Riding the Nantahala

Holly Kays photo

May 27, 2022, is the first dry day in a week of heavy rain, and the Nantahala River is roaring.

When I arrive at the Nantahala Outdoor Center, an outdoor adventure business whose 50th anniversary I’m there to report on, the swollen water flows white and frothy beneath the wooden Founders Bridge, its edges lapping at the feet of Adirondack chairs placed on what is usually a wide, gravel beach. Releases from the nearby dam boosted the water level by about 5 feet, NOC’s president Colin McBeath tells me. I look at the churning rapids and ask if it’s still okay to take customers out when the river’s like this, and he laughs—a day like today offers one of the best rides you’ll get on the Nantahala.

“You want to go rafting?” he asks.

That’s an easy question. Of course I want to go rafting.

The NOC website describes the stretch of water I’ll be paddling as “crystal-clear” with “splashy” rapids and occasional calm waters. But today it’s a different river, rushing along at 3,600 cubic feet per second, nearly five times the usual. The water carries along twigs, branches, and the occasional log, and it widens into the banks, where a gantlet of low-hanging limbs wait for any rafters skirting the river’s roiling center. Helmets are required, and splash jackets recommended.

“If you go on this trip, you will get wet,” Jess Austin, the lead guide for the 1 p.m. trip, tells the 40-odd guests sitting on the wooden benches in front of him. “The only dry seat is on the bus.”

He runs through his safety speech and plays a video that warns of the risk inherent in any whitewater trip. It all sounds pretty serious, and my mind plays its usual trick, nagging me to back out seconds before starting a great adventure. I’ve learned by now to ignore that voice.

Once everybody’s in the bus, the mood lands a 180-degree flip. Everybody who’s accepted a seat has also accepted both the risk and the reward of an afternoon on the water, and anticipation births a buzz of excitement that reverberates through the metal tube. The long-haired 20-somethings assisting Austin, a retired lawyer with an admirable repertoire of dad jokes, can barely contain their enthusiasm. They whoop and holler and eye the whitecapped river rushing along the road.

The bus stops, and we pile out. The guides divide us into seven rafts, each containing six visitors and a guide. On a normal day, stretches of calm, placid water would separate each of several low-key rapids, with plenty of time to get used to holding a paddle before hitting anything remotely adrenaline-inducing. A splashy ride down Nantahala Falls just before takeout at NOC would put an exclamation mark on the adventure.

But today, the drama starts immediately—and there will be no Nantahala Falls. It’s so swollen that only an expert paddler would dare attempt it.

I’m in a boat with Austin, who directs us to duck our heads as we follow lines in the river that often go directly under drooping tree branches, then descend the turbulent rapids. He fills the rare moments between rapids with dad jokes and tour-guide-style mashups of fact and fiction. My favorite is a made-up story about the Forest Service installing lines across the river to allow resident racoons to reach their favorite mushrooms on the other side. Somehow, the fabricated tale also incorporates tidbits about the actual history of rock blasting in the area.

Nobody falls out, somehow, but Austin shouts constant reminders to anchor our feet as we descend rapid after rapid, cold mountain water soaking our skin and hair. Each jolt forces a shout from my body, but they are shouts of joy, not fear.

Austin had been right. There were no dry seats. We arrive at the takeout just above Nantahala Falls soaked with water—and with the exhilaration of life on the river.