The Watery Rave

Ten Questions with the Kamchatka Expedition

As the Kamchatka expedition came to an end, we asked the members about some of the memorable times on the trip and to describe the area to those that have never been there before. Here’s the skinny on the peninsula.

1. Describe Kamchatka for the person who has never been there?

A. The Peninsula is the size of California and there are only a handful of roads – it is amazing, and refreshing and if you have to hitchhike, you know you’re on the only game in town. A mountainous spine bisects Kamchatka, marked by a slew of active and inactive volcanoes to the east, and receding hills and plains to the west. The strongest salmon fisheries are in the plains of west-central Kamchatka along shallow braided rivers that flow into the Sea of Othosk, and provide hundreds of miles of prime spawning grounds in what has become one of the strongest and most diverse salmon-based ecosystems in the world. Kamchatka hosts every salmonid species, and with a few exceptions, almost all the fish in its rivers are salmonid.

The mid-section of the Kamchatka peninsula is bisected by the 471 mile-long Kamchatka River, which flows northeast through a broad valley flanked by two steep mountain ranges. Paralleling the river through this valley is Kamchatka’s only major north-south highway, a graded gravel dust-fest that will test the padding on your ass. We drove a lot of that road during our last days on the peninsula. The Kamchatka River and the ecosystems it supports share much in common with the larger rivers of the temperate Pacific Northwest except there are zero people around to share the experience. The Kamchatka River also hosts the only salmon hatcheries on the peninsula.

Many of the faster and steeper rivers in the east aren’t as well suited to such prolific salmon populations, but are still packed with more fish and wildlife than we’d ever seen.

2. Did you come across many locals on your outings? If so, what was their view of the expedition and American anglers in general?

A. You mean other than bears? Once out of Petropavolovsk, we rarely saw people.  Those we did see both around the city and outside of it were very friendly and curious about our travels and most wanted to know if Albert Pujols was going to win the MLB MVP award.  If we didn’t have someone to translate, it was difficult to communicate the full breadth of our expedition, but we only encountered welcome and positive sentiments from the Russians we met with the exception of a man who had a crush on Milla Jovovich, a Russia movie star and was pissed because Tom Cruise had hit on her. He thought Cruise was over-rated.  For the most part, the Russians can seem cold and uninterested at first, but are very generous, kind and humorous once the ice is broken and they know you’re not going to deplete their vodka supply.

Almost everybody we met, though, thought what we were up to was neat, but nothing to write home about. The locals in Kamchatka seemed pretty used to well funded adventure tourists and anglers (primarily from western Russia and Europe), and we seemed to be placed into the category of numbskull adrenaline junkies with trust funds.

3. What is summer like for the locals of Kamchatka?

A. Winters are pretty hard on Kamchatka, so they bask in the summers for sure.  You can tell on the nice days in the summer that they are just trying to soak it in, knowing it won’t last. I imagine they’re just glad to be outside without 30 pounds of extra clothing.

4. What was the funniest thing that happened on the trip?

A. There are always so many inside jokes that develop on a trip like this. As a group you experience so much in such a short period of time, and because of the language barrier can only share so much with the Russians. Some kids gave us some candy with a picture of a penguin chopping wood on the wrapper.  Somehow this became a catch phrase for us, and we would insert it random conversations, like if we were having a good time, somebody would just pipe in, “it’s like a penguin chopping wood,” it was out way of saying S-W-E-E-T!  Everyone would laugh, although, if you overheard us it wouldn’t make any sense, which I’m sure helps reassure DETANTE. Our first taste of caviar was pretty entertaining as well—it’s definitely not a taste for the American palate. It was like an amazing splash of the fishiest aftertaste that stuck to the roof of your mouth no matter how you tried to kill it off.

5. What was the scariest thing that happened?

A. The trip went quite well, with minimal incident; however, on our second kayak trip, Bryan got a large blister (about the size of an egg) on his forearm. Shane thought it might be Cooties, but it was definitely an allergic reaction to a plant or a bite or something of that nature since Martha was the only female around, and she wore gloves most of the time. It didn’t seem to be bothering him, but we were several days from being back in Petropavolosk unless we called for a helicopter. As the most medically trained member of the team (former EMT, Ski Patrol and a big fan of the television series Grey’s Anatomy), it was a concern, but we just rolled with in and kept monitoring it. When we finally returned to PK, our fixer, Martha, told us not to worry, that it was only Pushki (aka Cow Parsnips or as we called it, Cow Cooties), and it eventually resolved.  But this was a reminder that in such remote locations, it only takes a small infection or allergy to really complicate a mission.

6. What did you do in the evenings?

A. On the rivers, it was cook, fish, eat, hang out, fish, and enjoy the peacefulness, fish, sleep. It was like a “penguin chopping wood.” Back in town, it was considerably more hectic:  batteries to recharge, photos to download, blog posts to update, Twitter, Facebook, touching base with family, making logistical arrangements for the next trip, often only 24-48 hours away.

7. Any kayak dings along the way?

A. Not a single ding. Our kayaks and all our gear held up incredibly well, which was a testament to the products more so that our skill, because lord knows we ran some pretty extreme stuff. On expeditions like this you always fear your gear failing when you need it most, but I don’t think we ever got into any of our repair kits – not even a strip of duct tape. We were lucky, and grateful for all our great sponsors providing us with top-notch gear.

8. Tell me about getting out of Russia, from leaving the Kamchatka peninsula to getting on a plane?

A. We had made the decision before even getting to Russia that we would try to sell our kayaks or leave them with an outfitter so we didn’t have to travel home with them. This was the best decision we made, even better than not doing shots with the locals! Even with seven fewer bags, we paid more and had more hassle with our luggage on the way home compared to flying there. It’s just a real disadvantage with the language barriers and not knowing the customs, who to tip, who to bribe, who to run from, etc.

