Willoughby: Return to river grassroots a blessing
By Scott Willoughby
The Denver Post
Posted: 08/25/2009 01:00:00 AM MDT


GRAND COUNTY — Who were those people, anyway?

Not that it mattered much to the clan of a couple of hundred whitewater kayakers, rafters and campers gathered on the banks of the Colorado River for the Timberline Gore Canyon Race over the weekend. No one besides a few relieved BLM Rangers really noticed their absence.

Those who have been a part of the annual August river race for a majority of its double-decade history can easily retrace the rise and fall of the Gore Canyon Festival by pointing a finger at the poseurs who have since washed into obscurity. But instead of wasting effort placing blame, the river- wise elders decided to use that digit to do something more productive.

They pressed the reset button.

At a time when industry pundits are lamenting the demise of the whitewater kayaking industry, the 2009 Gore Canyon Race rediscovered the economics of soul. Two years after going on life support, the most recent rendition exemplified the rebirth of cool by returning to the roots spawned from Old Man River himself.

Dedicated members of the whitewater tribe have long understood that the sports of kayaking and rafting never really were about them. River running is ultimately about rivers, which is why even those who haven't picked up a paddle all summer are still inclined to make their way up to the confluence of the Blue and Colorado rivers on the third weekend of August to celebrate a special place in a special way.

Whether as competitors, spectators, volunteers or just plain paddlers, Gore Canyon rookies and veterans alike made their way into the steepest section of whitewater along the entire Colorado River to pay their respects Saturday, and quite possibly learn something along the way. While some of the state's young guns were taken to the woodshed, the oldest entrant in the race of roughly 50 rafts and kayaks — 49-year-old Charlie MacArthur of Aspen — proved he was also the fastest in the Class V canyon.

Then he spent the afternoon paddling an inflatable rubber ducky through Class II waters with his family.

This month, Outside magazine published an article outlining the demise of whitewater kayaking. According to the story, American paddlers are spending about 50 percent fewer days on the water now than at the beginning of the decade. Once prolific sponsorship dollars have dried up, and elite athletes are left looking for ways to scratch out a living in boats.

The research firm, Leisure Trends Group, points to 2002 as the peak of the sport, tallying a figure of 3.9 million kayakers combining for a questionable 14 million days on the water. By 2004, the article states, that number had fallen by half.

It comes as little surprise, then, that the Gore Canyon Festival saw similar spikes in attendance during that era, as those with pro aspirations showed up to take part in the proven Colorado classic that had earned its reputation through the efforts of folks like John Jaycox, Billy Mattison and MacArthur long before there was any such thing as a professional kayaker.

But Gore Canyon has never been about money. Jumbo television screens, big-name sponsors and pay-to-party postrace celebrations simply didn't fit. It began as a grassroots event and has endured for more than 20 years that way. Like so many of those now forgotten players, when it tried to go pro, it failed.

The low point came two years ago, when the BLM's Kremmling office took advantage of a flawed permit application to shut down the race and scatter the mob it once attracted.

True to its roots, though, the river-centric gathering remained, carrying momentum for the new race sponsors from Vail's Timberline Tours to resurrect the event officially.

And now that Timberline Gore Canyon has reset the amateur status, already it is receiving raves as the best fest anyone can remember.

The reality is that there never will be much money or glamour associated with whitewater kayaking or rafting. Those who are in it for the love find ways to make it work, either as guides or instructors or some other sort of aquatic entrepreneurs just as willing to celebrate a leisurely family float as they are a high-intensity lap through Gore.

But it's that core crew of river runners gathered around the takeout listening to Harvey and the Wallbangers through a single, small amp as a makeshift slide show flashes on a moth-covered sheet after dark that truly defines the pursuit as the ultimate in adventure-sports cool. Paddling has always had a way of weeding out the poseurs.

If that's how the so-called decline is defined, then, well, sweet. Consider it a return to the new frontier.

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