Rafting at the Top of the World

Time to think.

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After several days of sweating adrenaline on this river, I can't imagine its turgid waters lazily slipping through the countryside. To the locals, Marsyangdi means "raging river." It's a fitting moniker for one of the premiere whitewater descents in the world. Its course carves a twisting path through the lush central hill region, spilling away from but never fully escaping the white ramparts of the Annapurna and Manaslu mountain ranges.

A steep, technical river, it demands commitment from anyone who sticks a paddle in it. The compact succession of rapids leaves little breathing room for lucid thought; when our guide Tarka fell out of the boat, I had no time to think. I simply reacted.

"Left forward!" I yelled, hoping the left side would paddle and turn the boat around, so we could shoot the next rapid head-on.

But Barry, another client, reacted, too, barking: "All back!"

Paddles whacked the water, knocking uselessly into each other. Elbows flew faster than at any NBA game as some people paddled forward and others backward, kicking up water everywhere. Pathetic. But our raft finally slipped backward, but, with the help of the river goddess, it inched away from the perilous boat-eating boulder. We quickly curled into the current as the raft righted itself. At that same moment, we saw Tarka standing on a rock in the middle of the river. Gavin was just beyond, bobbing downstream.

A cheer went up, and we high-fived our paddles in salute. We didn't look pretty coming through, but we had made it—and without Tarka to boot.

Out on the river, the only times you can think clearly are before you step in the raft and after you step out. The time on the water is about having as much fun as possible without getting hurt. To the credit of the guides at Ultimate Descents, they got a sorry looking mob of meek-minded tourists down one of Nepal's most technical rivers. And it happened so fast that I have no idea how they managed it.

We got pretty good at controlling our fear and managing the adrenaline. But we always had problems coordinating our strokes. The other two boats looked like drill teams, paddles slicing into the water with the precision of a rowing club, while ours seemed to slap the water with the grace of a bellyflopper. Nevertheless, we overcame plenty of obstacles: rapids like Instant Karma and Twinky (don't let the innocent names fool you). We pinballed through more tempestuous sections, such as Morphine and Adrenaline, and were nearly swamped by Mama's Big Butt by Bhulbhule.

That last one I remember particularly well. Everyone piled out of the raft to scout the rapid. After a few minutes, the first two groups went back to the rafts and paddled through, pretty much without incident. Of course, things couldn't go that simply for us. Our raft liked trouble.

We should have gone left, but we went right instead. A huge mistake. Once again the Good Ship Lollipop had its back to the wall, wedged sideways between two boulders. Tarka shouted orders that we earnestly tried to obey, but the ship was sinking, fast.

"Over left," barked Tarka, trying to weight one side of the raft in hopes of slipping free.

"Ooof!" Barry and I collided as he went left and I, mistakenly, dove right.

"Over left! Over left!"

But most of us had more pressing needs. Gavin and I fought for leverage against a rock using paddles. Barry used his feet to push off, and Tarka actually climbed onto one of the boulders and huffed and puffed from there. The clients in the middle of the raft just hung on as the icy Marsyangdi started pulling us under. There was no amount of pushing or pulling, it seemed, that could help us.

The boat wobbled precariously on its side and began filling up. But as with earlier run-ins, it slipped free just before the Marsyangdi could swallow it and us. The river goddess is such a kidder.

We floated freely once more, swiftly descending the river, soaked and breathing hard, unable to fully recover as another rapid approached. Now I was sitting in the front of the raft, a spot similar to that of the first car in a rollercoaster: It leaves your stomach a few steps behind.

From there, I tensely awaited the upcoming section, surveying the violent churning of what my brochure called "champagne waters." The raft bucked as the river sucked us along. The deja vu gave me goosebumps. I tensed with anticipation, then gouged the Marsyangdi with my paddle again and again.

"Aaaaaahhhhh! Aaaaargh!"

Behind me, Team Good Ship Lollipop dug in, too, flouting the river goddess and her continuous abuse. I think Tarka must have been proud.