RIVER WILD : Taming the Kern in a Kayak Proves a Daunting Challenge

The Kern River, among the wildest and most scenic waterways in California, is the lifeblood of this small rustic community.

Born high in the Sierra, then winding its way through unspoiled wilderness, the mighty Kern eventually spills into Isabella Lake and then out again before raging on toward Bakersfield.

“When the river goes up, my income goes up; it’s directly proportional,” says Sherri Patterson, owner of the River View Lodge.

And when the river goes up, all craziness breaks loose.

Rafters say there is no wetter or wilder way way to soak up the sun and surrounding splendor--the golden rolling hills, the towering peaks. Or more immediately, the huge granite formations that pass swiftly before their eyes.

But there is another means of river travel catching on, however slowly, on this river and others like it: the kayak.

From this nimble little craft one develops a more intimate relationship with the river.

“You’re basically in control of your own destiny,” says Glenn Cottone, 35, an instructor with Mountain and River Adventures. “It’s not like a [raft], where everybody paddles and you’re depending on someone to guide you.”

Of course, being in control of your own destiny for first-timers usually means viewing portions of the river upside down. That is why river kayaking is not everyone’s cup of white water.

“With kayaking it’s a different thing because you’re sealed into the boat and your boat basically becomes part of your body,” Cottone says. “And that’s how it really has to be [for the boat to be responsive].

“But a lot of people try it and a lot of people don’t like it. They say, ‘No, this is claustrophobic. I’m getting sealed into a coffin here--I’m outta here!’ ”

“Or when they flip they say, ‘No, I’m upside down, I’m looking at rocks and stuff going by my eyeballs--I don’t like this.’ ”

Cottone, who is also a rafting guide at Outdoor Adventures in nearby Wofford Heights, has seen many a rock go by his eyeballs.

A self-proclaimed “river slut,” Cottone has rafted and kayaked for the last 15 years, traveling as far as New Zealand to do so.

He learned by trial and error, but now is an expert in the dynamics of a river. He sees things beginners don’t. Knows about eddies, what causes holes and waves, what happens to the boat when it plunges into them. More important, he knows how to roll, to get upright again after flipping over, so he can resume his journey and enjoy the scenery above the river.

Given this, when he offered to give a crash course--meaning that in a figurative sense--on a relatively tame section of the Kern, this reporter jumped at the chance.

Having rafted the Class IV section of the river--the scale is I to VI, VI being all but unnavigable--the previous spring, the thought of maneuvering a streamlined version of a canoe through Classes II and III rapids with some borderline IV’s seemed a refreshing change of pace. It looked easy enough.

It was no confidence-booster when Patterson, herself a beginning kayaker, suggested I paint “Call 911” on the bottom of my vessel. Nor did it help thinking back to the huge roadside sign in the canyon leading up to the river, the one warning visitors that 185 people had drowned in the “Killer Kern” since 1978.

No big deal, I thought. It is documented that those victims were mostly inexperienced swimmers seeking relief from the heat. They wore no life jackets, knew little if anything about how a river works and didn’t bother to obtain the services of a commercial guide.

Cottone had never lost anyone, as far as he let on.

He explained how the water rushing downstream creates a cushion against the many rocks in the river, making kayaking safer than people think.

“That’s what a lot of people are concerned with, that they’re going to be smashed against the rocks,” he said. “Well, often times that never happens because, as they’re coming down, as they hit this cushion, they’re basically stopped [by it] and then, shwoosh, around they go.

“But of course, when they go around the rock they go underwater, usually, but that’s a different story. And it’s better than going into the rocks.”

He illustrated on a chalkboard how the varying flows on the river create different situations, about eddies that will turn the kayaks around if you let them, how they become holes and how holes become waves, about something he calls “reverses.”

All this went in one ear and out the other, and Cottone knew it. So off to the river we went, putting in at the powerhouse above town after a brief pep talk.

*

“You know, a lot more people die kayaking than rafting, a lot more,” he says, stepping into his vessel. “But the good news is, most of those [victims] are experts, who ride bigger rapids and take [greater risks].”

