than you, suggesting a trip that we had been mulling over for months.
With Andrew and me together, adventure and trouble are always a possibility. We thrive on making impulsive decisions that leave us in less than familiar situations. Of course, I was in on the trip. We hopped in my car and headed to Walmart for the gear we needed to negotiate the waterway at the best price.
Gear:
Inflatable Coleman pool boat: $40
Air pump and 12 volt adaptor: $12
Two generic paddles: $10
Two personal flotation devices: $8
Roll of Duct Tape: $1
We weren’t alone. Five of our classmates came along for the journey to Montpelier. Andrew’s friend, Jalon, purchased a one-man raft, which later proved to be a poor decision. With our fleet of cheap, inflatable rafts, we drove to the west edge of campus and embarked on our journey. We took a few group photos; each team held its inflatable raft with pride for the snapshots. Our faces glowed with excitement and intrigue as we posed with our boat, the Queen Anne’s Revenge, which was a manifestation of my infatuation with Black Beard and piracy on the high seas. How long was the trip going to take? It didn’t matter; we had left a car in Montpelier to bring us back. Andrew fabricated over embellished stories, fantasizing an epic rather than a excursion up the Dog.
The spring thaw turned the placid river into thundering white water. Maybe this is an exaggeration, but in a pool boat, the Dog River was a formidable challenge. Our journey started off slowly. We floated through Northfield with relative ease. A group of boys just out of school waved to us as we passed under the first bridge. We felt like Lewis and Clark or Ernest Shackleton, leaving the comforts of home and traveling to uncharted territory. I knew where I was going, but I could not escape the feeling. Four months of talk, and now we were doing it.
Our first challenge was passing the chocolate factory, which used a dam to generate power to operate their machinery. Andrew and I cautiously rowed up to the dam, quickly abandoning the idea of launching ourselves off it.
“It’s impassible Drew.”
“Don’t worry about it, we got this one; let’s do it,” Andrew replied.
“Brother, it’s all you.” I said. “I’ll wade through the bottom to recover your corpse. At least the PVC boat will act like a body bag.”
The fall was more that twenty feet; from my previous rafting experience, I knew the impact would fold the boat in half, knocking Andrew and me unconscious. We turned about before the escape speed of the water was beyond our paddling power. We lifted the boats over our heads and portaged the length of the dam to continue our voyage. Looking back at the dam, Andrew questioned my decision, imagining the possibility and the story of launching off of a waterfall that size, guts or glory.
We continued down the river, encountering a few sections of rapids and more bridges. Our adrenaline began to flow and it started affecting our judgment as we pushed the limits of our pool boats. The rafts were more resilient than we had thought and proved to be useful in the shallow sections, where the draft of our boats met the rocks below. The bottoms of the rafts were nothing more than an inflated PVC bladder and the rocks became unforgiving on our knees. We adapted to the situation, and for the rest of the journey, we laid across the pontoons.
I had driven through Northfield Falls many times, but I had never seen the waterfalls that gave the town its name. Andrew and I were much less daring and didn’t attempt to shoot the falls.
“Too big,” Andrew admitted.
The roar of the water was evidence enough to predict our fate. Again, we lifted the rafts over our heads and awkwardly negotiated the steep banks that now flanked the river. This time, there was no question whether or not we had made the best decision. The volume of water and the sketchy landing left no room for error. We continued down a lazy length of river until we reached a more formidable waterfall than the previous one.
Finally, we reached the first negotiable waterfall that did not stump our male-bravado. Two rocks flanked its side, creating a fast-flowing funnel of turbulent water, with a six foot drop to the pool below. Its entrance was less than the width of our boat, but the boats were flexible. After assessing the situation, Andrew and I led the way. We paddled hard, the water picked up speed, we were closing distance with the rocks, we braced ourselves, and then we were stuck in between the rocks. We shifted our weight, and suddenly the pontoons of the boat folded up, shooting us out and over the waterfall. The boat tipped nose-down before we met the water below. Our reentry into the water was abrupt, leaving Andrew and me soaked, but the Queen Anne’s Revenge made it. The rest of our apprehensive fleet followed the lead. Andrew and I were stoked; we had shot our first waterfall and paddled harder down-river to seek out the next one.
The river wound its way through the valley where cobblestone beaches lined the route. We marveled at our adventure, imagining what our friends were doing back on campus.
“Probably studying like a bunch of suckers,” Andrew exclaimed.
I didn’t have time to reply to his matter-of-fact comment. Suddenly, a whoosh of air released from one of the pontoons. Andrew and I frantically searched the Queen Anne’s Revenge for damage, but nothing was wrong. Then Andrew looked back and laughed. The boat behind us had snagged something in the river, and the crew was waist-deep in water. They swore as the boat disappeared from under them. What once was a boat looked like a giant tutu around them. The manufacturer claimed that the boats held four people, so we spread the load of the two soaked adventurers into the other two boats. The river continued to wind through the valley.
