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Chenab -- The Men Who Would Be Gods International Expedition's Triumph on Treacherous Waters By Andreas Wallach (1989)      In 1976 the first exploration down the upper reaches of the Ganges River, India's sacred stream, was the subject of an episode for ABC's American Sportsman series. The late Mrs. Indira Gandhi, then India's prime minister, honored the international expedition during a ceremony before it set out for its ambitious quest. After Gandhi's assassination by her Sikh bodyguard in 1984, a memorial expedition on the Ganges was sponsored by India's government to remember her slain leader whose ashes, in ancient Hindu tradition, were given to the holy river. Indira Gandhi was known to be an adventurer at heart, eager to promote the spirit of the great outdoors to the country's youth.      The story of the first descent of the violent Chenab River in northern India's state Jammu and Kashmir begins with a veteran explorer's earlier achievements on the Ganges. Ken Warren is a name well known to the river sports community. It was a welcome proposition when Ken and his wife Jan were asked to coordinate and lead an international expedition down the Chenab, but it wasn't an easy one.Two other teams who previously attempted the same route failed shortly after they set their rafts on this justly famous Himalayan river. When the INDO USA Chenab River Expedition was announced during a New Delhi press conference on Dec. 1, 1988, there was eager anticipation among us.       For me, the adventure started about a month earlier when, as Ken's representative, I found myself flying eastbound via London to New Delhi, or so I thought. Why I arrived in Delhi on a Friday after departing Portland, Oregon the previous Sunday is a story in itself.First there was a 24-hour layover in London as a result of a bomb threat; then the flight continued, only to be interrupted by an engine failure "near Turkey." The captain briefly announced his decision for an immediate U-turn, and touchdown in Frankfurt followed some time thereafter. Two days, a dozen phone calls, and a considerable number of new friends later, I was on my way to Bombay on a different flight. Later, upon my arrival at Indira Gandhi International Airport in New Delhi, I faced a large crowd of people, many of whom wore beards and turbans that distinguished them from the others as Sikhs, followers of a religion based on Hinduism, yet separate from it. As all of them waved from the reception balcony, I identified my friend Shaukat Sikand among them. A member of a Sikh family himself, he too came in his traditional attire. The previous summer we had guided some Snake River trips through Hells Canyon on the Oregon-Idaho border, and I was puzzled now to see him in formal dress. Shakki, as we casually referred to him, had been looking for me at the airport all week as I hadn't been able to inform him of the problems. He had repeatedly read the sign "Flight #116 - arrival unknown." After an emotional farewell to my "comrades in delayed flights," I enjoyed the drive to the Sikands' residence near Delhi as Shaukat briefed me on the newest developments. Accompanying us was Kristina, a young woman from Sweden who had come to Delhi for the third time for another lesson in Koochipoodi, an ancient Indian dance. Shakki offered to take her to the designated address in Delhi. Kristina was another victim of "the never-ending journey." Finally I met Shaukat's family. His father, Air Marshall B. S. Sikand, is a high-ranking, retired officer of India's air force, a former fighter pilot who saw much combat during the wars with Pakistan; also an outdoorsman who has hunted the tiger for sport. Today he is president of Markhor Adventures, a company that specializes in organizing adventure travel such as safaris and whitewater tours. Somewhat pacified now after an exciting life, he says, "Now I only hunt with the camera."        Winding down in my mosquito-infested quarters seemed unreal and thus not at all effortless. Not one to waste time, Shakki didn't hesitate to remind me of reality. I hadn't come this far to lie around the house. Our tasks began with the next day's early departure for Markhor Adventure Ganges River base camp. Shaukat and I had our hands full. It would only be a short month before the Warrens and the other expedition members arrived in Delhi. The to-do list Ken entrusted me with back in the States must have been a mile long and we had already lost six days. Nevertheless, I took the time to honor an ancient Hindu tradition and paid my respects to the turquoise-colored Ganga by first bathing in its purifying water.The all-day road trip to Rishikesh, only 250 kilometers from New Delhi, was fascinating. It revealed a typical day in the busy lives of the Indian people in the state of Uttar Pradesh. Past Rishikesh the one-lane road turned into a kind of paved trail and began winding through the lesser Himalyayan foothills, following the Ganges canyon upstream. This is where the mighty river drops out of the mountains into the flatlands and continues its flow lazily to the Bay of Bengal.      