Connecting from PKC to NYC in Moscow could make the ESPN highlight reel for top ten plays of the day. Leading up to our departure from Kamchatka we had been hearing horror stories of failed attempts to connect these two flights. Ryan, our fishing guide quit trying a few years ago and has never had a client try. Martha, our handler, was 0-7, but still thought that it was possible with the right team. Hearing all of these stories kind of spurred us on, and honestly sounded like a great challenge. Regardless, we had already bought the tickets and were eager not to be stuck in Moscow…again.

So, we implemented a leapfrog strategy and divided into two teams of two, with one floater. The idea was that if we could stay one move ahead of the game, then we could reduce our time in line, while the floater could either go two steps ahead or diffuse the odd situation (NOTE: This did involve a lot of line cutting in line, and is not recommended if you are concerned about looking like an a#$hole or an “Ugly American”). The plan was working well, as we exited the plane, collected gear, checked gear, paid for extra baggage (separate line), and passed through customs. I will admit that our tactics were a bit obnoxious, but we were trying to win.

Once, passing customs we loaded our remaining gear onto a series of roller carts and begin sprinting through an elaborate maze of corridors that covered close to a mile and connected one terminal to the next, to the next… After passing customs, we had less than 30 minutes to board our plan and we needed every second to run. Arriving at the security checkpoint dripping in sweat, we quickly moved through and arrived at our gate with only seconds to spare. Shane missed the gate initially, and just went sliding by on the smooth marble floors as he tried to stop his full sprint. Aeroflot held the gate open for him and closed the airplane door as soon as the entire team entered. New score 1-0!

9. Did you have any remorse when you arrived back home?

A. Definitely.  Kamchatka is a pretty special place, and I’m not sure if I’ll have another opportunity to go there, and especially to experience some of the activities and places we were able to go on this expedition. Even in the most remote parts of North America, it’s hard to experience the kind of wildness we felt there, and it felt very good for the soul to experience that kind of nature – totally undeveloped—and to know that places like that still exist on our planet.

10. Who was the hero of the trip?

A. Kamchatka!  She really showed us her best. The last night we were there, Lena, one of our fixers, told us a Kamchatka proverb, that if you come to this land with expectations and agendas, you will often encounter her notorious storms, set backs, bureaucracy, naked public drunkness(only kidding), prisons (kidding again), etc. But if you come with an open mind and flexibility, she will show you all her wonder.  Lena congratulated us that night on our approach to everything Russian, and she said that Kamchatka has shown us her best because she wants us to come back.  It is just an amazing place that I hope to someday return to.

Bears. They were everywhere.  Even when we weren’t seeing them, we were seeing their presence – tracks and scat everywhere, signs warning us that bears will not respond well to a gentle hug and the occasional thundering trampling of bushes down the side of a mountain.

Even so, we ended up having only very positive experiences with the bears.  We were very respectful of their territory and tried to tread as lightly as possible, because when you have 800 pounds and 20 sharp claws over the rest of the group, you pretty much get the VIP treatment.   However, they are so abundant in Kamchatka that an encounter with bears is almost inevitable, so by the end of the first week everyone had a pretty good gauge on who were the fastest and slowest runners in the group.

We had a couple great bear sightings on the Zhupanova, but otherwise didn’t see as many bears in the first three weeks of the trip as we had expected. From the stories we’d heard, we expected to be strapped down with pepper spray and singing Jingle Bells all the way from camp to the kayaks on a daily basis, but there were just enough around to keep everyone constantly planning escape routes.

We were always aware of the threat posed by bears and made a racket everywhere we went to alert them to our presence. We portaged around unrunnable sections of river several times on the Karymskaya and Semilychik, and quickly found that Kamchatka probably has one of the best-maintained trail networks on the planet.

Bears retrace their paths day in and day out, creating these perfect three to four foot wide graded highways that tunnel through otherwise impassable grasses and brush that rarely sunk below our plane of vision. We were left little choice but to warily follow these tunnels whilst blasting our whistles, banging our boats, and crossing our fingers for the best knowing full and well that it was their peak hiking season.

Of course, bears were also in the forefront of our minds as we selected camping spots each night. We were usually able to locate islands or large clearings that would at least provide us a few seconds of warning if a bear approached in the night. Our biggest fear was to be holding a can of pepper spray and encounter a bear with a salt shaker and a smile.

Then we went to Kuril Lake. At Kuril Lake we probably saw over 100 bears and smelled another 50, some only a few meters away.  There were times where we were literally surrounded by bears and some came right up to check us out.  It was intense, but never felt threatening because we knew deep down that the bears were aware that Gore Tex doesn’t digest very well.

It also helped that a fresh salmon dinner was a paw slap away and that the fish didn’t run screaming like little girls. After a while, you kind of got the feeling that chasing humans wasn’t worth the effort and sharp pain to their eardrums.

By the end of our time there we almost took them for granted – it was like, “Oh, there’s another bear 100 foot away from camp, think he’ll show us how to fish?”  The salmon were pretty amazing at Kuril Lake as well, but I will always remember the bears of Kuril Lake as long as I live. They truly were the best fishermen around.

As a team, our fly fishing experience was very limited. We’re more of the plastic navy sect, borne of adrenaline and the funneling of water through rocks so our fly fishing learning curve was incredibly steep. Most of us had fallen in more rivers than we’d fished and didn’t know the first thing about tying flies, which knots to use on our lines, how to cast or haul, how to locate good fishing spots or what to do if I actually caught something. It actually seemed rather sinful to be so nubile in the Mecca for rainbow trout and salmon fishermen around the world.