“Nobody is going to die here,” I think to myself.

Cottone’s instructions are to paddle out about eight feet to an area behind a small rock in a slow-moving section of river.

But the eddy behind the rock quickly grabs my kayak and turns it around, causing me to almost flip.

“Maybe I should pay a little more attention to the curly-haired river slut. He never taught me to roll, should I flip. And I’m crammed into this kayak, sealed by this ultra-tight splash-skirt. . . . I’m not sure I could get out if I do turn over.”

Down we go, making our way to the middle of the river, entering a “haystack,” or large field of small, bumpy rapids. Cottone says to keep the kayak pointed downstream and to “power through” the bumps with the paddles.

His advice pays off. A little water in the face is the extent of the damage. The kayak is still upright, which is the important thing.

Up ahead--or down ahead--is a turbulent little rapid called Little Mama, which looks to be a hole in the river with a wave in back of it.

“Keep the kayak pointed downstream! Keep paddling!”

The kayak hits the rapid nose-first. It dips, the wave smacks me hard in the face. It all happens so fast, but I am suddenly in flat water still upright, and rather startled that this is the case.

“This is actually becoming a blast!”

The next rapid, Big Daddy, is a violent disruption in a narrow section of river, next to a huge rock wall built to protect the riverside homes from erosion.

Cottone earlier had scouted this rapid from land, and had explained the possible options when running it, one of which was to stay to the left to avoid being sucked into the deep, churning hole next to the wall.

Easier said than done. Into the hole goes his kayak, then mine, and out they come, surprisingly, with both paddlers still upright. He looks back and shoots a smile of approval. I get a little bit cocky.

“Bring ‘em on! The bigger the better!”

Down we go, stopping occasionally to rest and review, through a series of rapids called Sidewinder, named after a large rattlesnake believed to reside on the small island in the river; through Camp James, a large stationary wave named after the riverside campground.

Cottone punches through with no problem and, surprisingly, so does his pupil, though he has been treading precariously throughout, merely trying to stay afloat, hoping to make it through the day without having to try a roll.

“One more rapid and I can leave this topsy-turvy river having watched not one rock pass by my eyeballs, or cracking my head on one. And I can take the time to learn the roll--something I should have done this time--before coming back for more.”

Unfortunately, that rapid is the biggest of them all, a large churning wave breaking sideways into a deep hole, named after Ewing’s restaurant atop the barren cliff rising 100 or so feet above.

Cottone says the safe bet is to tackle the rapid from the right side of the river. I take the left, not knowing that the hole is much deeper than it looks from a distance. The kayak plunges in nose-first, then punches through, emerging still upright but still in the middle of the rapid. It immediately flips, as though someone is grabbing it from below.

Feeling trapped and seeing nothing but bubbles, unable to breath, not knowing how to roll, I immediately panic and bust through the splash-skirt as though it were an eggshell.

I manage to grab the back of the upside down kayak and ride it through the rapid and downstream, eventually swimming it to the bank.

Cottone, after rescuing the paddle, makes his way to the bank as well, saying that this sort of thing is what turns most people off. “It’s definitely not for everyone,” he says. “Some people try it once and say, ‘This isn’t for me.’ And then there are those who say, ‘I’m going to learn how to do this, no matter how much I have to swim.’ ”

I promised Cottone that I would be back to learn the roll, to tackle bigger rapids. Which means I’ll have to try my best to avoid him on my next visit.

Outdoor Notes

Anglers aboard San Diego-based boats haven’t seen anything like it in years.

The Coronado Islands, once the place to catch the popular jacks but mysteriously devoid of them in recent seasons, are suddenly home to huge schools of fish ranging from six to 20 pounds.

“I’ve heard about sightings of fish all the way down [a couple of hundred miles] to San Martin Island,” said Buzz Brizendine, skipper of the Prowler out of Fisherman’s Landing.

Brizendine said the islands, just south of the border, have been teeming with yellowtail for the last two weeks and that the fish have been biting off and on, mostly taking sardines.