White Knuckling the Tuolumne : In the best rafting season in years, here’s what happened to one stalwart group of rafters on the Yosemite River said to provide the premier California white-water experience.

Wet suit. Life jacket. Helmet. Paddle. It’s a glorious hot summer day in the Sierra and I feel like I’m suited up for combat. The “mighty Tuolumne” suffers no fools, we were reminded when signing up for this rafting adventure. Maybe it doesn’t now, I’m thinking, haughtily. For the last seven years of drought, it has been more like the meek Tuolumne.

Yet I am ever-so-slightly nervous, too. I overhear one of the guides for our two-day rafting trip in late June whisper to another guide that the water level is rumored to be at 8,000 CFS.

This means nothing to me, but from the look on the other guide’s face, I get it. That’s high--as in dangerous. So dangerous, in fact, that if the rumor proved true, our little white-water adventure would be canceled and we’d have to improvise with a side camping trip to nearby Yosemite.

I swelter in the heat and shudder at the same time. After months of anticipation, the idea of not being able to go down the Tuolumne, considered the premier California white-water experience, would be crushing. The melting snow pack has created sublime conditions this year and not just for us gung-ho rafters, but for the waterfalls in the parks and water use in the cities. But to risk life and limb--or as a friend asked me, “What, do you have a death wish or something?”--is another matter. We take off our gear and wait.

Questions are asked and questions are answered. This outfitter, American River Touring Assn., does not run the river at higher than 7,000 CFS. And at 10,000 CFS--cubic feet per second--the Tuolumne is considered completely unrunnable even for experts. Oh.

But the rumors prove false.

Hetch Hetchy Reservoir, which feeds the Tuolumne, is not under threat of overflowing after all. The water is rushing full throttle though. A mere 6,800 CFS. Phew. (Gulp.)

The rafting season, which in so-called normal years runs to, maybe, early September, when the water levels fall to a mere 1,200 CFS, most likely will be extended well into October this year as the water level is expected to hold steady at its current level of about 2,000 CFS.

So, with the red flag down, so to speak, 18 of us who signed up for this excursion join our six guides for the dirt-road truck drive from the ARTA office at California 120 just east of Groveland to Meral’s Pool, the “put in,” or place where the boats are put in the water.

The ride is dusty and bumpy, an old mining road maintained these days by the U.S. Forest Service that cuts a slow, downward trail through sub-Sierra terrain to the base of the river valley. We jostle along, passing oaks and manzanita. The view across the way is of blowing hills of dry grasses, the wind-exposed side. So this is where the term the Golden State comes from.

One of our guides, Eric White, reads a little history, his voice hitting a variety of octaves as the driver swerves hither and fro to avoid a multitude of dirt divots. John Muir loved the Tuolumne wilderness and the granite boulderfield stretch of river we will descend was said to be his favorite section of it.

Those of us on my half of the bus are preoccupied with the steep drop-off to the left.

When we arrive at the put in, lead guide Aaron Armbruster assembles our mostly male group (18 men and six women, including Karen, a guide) under a shady oak tree, miniature rubber raft in hand, and starts in with a pep talk of sorts, sitting cross-legged like Siddhartha, speaking of the river and its strengths. He gives us safety instruction. Feet first, avoid the river banks, listen for guides’ instructions. He floats by a few river terms like “lounge chair position . . . corkscrew flip . . . giant reversal . . . the strainer” that sound fancifully frightening. (Only “the strainer” is truly foreboding, meant to describe partly submerged dead trees and other brush nearer the banks that can ensnare and drown a person gone overboard.)

He offers a last chance out to anyone who wants to bail. No one does.

Three teen-age boys, cousins from Long Island and Southern California, volunteer for the one all-paddle boat with their fathers and another father from La Canada and his two sons. True daredevils, they. Two British women, Sue and Liz, both accountants in London and both first-timers, opt to be the only two paddlers in the raft carrying supplies: The guides figure that it is the heaviest of the boats and therefore the least likely to flip. The rest of us--four paddlers to a boat--team up in the remaining oar-paddle combinations.

John Muir is my paddle partner up in front. (Actually, he’s the actor Lee Stetson who does a one-man show playing the revered naturalist in Yosemite Park throughout the summer and who also is our campfire entertainment.) The two middle seats are taken by my friend Mary, a Hancock Park real estate agent, and Bob, a psychiatric nurse from Marin County. Guides sit in the stern on a sloping, wooden bench that resembles a static see-saw.

Lee and I have rafted before (from the easy Class II level to the moderately difficult Class IV); the others, never.

Before going anywhere, guys,” our guide, Jeff Cereda, says amusedly, “everyone must do a turn jumping into that rapid.” He swivels and points across the river at a swirling dervish of water created by a partially obscured boulder. This is not a joke. ARTA has all its rafters take the plunge so they know what it’s like if they ever fall in.

As I soon found out, the frigid water takes your breath away. Like a human drill, you are sucked under in a millisecond and just as quickly pop to the surface as if yanked skyward by an opening parachute. So what if the tight-fitting life jacket makes one look like an orange Michelin (wo)Man. As I was pulled onto our raft, I appreciated their invention.