The one thing we had going for us was Ryan Peterson, one of the most experienced American fly fishing guides in Kamchatka, whose job it was to take a handful of tourons and turn them into anglers without laughing so hard he falls in the water and gets immediately washed downstream and out of sight. And trust me, there were times he held in a laugh so long he blew green worms out of his nose.

We had some tackle we brought with us on the suggestion of a friend who fishes for steelhead in Oregon.  Steelhead are supposedly badass, so our rods and reels were appropo, but Ryan took one look at our flies and told us to pack those away or hand them out to the kids as earrings, because they weren’t big enough for the fish at our feet.  He said, “if you want to catch a big fish, you got to throw them some big food,” which translates to, “our fish are gangsters and if it has eyes, it dies. He immediately upgraded our tackle with some HUGE mice and that was what we used almost exclusively.

It’s pretty amazing watching a trout knock the fur off a mouse in a moving current. Once, we landed the first rainbow trout it became obvious that we were using the right size meal—mice and other big-ass flies.

One of the immediate observations was that we’d brought a knife fight mentality to a cannon fight. These fish were not only obscenely large, but also omnivores that owned anything that tried to cross the river that didn’t have legs. I caught the biggest rainbow trout I’ve ever caught, and maybe even seen with my own eyes, within about 15 minutes of fishing!  After a day of dialing in casting and hook setting techniques, we were literally slaying the fish on day two.

On the Zhuponova I landed the Top Three fish of my life, and I believe almost everyone on the trip would say the same thing, although for some in our group it was more like the Top Fifteen fish of their lives. Most of these fish had never seen a fly, and they seemed to have a particular bit of spite for anything with fur trying to cross the stream. Jeff caught a 32” rainbow, (one of the largest Ryan has ever seen on this run) and a testament not to our fishing capabilities, but to the sheer number and size of fish the river ecosystem supports.

During our time on the Zhupanova, the outfitters made us fish every night.  I believe it was all Dolly Varden char they were cooking, and those were some of the best meals of the trip. When some of the guys mentioned that they’d be bringing a dozen or so dollies for dinner, it perked the team right up, even knowing that they weren’t talking about the two-legged kind.

Fishing on the Zhupanova was awesome and the food was just incredible, particularly the fish. They have the best-smoked salmon I have ever tasted, and I never got sick of it.  It was a staple that complimented every meal. The outer layer was smoked harder and was thick and tough, but underneath is was more like sashimi – soft and buttery. In the end, we’d experienced both sides of the local fisheries—catching and eating, and walked away with a completely new respect for bug eaters and mice vacuums.

It’s not often that I can look at a river and not know the right path to take, but as I stood on the banks of the Zhupanova River in western Kamchatka, I was at a loss to figure out what I should do. The rapid ahead was more of a riffle, while downstream I could see flat water that wrapped around the corner and out of sight. It was a kayaker’s Bunny Slope, yet I was feeling floundered, so I stayed glued to every word our guide was telling us.

“You see the water pouring over the gravel bar, and how it merges with the faster current? Right there is where you want to put your fly. Let it drift down in the fast water and I can almost guarantee you will get a hit.”

“Guarantee?” The only guarantee here was that my backcast was going to look as bad as my forward cast. I may be a class-5 river expert, but as a fly-fisherman I was a nymph. Luckily, I was on the Zhupanova River, where the resident trout population is that of a major tropical state and massive rainbow trout take umbrage with anything with fins, fur or feathers that crosses their view.

After two source-to-sea descents in Kamchatka, we got more into the biology of the rivers and spent time with legendary fly-fishing guide and Zen Caster Ryan Peterson of The Fly Shop for a five-day trip down the Zhupanova River. As kayakers we can typically look at a rapid and understand exactly where the water is moving and what our line should be through it. As a fly-fishing guide, Ryan could look at what to us appeared to be a still pool and see fish. Big ass fish. Fish hiding out of the current behind the boulders, sulking in the pools, and laying in ambush along the banks. Fish that once you knew were there, you noticed at every turn of the head.

While we approach rivers from the float atop the water, Ryan approaches them from all facets: atop, just under the surface, down deep, whatever, as long as your fly passes in front of the fish.

What I had always seen as a shallow gravel bar on a bend in the river, Ryan sees it as a spot that creates an eddy on the inside of the bend where fish called Dolly Varden like to wait in the shallow, fast-moving water for food to drop over the rocks. It was simple enough: the salad bar was at the little pool where the water drops down and carved roast beef rolled around to the back of the boulder.

As a fisherman, when you find a bar where Dolly’s are hanging out, you can belly up, grab a beer and catch 15-inch fish until your fingers cramp to form the letter “C.” Rainbows on the other hand, like faster water with big boulders that create mid-current eddies where they can sulk and cherry pick from the conveyor belt. Pink and Sockeye salmon hug the banks and ride the small eddies as they migrate upstream.

We floated the river trying to disengage from being above it and concentrate on what lies below the surface, something that had an attitude about wet flies. In the evenings, when it became obvious that fly fishing was not our best hunter/gatherer trait we ventured into the dark arts of spin casting in order to catch a dozen Dollies for dinner. It was more painful to Ryan than anyone else, as he tried to convince us that the process was more important than the catch—a tenet that was tough to swallow when your stomach is growling.

I’ve always understood the grasp of whitewater kayaking, but have wondered what would make someone leave the confines of their homes to stand in frigid water repetitively waving their fishing rods at empty water. Now I get it, more so than not.

On day two, Jeff came tight on a massive rainbow trout with shoulders like a linebacker. I tried to stifle my laugh as I watched him rock dance down river, soaking everything below his shoulders in a desperate attempt to hold a fish vertical for a hero shot. As I sat there, I began to see how the perfect rapid and the perfect fish could satisfy the same intrinsic desires of both kayakers and anglers.