Andrew and I took to the rear of the flotilla, tailing charlie, for the next length of the river. The flotilla spread out over one quarter mile, and we soaked in the scenery of the Dog, only occasionally spotting Route 12, which runs almost parallel. Andrew and I have been partners-in-crime since our rook year. We have had many laughs together and we have discussed and solved many of life’s problems, now we sat silent. Around the next bend there was a downed tree. The rest of the fleet had already begun traversing the banks of the river. However, Andrew and I were in the middle. A tangle of fallen wood rested six inches above the water. The Queen Anne’s Revenge came to a halt with her beam pressed against the trunk of the tree. The water rushed below, making it difficult for us to make our way to the cobblestone beach. A myriad of curse words broke the silence as rushing water began to pull the stern of the raft under the tree. Abruptly, I was knocked off my feet and found myself on the bottom of the boat on the other side of the tree. It took me a few seconds to realize that I was briefly wrapped in a PVC coffin as I passed underneath the dead fall. Once I regained my senses, I heard Andrew’s cries. The bow of the boat was caught under the tree along with his hand. His face was wrenched with pain. As I leaned toward him to free his hand, the water forced the rest of the boat through. Andrew was all right, and the Queen Anne’s Revenge once again proved her resiliency.
When we reached the next set of rapids, we tore through them like seasoned veterans. The exit was incredible. We found ourselves in a canyon that the river had been carving for thousands of years. The scenery took us all by surprise; we did not expect to encounter this surreal landscape. It was as if we were on the Colorado River, slicing through the Grand Canyon, but we were on the Dog River. I cannot remember what we did in the canyon. It really didn’t matter. I might have swum the section, or I might have stayed in the boat, but I appreciated its beauty.
Daylight was quickly fading into the long twilight of the valley. It was around four, and the sunlight hadn’t warmed our numb bodies for an hour. During the warmest parts of the day, the water never reached sixty degrees. One of the crew, Jalon, was succumbing to the effects of hypothermia. We paddled harder. Each crossing of Route 12 and the river allowed me to judge our progress. We were three-quarters through the trip, but it was wearing on us. The joy and excitement had left. Hypothermia or not, we were determined to make it to Montpelier.
The resiliency of the Queen Anne’s Revenge started to fade with the day and our spirits. One of the pontoons snagged a rock in the shallows, and she slowly began to leak under the waterline. We had brought the roll of duct tape as a contingency; so Andrew hastily patched the hole, but his efforts were in vain. We took turns holding our hand over the patch to seal the leak while the other used the hand pump to fill the pontoon. We paddled harder, because we were still determined to make it the Montpelier.
We covered a few more miles, and then the third boat began to leak. I reassessed the situation. Jalon’s lips were turning purple; Andrew and I were shivering uncontrollably from having our hand over the patch under the waterline. There was no more room in the other two boats still floating for the second shipwrecked crew. We had to cut our losses. It was half past six. We did not know where we were, but I had a good idea of the direction to Route 12. The expedition made its way to shore. Andrew and I deflated the Queen Anne’s Revenge and rolled her up to make the walk to the highway more manageable. Our group of adventurers crossed a farm and reached the highway. Andrew fabricated stories that turned our walk into a scene from Deliverance. The Queen Anne’s Revenge had carried us eleven miles. The expedition was just one mile short of our destination. We set out for Montpelier on foot. I took my chances and started hitching for a ride. Fortunately, the first truck to pass us stopped. Out of the passenger window, someone yelled, “Behan.” It was my friend on his way back to his apartment. The expedition hopped into the back of his truck for the last leg of the trip. He dropped us off by our car. We were all unmistakably suffering from hypothermia now. We took one last photo. The excitement was gone, no one smiled, and the Queen Anne’s Revenge lay limp at our feet. We were defeated; it was time for Chinese food.
The trip up the Dog River is one of my best memories at Norwich University. Andrew wanted to retry it last spring, but I opted for an early return home because classes had taken their toll on me. This year, our last, is the year that we will finish the trip—on Tuesday, May 8th. We have figured out how to make the bottoms of the boats more durable, using a material called Guerilla Tape. We realized that the Coleman pool toys are the best vessel for the trip. Canoes and kayaks are too rigid, and any other boat’s draft is too deep for the six-inch shallows we will have to negotiate. This year, we finish it, but I would rather start our trip from where we ended. Andrew would rather try running the entire length of the river again. Whatever we decide, it will be an adventure.
Ryan Behan is a senior majoring in English. This year he will be inducted into Sigma Tau Delta. Upon graduation he will be commissioned as a second lieutenant with the United States Marine Corps.
