Rumble in the Jungle

Colleen and Chris decided to portage around Lava's biggest drops, leaving me to contemplate my fate alone. Finally, I concluded that all I'd be risking was a nasty swim. Heart pounding, I walked back up to my canoe and eased into the racing current. My route was burned into my brain: eddy behind a mid-stream boulder to slow my descent; swivel around and punch downriver; skirt the big center hole; cut against the grain to avoid the second hole; maintain forward momentum when I hit the large standing waves below. To my surprise, everything went according to plan. Well, almost everything. As I entered the steep-walled finale, my bow slammed into a reflecting wave and was instantly yanked around. I ran the last set backwards like a bumbling beginner, kneeling in a tubful of water. But when I finally pulled ashore, all I could think was that if the trip ended right now, I'd be a happy man.

The next day we left La Ceiba for the long drive southeast to the Rio Sico put-in. Inside the school bus was enough food and gear for a three-day mini-expedition. Bumping and grinding over rutted gravel roads that rarely see a turista, we passed through isolated villages, their streets lined with campesinos on foot, horseback, and bicycle. We stared out the windows at the primitive adobe dwellings, small shops, and strange-looking people. In return, the people stared back at the yellow bus full of strange-looking gringos and their colorful boats.

It was nearing dark when we finally pulled alongside a bridge spanning the river. "It's too late to get on the water today," Bob announced to our road-weary group. "So let's make camp here, get our gear ready, and head out early in the morning."

By 8:30 a.m. we were ready to push off into the murky brown current. The water level was the highest Bob had ever seen. "But not too high for a good trip-for good boaters," he chuckled.

The current swiftly led us into long stretches of Class III rapids, separated by longer stretches of flatwater. Sometimes the low mountain ridges, covered in dense forests and patchy pastureland, squeezed close together, funneling us into mini-canyons with jagged rock walls and swirly water. When not watching for hidden boulders and boat-sucking whirlpools, I quickly scanned the green tapestry around us. High up in the trees grew wild lavender and white orchids. And birds of all kinds-trogons, quetzals, toucans, oropendulas, hummingbirds, and parrots-announced their presence with flashes of color and song.

The first rapid we stopped to scout was called Harvey Wallbanger, an unusual but appropriate moniker because the entire river slammed into a rock protuberance. Chris acted as probe and made the run look easy as he nailed the must-make top eddy move, ferried precisely to mid-current, then swung downstream to avoid missing the wall. His ear-to-ear grin was good to see, a banner that he was back in the game. Dave, too, had a sweet run. But when it came time for me to step up to the plate, I was swept toward the escarpment and barely squeaked past unscathed.

When I joined the others on shore, Karen asked if I wanted to take Bob's boat through the rapid for him. Huh? What's up with Bob? "Well, okay," I replied, not really sure if I wanted to press my luck. Back above the rapid, I cinched down the thigh straps, dug my feet on the foot pegs, and ferried out to the center of the river. Once again I caught the must-make eddy. From there on, however, things came unglued. I lost my line as I peeled out of the eddy and got slam-dunked against Wallbanger. I tried a feeble roll before going for a swim. Pulling myself to shore, I couldn't help feeling a tad embarrassed. Not only did I capsize, I did it in Whitewater Bob's canoe!

Our route the following day took us past rolling hills of grass and oak trees, lush and shockingly green. Fun, feisty rapids appeared almost immediately and continued all morning. But life became more serious when we reached Fruit of the Loom, the river's most difficult rapid, a solid Class IV. According to Junior, the rapid received its name because rafters, trying to keep their clothes dry, strip down to their briefs when crashing through. After studying the long, powerful rapid, I was more inclined to think that the name comes from having to change your soiled skivvies when you're done trying to run it.

Junior and his younger brother, Davy, decided to take the rafts down a bony sneak route on the other side of a brushy island. The rest of us scouted the long approach rapid that ended in a screaming left turn, followed by a crux move that entailed threading the needle between offset, opposite holes. "That's a bad spot," Bob said gravely, pointing to the larger of the gaping, recirculating holes. "You can get hurt in there." We were all quiet, pensive, studying the river up and down, digging deep into our own bag of experience to determine not only how to make the run, but if we wanted to attempt it at all.

Chris tightened his jaw and announced that he was going for it. Back upstream he trudged out of sight. While we were waiting for him to paddle back down, Karen also decided to take the sneak route, and Colleen and Dave followed suit. I assumed that Bob would be running the rapid next, thus I was caught off-guard when, smiling inscrutably, he told me, "Nope, not today. However, don't let my decision influence you. This rapid is within your skill range; it's your choice if you want to run it or not."