We’re back in Kamchatka now, after our four-day trip on the Zhupanova River. Instead of plastic rocket floats our focus turned towards the abundance of fish on the Kamchatka peninsula. We even contributed to a Monster Fish show segment with host Zeb Hogan while there. The change was nice, and the humility palatable to the point of being humorous.

Less than a year ago we struck up our dialogue with Ryan Peterson about fishing the Zhupanova. He spoke of giant rainbow trout, tens of thousands of salmon, bears and a river ecosystem as pristine as it was 10,000 years ago. And he showed us nothing less.

Once we knew what we were looking for, we saw more fish that at any point in time in our lives. We saw five species of salmonids and paddled over thousands and thousands of fish working their way upstream. The sight has left us speechless. Knowing that a place this wild, healthy and pristine still exists was a cause for pause and a chance to reflect on the purpose of the expedition.

This afternoon, we’re taking advantage of good weather and getting on a heli to see the salmon and bears at Kuril Lake.

By Ethan Smith

There are drops at home I’ve spent countless hours mulling over, talking about with friends, calculating lines on, and usually not running. It’s the kayaker’s way—life before foolish death.

This waterfall, however, located on the Karimskaya River on the east coast of Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula, was different. From the first moment I saw it out the open window of our ancient Soviet MI-8 helicopter, I knew I was going to run it. And I knew I was going to stick it.

The feeling wasn’t so much a desire as an awareness of a predestined eventuality. That was about the extent of my train of thought before my team and I turned our focus towards the volcano erupting on the other side of the helicopter. I didn’t think about the waterfall beyond that moment until the next afternoon, as I was debating the merits of plastic underwear while peering over its lip.

All six of my friends on our team scouted the waterfall from the left, from the right, from above and from below, and the consensus was that there is no dishonor in portage. The 60′ rope we hung from the lip fell just a few feet short of the green pool at the base so we deemed the spot 60-Foot Falls.

All six of us saw the line and general lack of aeration in the pool, and understood the hospital deductibles a bad line would satisfy. My problem was that the entrance was perfect: a riffle with a few small landmark waves rolled over a dome-shaped rock before entering freefall, creating a perfect entry angle towards the most aerated part of the pool below. It was all-good, except for the pillow, which from the top looked to be about the size of a sponge.

More than a foot of separation between our boats and the falling water would mean landing in hard-as-concrete green water, which best case scenario means you walk like an Egyptian for a few days. Miss the pillow, and compressed vertebrae or the loss of integrity in one or more bones, which would result in an expensive and time-consuming helicopter evacuation out of the remote wilderness.

The obvious call was to take the portage route we’d already begun to set up down the cliff adjacent to the river-left flank of the waterfall and live to kayak another day. We were still more than 20 miles from our pick-up point where this river met the ocean, and I knew that many challenging sections of whitewater lay ahead.

In addition to looking out for my own wellbeing, was the consideration of my team, which I knew would be pissed if I seriously killed myself. At that point they would have to abandon any attempt to make a first descent of this river, with the evacuation consuming a mountain of time and money, throwing a huge lynchpin in the remaining three weeks of river exploration we had been planning for nearly two years.

The tension grew as all five of my teammates gradually decided not to take the plunge and lined their boats down the cliff instead. Every moment presented an opportunity for me to bail out, to take the safe route, to play the honorable portage card I’ve laid down many times before. But I knew I could stick it.

“What are you thinking” became a common question from teammates. I hadn’t said “no” yet, but I hadn’t really said “yes” either. Even as camera angles were established and teammates set up safety for me, the left side of my brain was screaming: “You’re f*#@ing stupid! Abort! Abort!” But for a reason I can’t explain, a stronger voice within held true to the peaceful awareness I’d felt in the helicopter. I was going to run this line, and I was going to run it well.

With support, affirmations and the establishment of who gets which of my possessions from my team, I cinched myself into my kayak, checked all my gear, and ferried to my starting position above the entrance riffles. I was done with stressing about the drop, it was going to end well or I was going to be immortalized on film, and I started to focus on the task at hand. The cameras were rolling, the safety set below, and the ball was in my court, albeit a little ball. As I peeled out of the eddy the event was set in motion with no way to stop, and that was okay.

The approach went as planned and I held a confident left draw over the lip. Bending forward towards my deck I caught a quick glimpse of the landing far below before I

released my paddle into the charged mist and clutched the chines of my hull, bracing for impact.

In that moment of freefalling clarity I felt lucky: for having a good angle and position, for having the support of a great team, for being in this place, for being alive and for molded plastic between me and the impact below. The fates that had brought me to this moment embraced me there, and held me in a trance as I hit the pool, resurfaced upright to cheers and fist-pumps from my team, and hand-paddled to edge of the pool.

Perhaps someday I’ll be able to explain why I wasn’t all that excited or pumped up in the minutes that followed, why I didn’t feel a simple sense of accomplishment so much as a deep sense of deliverance, honor, and appreciation. For now my best explanation is that pointing my kayak down a 60′ waterfall was only the outcome of a far greater personal leap: remembering how to trust my intuition and follow through with a crazy-sounding goal amidst an erupting volcano of real danger and perceived risks. Or maybe it was the fact that I’d just free fallen 60 feet of cosmic waterfall and slammed the doggie out of my face.

Our group’s gear held up remarkably well over the duration of the trip, and we were incredibly psyched to have such great gear from our sponsors. I never really pinballed my kayak during the trip, but my helmet got a bit reconfigured when I landed off the 60’ falls.

I landed just how I wanted to, tucked forward against my cockpit in a protected position. However, I failed to anticipate the bill on my helmet (shaped a bit like a baseball hat) hitting the implosion bar in my skirt (an aluminum bar that prevents the neoprene skirt from separating from the kayak during high impacts) when I landed. The impact broke the bill in a concave arc, which proceeded to slam me across the bridge of my nose. I was able to salvage the helmet and used it the rest of the trip, but the resulting black eyes lasted a week and a half and made me look like I’d gotten into a pretty good bear fight.

