(HOST) According to commentator, storyteller and contractor Willem Lange, Maine’s Rapid River more than lives up to its name.
(LANGE) The guide shouted, right behind us, "Left back! Right forward!" and the four of us with paddles responded with a will born of terror. The raft rose six feet up the slope of a standing wave, and plunged down the other side into a maelstrom. "All ahead!" he shouted, and we burst out of the hole, peering downstream for the next one. What was behind us didn’t matter.
One of the best-kept secrets of New England whitewater rivers, the Rapid River drains the Rangeley Lakes westward into Umbagog Lake and then into the Androscoggin River. It lies entirely within the State of Maine; but you can’t get there… from there. The land surrounding it is private – paper companies, mostly – so access is by roads subject to closure; and almost all the roads that go near the rapids originate near Errol, New Hampshire. There where the Androscoggin River roars under Route 26, is the location of Northern Waters Outfitters, where you sign up for a ride.
Todd Papianou runs the place. A schoolteacher during the winter, he’s in the summer a river guide, administrator, and impresario. We drove to the foot of Umbagog Lake. A trip across on a pontoon boat, and we were at the foot of the rapids. Then a pleasant three-mile hike upstream beside the river on an old tote road. At the top, we got a safety demonstration, donned helmets and life jackets, and set off downriver in a big inflatable raft. Before the first bit of swift water, Todd rehearsed us to see if we could tell left from right, forward from back, and how hard we could paddle. Then off we went.
The river is controlled by dams with announced release schedules. It’s divided into pitches separated by pools. The descriptions of the pitches mention "heavy turbulence" or "fairly large hole river right." Very few of these details troubled us in the crew; we just listened for commands from the steersman who we hoped was still there, gasped when we saw what was coming, and jammed our feet under the seats to keep from being flipped out. How we didn’t lose anybody, I don’t know.
We came across kayakers playing in a beautiful surfing wave, trying to achieve equilibrium where they didn’t have to paddle. Most overturned instead, and popped back up a few yards downstream. We ate watermelon as we watched, and then were off again. Occasionally we plunged sideways into huge holes, not the way I would have done it it myself. Was it accidental, I wondered, or on purpose? It was the same feeling I had once on my first bobsled ride: This driver has decided to end it all, and this is the trip he’s gonna do it! But all too soon the foot of the last rapid came into view, and we were done with the most fantastic four miles of whitewater I’ve ever run. If I ever do it again though, I’m gonna take some extra dry clothes.
This is Willem Lange in East Montpelier, and I gotta get back to work.