Once in camp, we began to prepare for the arrival of Kashmir Government expedition members, a group of mountain and river guides who needed to learn additional river rescue and rafting skills for the Chenab challenge. The powerful, but in this section predictable rapids of the upper Ganges proved to be the perfect training ground. The mastery of skills and the efficiency of our teamwork patterns would be crucial to our success on the Chenab the following month.      The first week of December all team members from various parts of India, West Germany, and the United States came together in Delhi, and we were more than ready for the challenge ahead. However, 3,000 pounds of equipment was still due to arrive from New York. The cargo had been held up longer than anticipated. A delegation of six, including myself and Ken, departed for Jammu, Kashmir's summer capital, on Dec. 5. We were to conduct an aerial survey of the expedition route. For this purpose a government helicopter was available to our group the morning after our arrival in Jammu.       The 14-hour road trip to Kashmir had taken us through Punjab, a state notorious for much violence by Sikh separatists. India has a chronic terrorist problem with militant Sikhs and Muslims. The Punjab is populated mainly by Sikhs, while Kashmir has a Muslim majority. India, however, is generally a Hindu country. Roadblocks and bullet-riddled vehicles were a common sight on Punjabi roads. We got stopped several times; once a rifle-wielding character entered the bus and started an angry conversation with the driver. At least 10 minutes went by before money was exchanged. We didn't have an interpreter so we never knew the whole story, but we didn't think the intruder was a policeman, since he kept pointing his assault rifle nervously in our direction. Predominantly Moslem, Kashmir is subject to frequent border conflicts with neighboring Pakistan. Some regions are strictly controlled by the military who enforce tight security measures. Photography is sometimes prohibited. The religious conflict between the two nations has escalated into full-scale warfare twice before. In these struggles, Moslem Pakistan was defeated by its more powerful Hindu neighbor. However, the friction over Kashmir's destiny continues to smolder beneath the surface.          After being lodged in a nice hotel in Jammu, we were briefed on some "dos and don'ts" for the next day's helicopter flight. Conscious of our limitations, we began the flight, and after an hour of mostly flat and barren land that offered little to the eye but dust, scarce brush and remote villages, the helicopter dipped into a steep canyon. From high above, the Chenab did not look threatening. We began pinpointing and photographing rapids from an elevation of around 1,000 feet, logging other characteristics of the expedition route as the pilot took us upstream.We knew that some sections would be very difficult to negotiate, and several series of large back-to-back drops appeared unnavigable from above. A ground level view would be necessary before appropriate decisions could be made. As we continued scouting upstream, a breathtaking view of the ice-capped western Himalaya rose before us. Suddenly we spotted increasing numbers of logs in the river below. The co-pilot told us we were coming up on the remote mountain village of Atholi where we had originally intended to launch the expedition.      The logs, reminders of a remote industry, drifted in from above Atholi and spread out for about 15 miles down to Kishtwar, a large village with a road connection throught the canyon. The river fell steeply in this section; some of the logs were trapped in powerful reversals, spinning violently end over end. A change of plans was necessary to avoid certain disaster.       A thick cloud of dust rose from the ground as our helicopter set down in an open field just outside Atholi. A sharp wind quickly cleared the air after the landing. To our delight, many villagers of all ages greeted us enthusiastically. It was like traveling back into the past of Lewis and Clark, Livingston, or even Columbus. The villagers seemed equally delighted to meet us, strangers from another world. There was a certain magic present, a feeling that cannot be described in words. Something bigger - I wish everyone could experience it because it felt so good and so simple. Ken put it best: "This is what it's all about -just remember that." Eventually we bade farewell to our new friends in Atholi and airlifted out.      After thoroughly discussing our options, Ken, the captain, determined Kishtwar as the new expedition base camp. The log danger in the canyon above would have presented too great a risk. The chopper set down briefly in Kishtwar where we hospitalized an ill man we had evacuated from Atholi. Then we returned to Jammu.      With around 140 rapids graded class three to six spread out along 130 kilometers, the Chenab challenge awaited us. We would soon understand well the failure of the two previous teams to attempt running the river. The Chenab lived up to her violent reputation shortly after we launched the boats. The rest of the team had finally arrived in Jammu. The equipment was also complete, but a few more days were needed for preparation such as welding the oar frames that had been sawed apart for the flight and other last-minute necessities. The film crew was delayed and we ended up with only one 16mm camera and a limited film supply. Expeditions are complex projects and despite meticulous organization, things can and do go wrong. After another 10 hours of interesting but arduous road travel we reached base camp. This distance had only taken a couple of hours by helicopter.           