We have just returned to Petroplavosk, the capital of Kamchatka after completing our second source-to-sea first descent of the Karimskya River to the North. This was an absolutely incredible, mind-blowing trip.

With one exception we had arranged to have these archaic MI-8 helos pick us up in rural grass fields in order to avoid the security screenings, fees, bribes, strip searches and hassles associated with the official helipad airports located in Yelisovo and Petroplavosk. So far, we’ve had the full gamut of pilot types, from close-shaven uniformed young guns eager to have their pictures taken in front of their birds to grizzled veterans who probably learned to fly these helicopters as Soviet gunships. The only pilot clichés we’re missing right now are Han Solo from Star Wars and Ted Striker from the movie Airplane.

Everything about the Karimskaya River was just surreal. Flying into it you could see a lot of the first day’s waterfalls, which was getting everyone super stoked on the flight up river. The landing zone where the river starts is at the base of this massive volcano that was spewing smoke and ash every 3-4 minutes. To add to the thermal visuals were hot springs at the put in, which was only a few hundred yards from the first waterfall and the Soviet Bikini Team (only kidding). The amazing beauty and crazy volcanic activity did, however, set the tone for a great river trip.

The water in the river was frigid as it is mainly generated from snowmelt, with the exception when you pass a geyser which felt like you were peeing in your wetsuit.  Coming from the Pacific Northwest we’re all used to paddling in cold water year-round so I don’t think we even noticed our numbing appendages and just dressed accordingly.

We had a first glimpse of the Karimskaya River on the flight into our first source to sea on the Semalyichik River and knew we would have several solid days of whitewater paddling which had the crew giddy as kids on the way to a carnival. The upper section consisted of long stretches of flat water punctuated by giant waterfalls and slides, and as we approached the ocean we found amazing class 4 read-and-run whitewater. Simply put, it was as perfect an exploratory trip as they come. The only thing missing was a riverside micro-brewery.

The logistics here have been as exciting as the rivers we have paddled. This trip consisted of taking a giant Russian MI8 helicopter to the put-in and then using a sailboat to make the 20 hour journey back to the capital. To have completed two incredible source-to-sea descents in just under two weeks has provided a tremendous feeling of success. It’s hard to convey how wild this place truly is. Waiting on the beach for our sailboat we combed the beach next to countless brown bear and wolf tracks.

Two words exemplify the terrain:  Bear prints!  Every camp, and I mean e-v-e-r-y s-i-n-g-l-e camp, had tons of bear prints.  It always gave us pause whether we should camp there lest we become a mansicle, but finally it became normal to just see so many prints that it probably would have felt strange to set up a camp without the prints nearby.

One of the camps on the Karymsky River had a bear trail on it that was so well worn it looked like the Appalachian Trail and was so well trodden that it was hard to imagine that people didn’t make it. The concept of that many bears walking that trail with regularity gave new meaning to the term “urban.”

We were always aware of the threat posed by bears and made a racket everywhere we went to alert them to our presence. We portaged around unrunnable sections of river (well, only unrunnable if you’re concerned about maintain skeletal integrity) several times on the Karymskaya and Semilychik, and quickly found that Kamchatka probably has one of the best-maintained bear-trail networks on the planet.

Bears retrace their paths day-in and day-out, creating these perfect three to four foot wide graded highways that tunnel through otherwise impassable grasses and brush that rarely sunk below our plane of vision. We were left little choice but to warily follow these tunnels whilst blasting whistles, banging boats, singing show tunes and crossing our fingers for the best.

Bears were also in the forefront of our thoughts as we selected nightly camp sites. We were usually able to locate islands or large clearings that would at least provide us two to three seconds of warning if a bear approached in the night—enough time if you were awake to get a head start on the others still sleeping. It was a common saying in camp that you didn’t have to be the fastest person in the group, you just had to spot the bear first and push or trip someone before running away.

There have been no signs of humans on these rivers, just the wildlife that call Kamchatka home. While we have been excited about the pure exploration of these rivers we have also begun collecting hydrological data that the kayaks are lending themselves to do very well too. From here we will transition into exploring rivers that are prime salmon and trout habitat.

 Any time you plan an expedition, you can expect to see those plans bottle rocket once or twice. You can spend all the time you want doing research, making calls and throwing cash as problems, but everything from missed airline connections to language barriers are going to hamper those efforts, particularly when traveling to a country that’s had pretty much zero exposure to the Brazilian cut bikini.

 In other words, logistical issues are going to take place. Either gut it out or find the nearest vodka manufacturing facility until you drink enough that your big girl panties fit. The reality is that unless the snafu at hand denies access to a river or the weather is going to kill everyone in the party, it’s pretty much the norm for traveling to a mountainous remote arctic tundra. There’s a reason it’s hard to get to—no one goes there often!

 Knowing this, we built some flexibility into our schedules, or at least planned to, with the exception of the flight in and trip to the first location, the Semelychik River, which is on the border of the Kronotsky reserve on the southeast side of the Kamchatka Peninsula. Once we missed our connection in Moscow due to missing luggage, we paved the way for our first major setback, however failure never met Martha Madsen, our Russian fixer-host, translator, bribe and logistical coordinator, guide, security blanket and Mom-away-from home.

 We’d already thrown Martha a curve ball a week before our departure, changing our initial arrival plans to kayak the Kol River Biostation, instead opting for the most radical, trecherous whitewater we could find. After all, we’d been on a plane for two days, and nothing breaks that “I need to choke the living crap out of someone” stress like a life threatening experience.