With all rafters properly baptized, we’re off. Jeff acts playfully, setting the tone for the rest of our adventure: “Hey, Aaron,” he shouts to his buddy guiding the all-paddle boat. “Aaron. This is our job !” Aaron laughs back. Their shtick is effectively relaxing (if well practiced). For us big-city dwellers usually stuck indoors in offices all day, it is a funny concept.

We float three-quarters of a mile downriver when we hear our first command: “Forward!,” roughly translated to mean paddle like hell, the rapid is upon us. We take Rock Garden, Nemesis and Sunderland’s Chute without incident. Jeff gives us a play-by-play analysis of where the “holes” are and how to avoid them prior to the run.

As we approach each, I think of the White Rabbit: “No time . . . No time”--and soon we’re in it, our raft undulating like crazy with freezing water coming over us from all sides. I see walls of green and white and look left to Lee paddling like a madman. Keep in sync, keep in sync, I repeat to myself. I lose my balance and fall to the floor of the raft, barely hearing Jeff’s shouts over the noise of the rushing water: “Get up! Get up!”

I blink my contacts back into position, then close my eyes against the deluge of another crashing wave . . . blinking again as I plant my butt firmly back on the rubber raft, wedging my front foot even further into the space between the floor and the side tube. I’m sure I’m screaming.

“Back paddle, back paddle,” Jeff shouts. We back paddle. “Right turn,” Jeff shouts. I think two seconds on this one. Since I’m on the right, this means back paddle. I back paddle. The command “stop” is sweet to our ears. We’re at the bottom of the rapid and home free.

We give each other an in-the-air hand slap. “Yes!” we say in unison. Consensus is, this way better than Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Ram’s Head rapid teaches us you can never be cocky, no matter your triumphs. We are almost through when we catch the giant hole at the bottom. The force of the raging torrents causes our raft to practically fold in half. I look over at Lee at precisely the moment he’s jettisoned out. I paddle furiously, hoping not to follow him over. My paddle seems to hit only air, but we make it through, drenched as usual.

No reason to worry about Lee, though. He’s already been pulled onto another raft. If anything, he appears amused, stroking his long gray beard back into shape and doing a harrumph with his shoulders. What a trooper.

The rapids that follow--India, Phil’s Folly, Sterns and Evangelist--seem a lesser thrill in comparison.

The call for lunch is indeed welcome. We stop at Tin Can beach, wading through the alders and the willows into a secluded clearing for our repast.

Wet suits off, the bonding begins. While we swap stories with our compadres from the other boats, the guides prepare fresh sandwiches (sliced turkey, tomatoes, jack cheese, avocados and salami) and lay out an arrangement of fruit and Famous Amos chocolate chip cookies.

Nothing like a good scare to increase the appetite.

This seems to be a dad-son and uncle-nephew kind of adventure for most of the rafters. I wonder where the women are. It’s my male friends back home in L.A. who don’t like roller coasters, while most of my girlfriends do. Maybe it’s the no toilet/no shower thing. (The toilet is actually a metal box with a toilet seat, hidden behind bushes.)

Our tummies full, it’s back in the boats. The afternoon’s thrill promises to be Clavey Falls, a Class V rapid. Personally, the rapid Framecrusher peaked my interest more. Great name.

But Clavey was The Big One. I am the only person who doesn’t want to get out of the boat and look at it before we run it. I figure I have no choice anyway, so why not be ignorant?

No such luck.

Jeff insists I climb onto the bank like everyone else and listen to how we are going to meet the challenge. (“We’re going to take the waterfall . . . run the edge of Clavey Hole . . . go racing by Dinosaur Rock . . . “)

“It works for me. Let’s go!” I say, turning on my Teva sandals and heading back through the brush, careful not to touch any poison oak along the path.

Mary is nervous and very quiet. Bob smears more Chapstick on. Lee and I yak--anything to distract one from the inevitable.

But before we are even into the rapid, the No. 2 boat flips. Upended. Karen and her two English passengers are in the river. No time to think about them with Jeff worrying about his own boat. The No. 3 boat is halfway down and we are next.

“Paddle!” And off we go.

Jeff barks his commands furiously. I just remember thinking that it doesn’t seem to matter how well or badly I paddle. I can never look up long enough to even see where we might be going next because there’s that wall of water again about to crash into my face. We spill over the waterfall, skirt ominous Clavey Hole and seem so in control of things, I actually get a chance to look at how unlike a dinosaur Dinosaur Rock is.

Jeff is elated, sending compliments all around. “Weren’t we great?” Yeah. Gimme five!

Nothing like “a very clean run” to settle the stomach.

Surprisingly, the British gals appear good-humored though their guide, Karen, isn’t particularly. This is the first time she’s ever flipped on Clavey Hole and she can’t stop shaking her head. The serious analysis will have to come later, for sunset is a couple of hours away and we are now scouting to set up camp.

Competition for the best sites is less stiff for early-to-mid-week rafting trips, such as our Monday-Tuesday one, when there are fewer outfitters on the river. The U.S. Forest Service restricts the number to nine companies and staggers when they launch trips, so the river is never even remotely busy, although the premier spots such as Indian Creek Beach, which faces south and gets full morning sun, are coveted.

