I nearly died that day on the river. It was over 40 years ago, but the foolhardy decision I made that day still haunts me. I am reminded of it every time the river claims another victim.It was mid-summer in 1977, and I was with a small group of friends who were preparing to embark from Gold Hill, Oregon on an afternoon raft trip down a short section of the Rogue River. That time of year, the river’s flow was perfect for rafting—relatively warm water, slow current, and featured several stretches of whitewater that were exciting, but not too dangerous.
We weren’t adventurers looking for whitewater thrills, although there are world-class rapids on some sections of the Rogue. We simply wanted to have some fun and relaxation while enjoying the sunshine and refreshing water on a summer weekend.
It really should have been a routine, relaxing trip, but what happened on that short voyage would forever change the way I looked at the river.
The city of Gold Hill lies on the north bank of the Rogue River, about 20 minutes northwest of Medford on Interstate 5. In the 1970s Gold Hill was quite the party town, and was immersed in the counter-culture that emerged from the ‘60s. It was kind of a hippie oasis right in the middle of mostly redneck Southern Oregon.
My girlfriend and I had moved to Gold Hill from Medford earlier that year. At the time, we weren’t actually looking to move, but a friend who lived there told us that a house had recently become available, and he thought it was perfect for us.
We had other friends who lived in Gold Hill, our band played gigs there, and there were lots of parties and jam sessions. It was always a fun place to be. It seemed like a natural move.
Late in the winter that year, we moved in to the house that was right on the Rogue River. At the end of the large backyard was a steep bank that led down to the river. The bank was over-grown with blackberry vines, trees and lots of other undergrowth, rendering it impenetrable, so although we enjoyed a fantastic view, we couldn’t get down to the river from our back yard.
Our house quickly became the place to be, with parties nearly every weekend, and jam sessions in the garage. There was easy access to the river only a block away.
As you might expect for a town that is right on the scenic Rogue River, rafting was a common activity for residents and tourists. Several rafting businesses thrived in town, a few other places rented rafts, and many people owned their own. There was not nearly as much regulation then, and permits were nearly unknown. We pretty much went whenever we wanted. Depending on the day of the week and the weather, the river could get pretty congested with rafts, inner tubes and kayaks.
Even before our move, we had gone rafting a few times each summer. Our raft trips were usually afternoon excursions from Gold Hill to the City of Rogue River. Up to a dozen or so friends would go on any given trip, and we usually had one big raft and several smaller ones in our flotilla.
Our access to the river for those trips was the beach at the Gold Hill Bridge. It was a beautiful white-sand beach, and on summer weekends it looked like a beach in Southern California, crowded with people and their beach towels, umbrellas, and coolers. There were usually people busy at the water’s edge loading supplies—mostly beer—into their rafts.
It took about 4 hours to float from Gold Hill to Rogue River. That required a lot of beer.
A raft trip was a great way to spend a lazy afternoon. Miles and miles of slow-moving water was punctuated by occasional short sections of wild, whitewater rapids. Most of the time we just sat in the raft and drank beer, or swam in the water next to the raft to cool off.
But as we neared a set of rapids, it was all aboard. Everyone back in the boat!
Typically, as you’re approaching a set of rapids you can hear the roar of the water crashing over the rocks as it’s being churned into the characteristic whitewater foam. You can’t actually see the rapids until you’re almost in them. Looking downstream, the river just drops out of view ahead of you, like it’s going over a waterfall. The sound gets louder, and when you are just about to enter the rapids, there is a frenzy of last-minute paddling to position the raft.
Experienced rafters can choose just the right channels between the rocks for a wild, yet relatively safe ride. If you’re not helping with the paddling, you simply hold on and try to stay in the raft. It can be a bumpy ride, and it’s easy to get bounced out.
There is generally less than a minute of exciting white water in each stretch of rapids, sometimes just a few seconds. 90 percent of the trip to Rogue River is spent just floating along with the slow, steady current. Most of the time there is no need to paddle or even steer.
On this fateful Saturday morning, we were preparing for a fun day on the river. It was a beautiful day, slowly warming up from a relatively cool night. Just another day on the river.