 From the start, we were in the weeds. Fortunately Martha was able to do that Houdini, puff of smoke stuff that got the helicopter pilots to postpone the flight into the Semaliyach River a couple hours, meaning we would be boarding the heli five hours after landing in Petropavlovsk. In other words, someone needed to die!

 Upon landing in Petropavlovsk, we tightened up our boats and gear for the hundredth time, were fed an amazing salad from Martha’s garden to refuel, and then found ourselves boarding an MI-8 Soviet-era helicopter before we even had a chance to let the jet lag kick in. At this point, the reality set in and everyone realized we were flying blind into the Russian outback.  

 While there are many rivers waiting to be kayaked for the first time, few regions of the globe have yet to be explored by kayakers. The sport is well-enough evolved that sooner or later, some kayaker, had fished, ecotoured, visited or been dragged away screaming that there had to be a kayak rental nearby had an idea what a trip to that location requires.

 And these kayakers pass down valuable information in the way of flow seasons, potential drainages, or valuable contacts that might be able to provide information on everything from courses to take to local watering holes to avoid. In Kamchatka, we had no such intel—we were essentially jumping into the unknown, expecting the worst, hoping for the best, and washing our underwear daily.

 What made us choose the Semelychik River was Google Earth. The river just looked unreal from the Interweb. Granted, we knew almost nothing else – flows, gradient, volume – but we could see whitewater, which meant speed, descent and turmoil, and that was more than we knew about any of the other rivers. Did I mention that at that point in our trip we felt like we were living in a dog eat dog world wearing Milkbone underpants? 

 Just pulling off the heli logistic felt like a success in and of itself. Flying up the headwaters to the Semaliyach and seeing a boatable flow in an appropriately sized river would feel like this might be Kamchatka dishing out a little beginner’s luck.

 With few maintained roads and laws against private airplane ownership, helicopters are the de facto way to get around Kamchatka, and the twin-turbo shaft MI-8 rules the skies. About the size of an Oscar Meyer Weinermobile with 35’ long blades, the MI-8’s we rode in housed a two-pilot cockpit and a large storage bay/cabin with folding benches along the sides and an often-battered and odiferous fuel tank.

 Every four feet was a small hatch window that could be opened, and we removed the passenger door behind the cockpit on the flight out so we could shoot video and toss someone out if we started to loose altitude. The aft section of the MI-8 is made up of two large hinged doors that swing open to the sides, and we loaded boats and gear into the bay through these doors, then prayed the latches worked so our entire expedition didn’t get a crash course in free falling.

 Suspect. That’s how these dinosaurs of the helicopter family looked. Slightly terrifying and more like a flying school bus than a helicopter, yet trustworthy at the same time.  Just don’t step out the cargo space when in the air, or you’re not going to like the “thump” that breaks your fall. Unlike most helicopters I’ve had experience with in the U.S., Russians don’t seem to require seatbelts, which was nice for moving around to get views and photos out one of the portholes.

 Like so many rivers the world over, the Semelychik is not that different being at its basic level a mixture of rocks and water flowing through a river valley.  A few unique traits were that it had a landslide that damned up the river into a natural “lake” (backwater), with a large (almost unrunnable) rapid at its exit.  One attribute that was very unique were the hot springs and geysers, literally bubbling out of the river itself so that you paddled from cold to crabpot on a regular basis.  The river is on the border of the Kronotsky reserve, which is home to the valley of the geysers. 

 The remoteness of the Semelychik was amazing, and being able to paddle from its origin all of the way to the Bering Sea was an incredible experience. Additionally, this was the first time any of us had ever used a sailboat as a shuttle vehicle.

 Another curve ball we were thrown (more like a wild pitch) was the “Ranger Issue.” The Semilychik River defines the southern border of the Kronotsky Nature Preserve, and is thus illegal to travel along without being accompanied by a park “Ranger,” aka Barney Fife with unlimited bullets. We didn’t find this out until we were literally boarding the helicopter to go there and decided to reconfirm our destination on a map with our translator. Good thing we did, because all the Russains thought we were heading to the next drainage to the south, outside the preserve.

 Being joined by a non-paddler for a class V exploratory mission obviously was not going to work for us, particularly when he talked with that Barney Fife whine with a Russian Accent, and for a tense moment it looked like we might have to send the chopper away and find a different river. Luckily for us, however, two grizzled rangers stationed at an outpost at the mouth of the Semilychik had asked us for a free lift (which we of course granted them) only an hour before. Karma was on our side, and five minutes of waiver signing and stern instructions to “leave-absolutely-no-trace later,” we’d been granted an exception to the law and were on our way.

 We camped right above the final canyon on day two, and planned to paddle out to the ocean the following day. We scouted the gorge for a while that evening, which was several hundred yards long with a marginal entrance rapid with the whole gorge ending in a massive river-wide sieve. The middle section looked fantastically dangerous, so we were eager to try to figure how to run as much of it as possible.

The next morning we headed downstream and scouted the gorge again and discovered a line at the exit of the gorge that went under a rockpile, but looked like a good sneak through to the sieve pile. We ran the gorge in pairs with the rest of the team sitting safety above the sieve.

 Here’s the scene in Ethan’s words:

“With the rest of the team holding ropes or cameras along the side of the rapid, I dropped in first. I hesitated a moment too long when I arrived at the top of the crux, and completely missed my window to get into the left channel. This was not good; as there were no other clean outlets we’d seen in this jumble.”

 “As I approached a fast and manky slide into a pile of logs that would almost certainly spell death, I aimed for a six foot ledge just to its right that would land me in a shallow pool locked between several boulders and managed to scrape my way through the rapid unscathed.”

  “A few moments later Jay came downstream, unaware of my dramatically sketchy, and incredibly lucky line. Jay nailed the entrance and entered the crux right where he wanted to. However, the sideways current underneath the two boulders he was sneaking under was stronger than we’d gauged, and he was swiftly flipped over and he and his boat literally disappeared under one of the boulders.”

