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Heading Down the Mighty Kennebec: Rafting World-Class Rapids in Maine
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18407 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
7 / 1999 |
2,490 Words |
| Author
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James Marshall
James Marshall is a freelance writer based in Brunswick, Maine. |
The Kennebec River writhes before me like an anaconda, wrapping its body in tight knots, then weaving and thrusting to elude its pursuers. Standing beside it on a chilly day in late September, I listen to its hissing and question the limits of my confidence. For I am about to embark on a six-hour whitewater-rafting trip down this churning river in northern Maine.
Yes, the sun is high and I am outfitted from neck to toe in a polyethylene wet suit--but I know the water is north-woods cold, and I fully expect to be drenched again and again in the coming hours. As we make final preparations, I try to temper my trepidation by reminding myself that I chose to come for this experience.
We are eight in all, including two guides from Unicorn Expeditions, one of more than a dozen river expedition outfitters located in the mountains of Maine. Our group is divided between two rafts, and I am paired with Bud Titlow, an environmental scientist and fellow photographer from the Boston area who like me has come north to challenge the river. Bud and I take our positions at the front of the boat, push away from the craggy shore, and float, peacefully enough and with no discomfort whatsoever, through the steep, green canyons of the Kennebec River Gorge.
The river's name, I learn later, is derived from one of several American Indian sources, ranging from the regional Abenaki word quen-ne-bec, meaning "long blade," to the name of a chief who once lived along its shores, Cannibis, to the words used to describe a legendary rattlesnake sacred to Native Americans, Manitou Kinnibec, which is pronounced in the same way that people in Maine pronounce the river's name. Given my initial reaction to this body of water, I choose to believe that the river was christened after the sacred serpent.
Our journey takes place on the northernmost reach of Manitou Kinnibec, beginning just below Harris Dam, directly across from where a log sluice once delivered uncountable numbers of logs into the river for transport to the region's hungry pulp and paper mills. Flowing south from Moosehead Lake, the river drops over 1,000 feet along its 170-mile stretch to the Atlantic. We will descend through its wild upper gorge for about 12 of those miles. I glance over at Bud, who looks just slightly less nervous than I, and then appraise the river around me, slightly numbed not only by the prospect of its chilly temperature but also by its awesome history.
Maritime
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