Lucky for us, we are the first to arrive.

Once beached, everyone scatters to set up tents and change into loose clothes, spreading out wet suits and wet everything else (you are provided with a water-resilient duffel bag for your belongings, but don’t expect 100% effectiveness) to dry on tree branches and rocks in the afternoon sun.

Our wilderness cocktail hour begins. The crew mixes margaritas and sets out a spread of crackers, French bread, cheese and smoked oysters as the coals heat up for the barbecue. I wish I had brought beer, wet and cold like the river water. Still, sitting, sipping Vouvray out of a plastic ARTA mug with my toes warming in the dry sand feels pretty good too.

Dinner is a feast. Nothing fancy, just fresh food--which is what you want to eat in the great outdoors. We chow down grilled chicken, sauteed John Dory, pasta with pesto, spinach salad with walnuts.

As some eat strawberry shortcake, Lee’s performance begins. Emerging from the bushes just after dusk, he wears a weather-worn vest and hat and introduces himself as the spirit of Muir, come back “not to rant and rail” about the urbanization of Yosemite, but to laud “many a good warrior” who seeks to preserve it and the nation’s other natural wonders.

The stars are out, and the blur of the sky, effects of a big meal, alcohol and storytelling send me into another space.

At the end of the performance, we go to bed. The sound of the rushing water is loud, lulling me to sleep with its constancy.

Day Two is a lot more mellow. The rapids are more evenly spread out, separated by short pools. The swiftness of the current carries us even when we’re not paddling--past piles of rusting gold extraction equipment and an occasional abandoned cabin.

Gray’s Grindstone, Rinse-Away and Driftwood rapids come and go quickly. Lee’s place has been taken over by his much-quieter, 16-year-old nephew Mike.

Lunch is mellower still. There’s a series of pools to walk to, where we anchor the boats. Those of us wanting to take a dip sans wet suit jump in with glee, lying on the rocks to bake in the sun a few minutes before the signal goes out that the meal is ready. Build-your-own pita-bread sandwiches and freshly cut pineapple are offered up. Perfect.

Off again we go. Hell’s Kitchen rapid lives up to its name. Tim, a guide, misses “the wave train” at the top and miscalculates the hole at the bottom. He is ejected like everyone else aboard his raft.

“That’s my rapid,” he moans aloud, commenting that his usual expertise in taking it failed this time. Poor Lee. He was in that boat, making it spill No. 2 for him.

The rapids pretty much slow after that, then stop about a half-mile from our “take out” at Ward’s Ferry, where there’s a dam.

We are back on land by 3:30 p.m.--pumping our guides’ hands with thank-yous. Aaron, the lead guide, travels in the bus while the other guides stay to clean and deflate the boats. In the back, we discuss his ambitions to be a environmental reporter. I wonder...And give up the life of a “river rat”?

After all, aren’t we all feeling pretty good about ourselves after only 36 hours? We are conquerers without mucking with nature, adventurers without drowning, happier with so many new friends.

I ask Liz, the Britisher, her final impression.

“It’s addicting, isn’t it?”

Yep. Sure is.

GUIDEBOOK: Rafting Resources

Getting there: You can fly to Modesto via United Airlines or to Stockton on USAir, but why? The drive from Los Angeles, while 6-7 hours long, is painless, if hot in the summer. Take Interstate 5 north to California 99, north to California 140, east to California 49, north to California 120, east to Groveland. The portion on 140 through to 120 is spectacular Sierra foothill scenery of orchards, rolling hills and ranches.

Rafting outfitters: ARTA (Star Route 73, Groveland 95321, tel. 800-323-2782) is one of nine outfitters licensed to operate rafting trips on the Tuolumne by the U.S. Forest Service. ARTA offers one-day trips at $125, two-day trips at $280 and three-day trips at $385 per person. ARTA reports reservations are available on three trips scheduled in August, seven in September and three possible in October, depending on water levels. Price rates drop 10% in September and October. Normal season begins in late May and lasts to early September. In heavy rainfall years, it can last from May to October. Price includes all meals and most equipment. Rentals for wet suits (mandatory in late spring/early summer when river water temperature can be as cold as 45 degrees) are extra at $20 each. Sleeping bags and tents are also available at reasonable cost.

A sampling of other licensed outfitters: Sierra Mac (P.O. Box 366, Sonora 95370, tel. 800-457-2580), 1-3 day trips at $160, $310 and $395; ECHO (6529 Telegraph Ave., Oakland 94609-1113, tel. 800-652-3246, fax 510-652-3987), 1-3 day trips for $150, $310 and $398, and All Outdoors (2151 San Miguel Drive, Walnut Creek 94596, tel. 800-247-2387, fax 510-932-3436), 1-3 day trips range $158-$409 and vary in cost depending upon day of launch.

Rafters should be in good physical shape and must be able to swim. ARTA, like every other outfitter, requires each rafter to sign a release of liability in case of death or injury. Insurance coverage also is recommended.