“We all just about crapped our panty liners at this point. This was REALLY not good. After a few tense moments of establishing a rescue plan above these boulders, we heard Jay’s voice and I was able to shimmy into a pocket just large enough for the two of us, between the boulder he’d been sucked under and a cliff on the left bank of the river. Several minutes and a lot of yelling/coordinating later, we had both Jay and his boat out of the pocket and onto safe ground. Sufficed to say, we counted our blessings and the rest of the team wisely portaged the rapid that we collectively named, Plan Z.”

 Jay saw it differently:

“I dropped in after Ethan and had an excellent line as I headed into the final sneak move. As I dropped over the ledge and set up to go under the rock, the current submerged my bow and pushed my bow under the rock wall on the left. I struggled for several long seconds to stabilize myself, but I was slowly getting pushed under a large rock that was being fed by most of the current.”

 “I noticed some light to my left, and for reasons I can not explain, pushed myself deeper under the rock wall and emerged a few seconds later in a small partially lit room with less downstream current and was able to stabilize myself. I could hear everyone moving around above me with some screaming “Jay’s dead!,” and others laying claim to my gear, bank account and two of three ex-girlfriends, but within a minute Ethan had climbed down into this little cave and stabilized me before helping me climb out.”

 “This whole experience was probably scarier for everyone watching, but I felt very lucky to have avoided a near miss and having to explain in Heaven what my friends were pursuing from my exes.”

 Finding basalt gorges filled with slides, boulder gardens, and the occasional waterfall series felt like we were a group of prospectors who had just struck gold. Completing the source-to-sea descent on time without incident had the team flying high, and when we surfed our way down the coastline to our 36-foot blow boat shuttle … there was nothing to bring down the team’s spirits.

 Nothing, that is, except 40+ knot winds, 5-meter seas, and 19 hours of seasickness for most of the crew, including the two captains of the ship. However, not even a little purging of freeze-dried Beef Stroganoff could keep the team from feeling like our first mission on the ground in this remote corner of the world was anything but a success!

Now, another change of plans—on to a river we flew over and confirmed the whitewater with real kayakers (us that is), but still prepared for failure and hoping for success.

 We rode an ancient Soviet era helicopter, were the first to kayak a river we couldn’t pronounce, shot class V rapids with death defying aplomb, almost got to date one of Jay’s ex-girlfriends and sailed our way back. We completed the Semelyichik in three days from source to sea, and on the flight there we spotted another river that looked amazing, but very difficult. We fly in there next and will hopefully be out to the ocean in 5 days.

Moscow-Russia

You have no idea how sore your butt can get and how mentally trying it is to breathe canned air while rubbing shoulders with the person next to you until you’ve flown to Moscow. This was by far the longest journey by air any of us had ever embarked on—one where the stress meter ramped up to “ballistic” until we knew everyone and all our gear were safely on the way. Once in the air, there was nothing we could do about it, but even still, the monotony was trying. Flying across 21 time zones with all the kits for an expedition had us scrambling pretty much all the time our feet were on terra firma.

  When we landed in Moscow we had to transfer from the international terminal to a domestic terminal to catch our domestic connection to Petroplavosk where we could finally relax before hitting the tundra.  From the start it was no small task with six whitewater kayaks and a month worth of expedition gear, then throw in the suntanned American’s limited Russian fluency factors and the effort bottle-rocketed into the ionosphere.

 The standard mode of transportation from one airport to the next was a shuttle bus, a small van-like vehicle much like the rental car shuttles we see in the states. We figured we could commandeer one of the busses and get all our stuff on board and over to the next terminal, which of course, went over like a tourist with a bad rash.       

Like kids with eyes bigger than their stomach, it was immediately apparent that that was going to be a big mistake.  We could not manage to get more than a boat or two on at a time, and it caused us some major headaches, not to mention that everyone else traveling was following their own schedule, so they weren’t very supportive of our efforts to take over their ride. We realized that we had to get aggressive if we were going to get any of the boats into the luggage area, which was about ten minutes before anyone in our group realized the lack of apathy for the boys with the plastic boats.  

 It didn’t take long for us to get everyone pissed off, which in Russia comes with ambiguous verbal and non-verbal insinuations, insults and threats. What started as a passive shuttle transfer turned into a political joust where we were trying to manage the anger and just get from point A to B to catch our flight, which was like kicking the travelers dogs in front of them. In the end, it would have been faster to shuttle to the domestic terminal by foot with carts.  

 With lots of luck, strategy and American ingenuity, we managed to miss our domestic connection to Petroplavosk, and were stuck in the domestic terminal with six boats and all the gear. Fortunately Petroplavosk is a big city, so we only had to wait 24 hours or so for the next flight. Utilizing minimal ingenuity and liberal gratuity, we somehow managed to convince Aeroflot to check our luggage, then went to Moscow for the evening to blow off some steam.  

 The next day we embarked on the 9 hour flight across Russia to the Kamchatka peninsula, where we were elated to land at a very small airport and were even more excited to see all our gear. After the debacle at the shuttle bus, we all kind of expected word to get out on the Internet and for it to turn into a national joke to send our expedition to Kazakhstan to find out if someone that’s been eating bread and yak butter three meals a day for the last year would be any more willing to let us commandeer their shuttle busses.  

 We were greeted by our fixer Martha Madsen, who told us in Englissian we needed to hustle because the weather window to get a helicopter flight into our first river was closing in.  If we did not get on an Mi8 helicopter within the next three hours, we would be stuck in Petroplavosk for several days. So maybe we were part of a national joke.