A group of about 10 friends had gathered on the beach with our rubber rafts, the sand still damp from the morning dew. We were forming small groups, two to three people each, deciding who would go in each raft. The large raft we normally used was not available, so we were using three or four smaller ones for that day’s trip.
My girlfriend and I ended up sharing ours with a couple who had never rafted. No big deal, I thought. There is not a lot of skill required for sitting in the raft, drinking beer, and occasionally holding on for dear life. So after a short tutorial for the landlubbers, we were in the boat, the boat was in the water, and the gentle current was carrying us toward the City of Rogue River.
This stretch of the river, for the most part, is fairly wide, shallow, and slow-moving. Once in the water, it was pretty relaxing for quite a while before reaching the first set of rapids.
But this would not be a routine trip.
About a half-mile down-river from the beach, virtually in my own backyard, is a water feature that is called “The Chute.” There is a small island close to the north bank on the right, and the water that flows through the narrow channel between the island and the riverbank is very deep and very fast for about 300 feet. It’s so deep that there are no rocks to avoid near the surface, and it can be a fun ride because it’s a steep drop, and the water is fast. Waterfall fast! Most rafters float through the main section of the river and avoid the chute. It is simply not worth the risk.
The Chute has been called the most treacherous 300 feet in the Rogue River’s 200-mile length. Personally, I think El Diablo would be a more fitting name.
In the chute, the danger comes not from the rocks, like most rapids, but from the riverbank. Branches from the thick brush that covers the bank grow out about 6 feet horizontally over the water, and only about a foot above the surface. Depending on the fluctuating water level, there is barely enough room for a raft to pass between the water and the branches. A raft with passengers, even under the best circumstances, is too tall to pass under the branches. If you drift too far to the right, too close to the branches, you’re doomed.
I had experienced the chute twice before, and although each time we avoided tragedy, it was frightening.
I had no intention of entering the chute on this trip, and when my crew asked about it, I warned them of the extreme danger. But they were adamant. They wanted to try it. The rest of our group played it safe (and smart) and steered their rafts around. Ironically, it was those same people in the other rafts who had earlier—unbeknownst to me—sold my passengers on experiencing the ‘fun ride’ through the Death Chute. In retrospect, I think some of those people had never even done it themselves.
Since I was the most experienced rafter, I was the default captain of our boat, charged with one thing: getting us all to Rogue River—preferably alive. Even though no one else blamed me, I blame myself for what happened next.
As this unplanned detour was not covered in my short tutorial back at the beach, I quickly briefed my crew on the procedure to accomplish the relatively simple maneuver to get us into the chute. Our raft had almost reached the island, so it was now or never. If we wanted to do this, we needed to navigate quickly to the right side of the island to get into the current that would carry us into the channel. Once it funneled us in, we had to quickly steer back to the left, and gently hug the island as we hurled through the chute.
Our lives depended on it. If we wandered too far right, we would go under the branches, and it would be disastrous. If we got too close to the bank on the left, we could bounce off, and still careen uncontrollably into the branches.
Either way, it was certain death if we failed to stay right in the middle of the narrow channel. Even if we did everything right, there was still just a small chance of coming out the other end of the chute alive.
What could be more fun?
There was only about 12 feet of clear water between the island on the left and the branches on the right. Smaller craft, like kayaks, are more suited to this potentially deadly detour. Our raft was almost 6 feet wide, so that gave us only about three feet of space on each side. In water that’s moving that fast, it’s nearly impossible to make the raft go where you want it to go. It goes with the flow, like being flushed down a toilet.
Even though we really should have started lining our raft up with the chute a few yards sooner, it went very well at first as we approached. We worked together to paddle quickly to get into position. I was encouraged, foolishly thinking we might actually live through it.
But as our raft neared the opening to the chute, we got our first terrifying look at the extremely narrow channel and its powerful current. Before we could say, “Oh, Crap!” we were sucked in.
