The best and most gripping reads about river adventures that make you feel like you are in the boat with them

This book covers the most famous canoe trip of them all: John Wesley Powell's courageous exploration through the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River. No one knew what the Grand Canyon was like; no one had ever run it, and no one even knew where it ended. What I particularly liked about the book is the way it is written, a genuine thriller, and as a reader, I am right there in the boats with Powell and his small crew, most of whom had never been in a boat before…to say nothing of the most dangerous water in America. Another big plus is that the narrative draws on the diaries of three of the members, so I am reading the complaints and hardships from several sources. 

Rather, miraculously, they built their own boats and then plunged into the "unknown." Major Powell took the lead boat, and the fact that he had only one arm (the other was lost in the Civil War) did not deter him from stopping to climb high canyon walls with his surveying and transect gear, stand on narrow ledges, and mark his bearings for an eventual map.

They had started their journey on relatively quiet water well above the Grand Canyon, and they took a few spills before getting the hang of it. Once into the Grand Canyon, Colorado became more dangerous than expected, with massive rapids around blind turns through high canyon walls. I have heard many rapids, and some I would not run. Boxed into the Canyon, they had no choice. After several weeks, two members of the party chose to walk out and were later found dead. Six of them finally made it. To the amazement of the public, which assumed they had perished.

Theodore Roosevelt's equally courageous descent of an unknown tributary of the Amazon. What drew me to the book was the fact that the former President, no longer a young man, went through an incredibly hostile environment. Living in Louisiana, I have explored and indeed become lost in several large swamps, but none like this one. And none with no possibility of rescue. At points like this in a book, I am thinking, what would I do in the tight fix they were facing? Guessing ahead.

And then it was the boats. Unable to ram larger vessels through the jungle, they settled for dugout canoes that were inherently unstable, yet more so when carrying their gear. Yet they had to run very fast water at times, over unseen obstacles, and managed to survive the turnovers. The jungle itself became the enemy. It provided little food to eat, vegetables or animals, and harbored poisonous snakes, stinging insects, and occasional groups of indigenous people with poisoned arrows. The fish were often lethal, too, including the piranhas, who specialized in eating flesh. 

Late into the trip, Roosevelt caught a severe fever and urged the rest of the party to leave him. Instead, they paddled him out, and he survived. A century later, one of his grandsons took a far better-equipped expedition on the same river. Although by this time, they at least had a map, their trip was a voyage of horrors, and they emerged with great relief. 

This may be the most charming book about canoeing I know. Largely because it covered so much ground and so many rivers, almost randomly, and because my wife and I found its protagonist to be a once-in-a-lifetime individual.  Which happened to be what everyone he encountered thought too.

By way of background, he had never paddled before. But he had exploring on his mind, and a canoe was the easiest way to carry gear. He had been a Navy veteran, a nurse, and a brilliant student who consumed history and science like an omnivore. We get to know him through his often-daily journal entries, his letters back to his family and a young woman he had met, and the recollections of the people he ran into in remote places and treated him with fondness and wonder. A raconteur without equal, he left his mark in bars, laundromats, and grocery stores, and two days later, he'd be off in his canoe once again. 

I found myself hoping for a happy ending. He had met a woman. He wrote her from time to time and was ready to leave his wanderings and at least go see her again. Unfortunately, his last trip took him down the East Coast, and he was last seen on the shore of Chesapeake Bay. His boat was offshore and still held his paddles and gear. He was never seen again.

Six experienced American whitewater kayakers took on what was perhaps the last river few had ever seen, and no one had fully run. It ran down from the high mountains of India, and their timing could not have been worse. After two weeks of heavy rain, even the upstream section was over its banks and running at near-turnpike speed. 

The skill levels of these six men were at the top of the game. They had won awards in kayak competitions, and had run everything difficult they could find in North America. I have no love of kayaking. Rather, I enjoy sitting higher in a canoe where I can see things over the banks around me, and can always bail-out and swim if I flip. However, at least for me, canoeing this water at this level would be suicide. 

Similar to the Grand Canyon at the time of Powell, it ran through yet narrower rock walls, unmapped rapids, and sudden falls that required portaging the boats up and over the cliffs, sometimes for a mile or more, and then descending to a new place to a new launch place. I have humped a few portages myself, far more exhausting than paddling, and they can be as dangerous as the rapids themselves. And so I am rooting for them, every page. 

Some ten days into the trip, after making considerable progress, they found themselves facing a dangerous fall with a blind turn beyond. There was a way to rope the boats along the edge of the river, but one member, the most senior of the group, attempted to run it, flipped over his kayak, struggled to come up, and disappeared. The trip was then abandoned, and to this day, no one has competed this descent. 

In all, a chilling read.

This is a book I related to closely because I have paddled in northern Canada for weeks at a time and am well aware of the biting black flies, wind in your face, and fickle weather. 

It tells the story of a 600-mile paddle from a camp along the Canadian border that trained wilderness paddlers, starting as young as twelve. This trip was the capstone of the camp's training and consisted of six late-teenagers and one experienced guide. The trip faced many unexpected challenges, including ice flows and packs of slush too thick to go through but too soft to wade on. As usual, I am experiencing these obstacles right along with them and assessing the options. With considerable ingenuity, the boys manage to push and drag the canoes, fully loaded with gear, through the pack and keep going. In one stretch, it rained for four days in a row. And I am wet along with them. 

Near the end of the trip, a 17-year-old paddler ran into a Grizzly Bear, which proceeded to stalk and maul him. He finally fell down, as if dead, and after some further bites, the Bear finally left. With only one useful leg, he managed to make his way back down to camp, and it became a survival story. Astonishingly, he is up and paddling the next day, leaking through his bandages. His wounds turn septic. In the end, he is flown out by helicopter, hospitalized, and emerges safe and sound. 

Perhaps the most amazing fact of the book is that a similar group of girls from the same Camp took a slightly different route and made it all the way. I would love to read their own account someday.