 The energy was frantic, well as frantic as you can be when you’ve just traveled for 48 days straight and were hustling to pull food and gear together to get into a Soviet era helicopter with Russian speaking pilots within three hours of arriving. They could just as easily have been taking us skydiving.

 Fortunately we had brought a healthy supply of Alpine Air freeze dried food, so we could put meal plans together quickly.  The next step was getting Martha to show the heli pilots where we wanted to actually go and to make sure they knew we’d be generously responsive upon arrival. All-in-all, we were in a heli heading to our first source-to-sea descent within four hours of landing in Kamchatka.  

 The arrival pace was hectic, but once in the air, it began to sink in that we were getting dropped in the middle of nowhere, literally, in a more remote location than any of us had ever been. So we had that going for us. At least we weren’t going to starve, the first night.

           There are no Starbucks on the open tundra of Kamchatka, which is why there’s 150 pounds of freeze-dried food being packed in boxes for the trip. While the option of eating salmon and other freshwater species on a daily basis is there, the thought of eating fish three times a day seems to leave a bad taste in our mouth. Not having a World Class chef in the mix doesn’t help, but as long as the coffee is warm and strong most of us could survive on a liquid diet—we’re from Seattle.

            There’s also the possibility that the local brown bear population could figure out that the little cellophane packages have tasty centers (which is better than them knowing the kayaks have them as well), and could raid the entire food stash in a single soiree. That would mean a diet of strictly fish along with side orders of another kind of fish, and for dessert…more fish.

            Along with the food are our kayaks (five in all) and more video and still camera equipment than the average reality television show, but it’s important to us that we be able to capture the moment in varied forms of media—so important that everyone is willing to hump the extra weight inside their yaks.

            Did I mention that we also plan to carry camping gear and personal clothing along? I know that in a pinch we only need two sets of clothing—one to wear during the daytime and one to wear while our daytime clothing is drying at night—yet none of us has ever gotten over the comfort-over-style factor, which explains the normal loads. Yet with the exception of the kayaks we’re still under the baggage weight limit, which hopefully means someone didn’t forget to pack their tent or that their baggage has ?ahs a tapeworm. There’s not enough vodka in all of Russia to make me want to sit through a shivering night on the open tundra with no cover. Then again, if you started counting stars, it’d be daylight before you got to Orion.

            The most daunting segment of our trip seems to be getting there. Just in case 33 hours of transit aren’t stressful enough, there’s the potential that when we do get to Russia, none of our flights, plans or arrangements will be honored or even acknowledged. Then there are the little things, like will the retired Soviet Military helicopters fall out of the sky? Or, How will we get all our gear from the International Airport to the Domestic Airport without having to crack open a trust fund? Oh, and none of the group speaks Russian.

Kamchatka, Eastern Siberia, Russia—

THE STORY:

Six Class 5 experienced kayakers work their ways from river to coast braving extreme conditions, crazy rapids and runs, a hungry native bear population and the mechanical soundness of aged helicopters to study and document the native salmon populations. Scientists estimate that between 1/6 and ¼ of the entire Pacific salmon population spawns on the Kamchatka peninsula, and in some areas you can cross the river by literally walking across the backs of fish.

With no dams or habitat destruction to threaten the salmon, the burden has turned to man—in essence, poachers looking for salmon eggs to support the Russian caviar industry. Between the Russian Mafia, well-financed and outfitted poachers and individuals looking to make enough money in three months to cover their bills for the rest of the year, the poachers play a game of cat-and-mouse with the limited law enforcement charged with protecting the fish stocks.

Join our party through thirty-three hours of transit as they hump 150-pounds of freeze-dried food, six kayaks all the gear and two massive camera bags through the Kamchatka wilderness. You’ll be shocked, awed and horrified at what happens next.

 THE ADVENTURE:

Kamchatka sounds more like a Russian greeting than some of the most desolate arctic tundra on the face of the planet. Work your way up the western U.S. coastline and into Alaska, when you hit Kodiak, turn left and if the currents of the Bering Sea don’t throw you off course, you should hit the leaf-like 600 mile long Kamchatka Peninsula.

Once forcibly depopulated to become a major military outpost during the Cold War, Kamchatka was reopened to the population in 1989, and to tourism in 1990, which is why there is less than one person for every kilometer on the peninsula, most of which live in the capital city of Petroplavosk. Once you are outside the city, it’s you, 114 active Holocene volcanoes, wolverines that don’t like hats and nine major river systems, which is why kayaking is the best form of transportation…once the helicopter lands.   

There’s only one major road through the Kamchatka Mountains, if you could call it a road, so Cold War era military helicopters are utilized to transport the kayaks and gear deep into the arctic tundra, where the plan is to be the first humans to kayak the rivers…ever. Along the way are Class 5 Rapids and the opportunity to name a run. Good options that come to mind are: Gifford’s Broke Neck Pass; Hazboun’s Skull Cracker; or Smith’s Drowning Pool. Break a leg here and there’s no Walk-In medical care. Just crawl your way to shore and wait for the helicopter to get there, hopefully without becoming bear scat.

Did I mention the bears? Kamchatka is home to one of the densest brown bear populations in the world, with footprints, scat and sign on literally every shoreline. Any time you find bears in these concentrations you also find fish—in this case native populations of rainbow trout, dolly varden, pink and sockeye salmon and Pacific salmon that outnumber the humans 100,000 to one.

THE PLAYERS:

Robert Bart        30  Hood River, OR   Educator 

Jay Gifford         30  Hood River, OR   PR, Fundraising Kayaker

Jeff Hazboun      32  Corvallis, OR       Biologist             Kayaker

Shane Robinson 36  Seattle, WA       Cameraman/Legal Kayaker

Bryan Smith       33  Squamish, BC       Director             Kayaker

Ethan Smith       28   Portland, OR         Web Geek       Kayaker