Coho Photography

My eyes groggily open, buxxxxxx, brrrrrrrrrrrr, bxxxxxxx- my dumb alarm clock. I can’t believe I though it would be a good idea to, wait, it was a good idea, I’m going kayaking today! I leap out of bed, more a role really, trying to avoid the heaps of clothing and random boxes of detritus scattered over the floor. I crawl to the alarm, bash the snooze button with a clenched fist, push the orange button on the coffee machine, and somehow manage to not wake my roommate in the process.
I must bring to the readers attention at this point my incredible good sense and ability to think far in to the future. Somehow, last night, I managed to put a coffee filter in the coffee machine, fill it with coffee, and put water into the part in the back where water goes, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Such great attention to detail; I even left my thermos on the very top of my towering heap of paddling gear.
A few hours of driving later and I slip and slide my way down a root-strewn bank. I am completely convinced that blackberry bushes make a point of growing in locations where every unwary paddler will reach just as they tumble, slide, roll, and slip down a forty-foot ravine to the river. The East Fork of the Hood River, just a measly three hour drive from Walla Walla, has risen to just the right level for us to paddle today.
I slip in to my boat, or more realistically, force my ungainly mass, coated in layers of paddling clothes, into a too-small cockpit. My already stiff arms pull the blue and grey spray skirt forward, flipping the yellow handle up on top of the deck, then rolling my wrists outward, and it snugly pops over the end of the cockpit, sealing me in to my boat. Twisting back and forth I manage to crack my back, it’s been a while since I “really” paddled, the swimming pool definitely doesn’t count.
I look to my right, Nick has easily fit himself into his lime green play-boat and is looking back past me to where the rest of the group is getting ready to launch. Our ungainly group remind me of some outlandish circus launching on to this pristine river in our bright orange, red, green, and yellow boats, and similarly brilliant paddling clothes and life-jackets.
I curl my cold fingers loosely around the shaft of my paddle and with a jerk of my body propel myself off of the shallow rocks and into the patiently babbling river. A few experimental strokes and I feel right back at home. I lean into a brace as my bow catches the current, leaning back and to the side I let the boat turn downstream. Leaning forward, a few strong strokes pull me back in to the bottom of the eddy. The neoprene gasket covers on my dry top shed the water so that it drops in glistening little bubbles on to the deck of my boat, and then roll off, heading back downstream.
My momentary transfixion is broken by the bump of Fiona’s boat. I turn and see the rest of the group feeling their ways in to the water, looking more and more relaxed; scrambling down a muddy bank is definitely not the proper, or natural, environment for a paddler. Fiona has somehow fitted her green liquid logic so that her diminutive frame doesn’t simply fall out of it every time she tries to brace, The corners of Lish’s mouth rise as she splashes water in to her face, and Nick intensely peers downstream, trying to see some part of our first rapid. Shell and Jim sit with their boats close together, doubtfully looking on as our unlikely tribe of paddlers acclimatizes to a new river.
An hour or two later I stand knee deep in freezing water, my camera presses tight under the visor of my paddling helmet as I examine the rapid upstream. Nick has carried his boat back up-stream to run a short boulder garden so that I can shoot it. The rocks glisten in the surprisingly warm afternoon light. The taste of a too-small chocolate bar lingers in my mouth. Then I can see his paddle, the orange blade flashing over a gray rock, and his small green boat shoots out between two boulders. I frame the shot, push the shutter release, and as I watch silver droplets fly from his churning paddle, a satisfying “click” is welcomed by my water-filled ears.
Nick drops into the pool where I stand pumping down on his paddle to attempt a bow stall. He gets his stern out of the water, just to plop over his head and roll up. Water cascades off of his helmet, glittering in low rays of sunlight that have infiltrated under the low clouds. As I squint upstream the aerated water cascading through the tight boulder garden seems to be yelling “Spring, it’s spring, see, the snow is melting, Haha, you don’t get to ski anymore, sucker, time to paddle!”

For more wet and wild images visit a full gallery from the east fork here.