The crew panicked. My instructions were forgotten, and my hysterically-shouted orders were ignored. We overshot the opening and we were headed straight toward the branches. With no time to correct our trajectory, I told everyone to lie down in the raft as flat as possible, hoping we would safely slide under.
That lasted about two seconds before an extra-low branch caught the raft and flipped us over. We were unceremoniously dumped into the river, and we were headed for certain death by drowning.
The raft must have flipped over again after we were dumped, because every time I came up for air, my head smashed into the bottom of the raft. I couldn’t get out from under it.
That was probably good. If I had surfaced under the branches, I would have been beheaded. But it happened so fast, I didn’t have time to take a breath before we went under. I needed air.
As I struggled to hold what little breath I had, all I could think about was the three other people. I couldn’t see them. I had no idea where they were. There was no way they could have stayed in the raft.
I was still under water when the chute flattened out and rejoined the slower-moving main channel. I was finally able to come up for air.
Once I surfaced, I looked for other survivors as I gasped for a breath. I could see their heads above water, and they were gasping for air too. We were out of the chute, and being gently washed onto a sand bar that fanned out at the end of the island. The water there was calm, and only about knee deep.
The water had been moving so fast, we had traveled the three-hundred-foot length of the chute in just a few seconds. It seemed like much longer.
Somehow, we had all survived, and miraculously, there were no injuries.
We grabbed the raft and paddles before they floated away, but our beer was gone. All of it. Beer in glass bottles does not float! We had not even cracked one open before the shipwreck.
This all happened within only about 5 minutes after getting into the water at the beach. And at the spot where we barely avoided our watery graves, we were right down the bank from my back yard. My own back door was only 200 feet away!
Out in the middle of the main channel, where we should have been, our friends in the other rafts were just floating by in the much slower current. They apparently thought we were just playing in the water. As they passed, they smiled and held up their beers as if offering a toast.
Not only had they failed to recognize our distress, but they were already drinking beer.
Actually, we were pretty lucky. The water was fast, but the chute is deep. Most rapids are very rocky, and relatively shallow. If we had capsized on any of the subsequent rapids, the fast-moving, turbulent water would have smashed us into any number of big rocks, and we may not have survived. If we did, we likely would have suffered serious injuries. None of us wore helmets or life jackets.Since there was no beer to gather, we gathered our composure. We were all quite shaken, and in no mood to continue the trip. There was really no point anyway. Not without beer.
But we couldn’t stay there in the river. We had to go somewhere, and short of a helicopter rescue, continuing downstream was our only option. There was considerable apprehension as we boarded the raft that just minutes before had tried to kill us.
As we floated downstream, we looked for the first opportunity to get out of the river. That opportunity soon presented itself in the form of a make-shift backyard boat ramp. We had not even left the Gold Hill city limits.
By the time we got out of the river I would have been just as happy to abandon the raft right there and set it adrift in the river, but it was not my raft, so we hauled it out of the water.
Once we were safely out of the river, we discovered it was only about half a mile to my house. I decided I would walk home to get my car. I instructed the crew to stay with the raft, and to deflate it while I was gone. I hoped they would use a knife.
But my ill wishes were misplaced. The raft was not at fault. It did what it was designed to do. It went where we steered it. It emerged unscathed—upright and dry. Without us to misguide it, it could have made it safely to the Pacific Ocean in a just a couple days.
It was my own cockiness that got us into trouble. I knew the danger, and I knew the inexperienced crew was an issue. I alone made the foolish decision that took us through the chute. I alone bear the responsibility. I was young and bold, but I did learn a valuable lesson that day.
What did I learn? Take cans. Bottled beer does not float.
I did not go rafting again for many years. I did continue to drink beer. In bottles.
As I write this over 40 years later, the water feature innocuously called The Chute is still there. It is probably still devouring rafters. And I would be willing to bet there are still a few bottles of Miller High Life from that day lurking among the rocks in the murky depths of El Diablo.
I eventually found the courage to go rafting again since that fateful day, but there are many ways to enjoy the river without throwing yourself headlong into a blender set on ‘puree.’
A river is like a beautiful woman—you don’t have to be in her to enjoy her.
Scott Wright © 2018