Rafting in Alaska is a glacial adventure — but don’t drink the water
Our whitewater rafting adventure began with us lining up in front of three non-flushable, portable potties. And in the rain, no less.
But there we were — 10 miles from downtown Juneau, the Alaskan capital — along with about 30 others, heeding the advice of the tour bus driver:
“You’ll be on that tinkling river a long time, so you better prepare yourselves. Remember, you’re in the wilderness. Don’t expect bathroom facilities like you have at your hotel,” he said.
So began what turned out to be the craziest, most memorable and exhilarating part of a weeklong, mid-September cruise through Alaska’s inner passage about 10 years ago.
The tour booklet plugged the 3½ -hour trip as “an exciting — yet gentle — introduction to the Mendenhall River” and an opportunity “to enjoy spectacular views of the glacier and towering peaks as you float past the forested shoreline.”
To tell the truth, I wasn’t anxious to do the rafting bit during what promised to be a depressing, 50-degree, rainy day. Touring the city seemed a more civilized alternative. But I began to waver after the tour representative’s assurance that there’s little chance of getting splashed as long as you’re not in the first row of the raft.
Then my wife Dorothy added this burst of bravado: “Let’s do something crazy once in our lives.”
Fitted with life preservers, plastic, hooded ponchos and knee-high rubber boots, we looked more like extraterrestrials than tourists in search of something to write home about. Even before our pontoon raft came into view, my wife was already spilling out water from one boot, and she had yet to put it on.
“Board this way,” a river guide demonstrated. “Rear end first.”
We clumsily complied, and were off, being rowed across Mendenhall Lake by Ken, a 20-something, rubbersuited, wise-cracking guide.
“I’ve never lost anyone yet in all my two days on this job,” he said, stifling a smile.
“How rough?” he began responding to a passenger’s concern. “Well, the river’s a category two or three, There are six categories. Really five, though, Niagara Falls would be a six.”
The ride across the grayish, milky-colored lake was smooth and scenic as advertised.
“This is real glacial water,” we were told, “not what you find bottled and represented in some stores as pure Alaska glacial water. Plant life doesn’t grow in it, and you can get the runs from drinking it.”
The rapids lay ahead, and already the squishy raft bottom was wobbling in a mixtureof rain and glacial water.
“We’ll stop on a river bank in a while,” Ken explained. “You’ll be able to get out stretch you legs, have some refreshments. Then we’ll bale out the water.”
That was still two hours away, and the river was now beginning to flex its muscle. At times the raft and its 11 occupants were dipped and jerked sideways by churning waters and tree roots and branches that popped up along the way. And the rain just kept coming.
“Sorry ’bout that,” Ken muttered after the raft suddenly plunged 5 feet, splashing everyone and bumping a protruding tree trunk.
Visibility was now reduced to a few yards by a low-hanging cloud that had settled on the river. My hands and feet were numb with cold. Between the gurgling rapids and unrelenting rain, Ken struggled to steer clear of river debris and retain his sense of humor.
“Know any good jokes?” he asked. Silence.
Abandoned rusty car remnants lining the curvy riverbank were there to prevent erosion, he said. Before disembarking on a rocky shoreline, he pointed us toward four bald eagles parked atop tall pine trees.
We were more than ready to join other whitewater sailors who were snacking on chewy, dried smoked salmon, reindeer sausage, cheese and crackers, hot chocolate and what Ken called “Martha’s Mendenhall Madness” — a mixture of Champagne, apple cider and peach schnapps.
As we indulged, some members of the group nonchalantly drifted off behind clusters of bushes and trees, apparently to leave their mark on the forest. For me, though, the hot chocolate proved the most satisfying relief.
Not long after reboarding, we were back on terra firma near where we had started, Mendenhall Lake. Peeling off foul-weather gear, we were a drenched but happy tribe that had earned bragging rights.
“Have a good time?” the bus driver asked as we prepared to pull away.
We looked at each other and just laughed.
Lewis and Clark, the intrepid early 19th-century explorers who found their way to the Pacific, would have been proud of us.