Dec. 10, 1988 -finally, we were all together in one place. One of the most fascinating aspects of the INDO-USA Chenab River Expedition was the cultural exchange. Our team was made up of Americans, Germans, Hindus, Sikhs, and Muslims. Success on the Chenab would be a great sporting accomplishment also deserving recognition as an historic exploration, a first descent. We were to prove that it is possible to achieve harmony in a group so vastly different. In a country like India, where religious differences cause much bloodshed, the real accomplishment lay in the cooperation of our international team.      Only on the day we spent in base camp before the expedition started did a misunderstanding spark an incident between Hindus and Sikhs. Otherwise, we were a tightly-knit group, and the next day would finally bring about the long-awaited event.      In the early morning of Dec. 11. an awesome task lay ahead of us. The river canyon was so steep and narrow that we had to rappel some of the equipment down a 600-foot slope to get it to the river. The area was strewn with boulders and setting up took half a day of arduous work. It seemed like the gods were making us earn our adventure with every drop of sweat we shed, but it was a price well worth paying.      A ceremony including blessings by priests from four religious denominations as well as a speech by S.P. Sahni, the Director-General of Information and Tourism Publicity, government of Jammu and Kashmir, marked our departure. A group of villagers and reporters gathered around as we set off into the unknown on this seemingly tranquil stretch of river. It felt good to drift away, away from the noise, spectators and work - that kind of work at least, because the real job lay ahead.      We were finally on our own -12 of us drifting in two 18-foot Havasus and one Shoshone, along with two kayakers that served as scouts and rescue support, since their boats were extremely light and maneuverable. They floated ahead of us, equipped with radios that we hoped would enable them to signal information back to the rafts quickly. Ken was in the lead with his boat "Mongo," followed by myself in "Atlas" and oarsman Steve Zettel with Shaukat in "Thor." We tried to maintain a general distance of about 100 feet between rafts which was subject to change when the situation required.     Change happened sooner than we expected. Suddenly the current became stronger and a hollow roar, magnified by the steep walls of the canyon, echoed loudly as mere seconds flew by. There was no way out, no chance to scout as steep cliffs prevented us from pulling over. We were forced to go with the flow. My crew shot uncertain glances, confused. We knew something big was ahead, but we hadn't heard a thing from Paul and Lukas, our radio-equipped scouts. What was happening? The roar of the whitewater drowned out my voice as I yelled to Assif and Shah to get down...it was too late. We catapulted over the edge into water and darkness, like being flushed down a toilet. Ken had disappeared seconds before - seconds that felt like minutes. Slow motion images kept reeling through my mind. Something on the other side of the edge sucked up everything that came close to it and wouldn't let it go; chewed it up and spit it out if lucky enough.This was literally the ride of our lives. As the bow had titled over the drop, our eves popped out when we saw the giant reversal. Mongo was right in the center, bobbing, spinning, disappearing and reappearing. Ken and his crew were hanging on for dear life while the raft acted like a rabid whale. We were next.      The current had shoved us over the falls with considerable speed. I controlled the oars with iron determination until a powerful jolt knocked me off balance. Assif and Shah flew out of the boat, helplessly bouncing over the cargo in Ken's raft right into the furious whitewater. The impact pushed Mongo free but stopped our boat on the spot, causing it to slide back into the throat of the monster. A wall of water collapsed over us, ripping us completely out of control like I had never experienced on any other river. First I thought the whole raft had capsized and again, I wondered why we hadn't been warned by the kayakers. When I surfaced, all four of us were in the water while the raft drifted some 50 feet upstream.The current was still fast, and not knowing if any more drops were coming up, I frantically tried to make my way back to the boat. So did Assif, Ghani, and Shah. Gopal, our sternman, had had made it to shore. The water was icy and so were our uncovered hands and heads. Exhausted, we barely managed to pull ourselves back aboard the swamped raft. I regained control of the oars, but not the boat, which was filled to the brim.      We drifted helplessly, taking some smaller falls; I tried to row toward shore as the others bailed. Close to the left side of the river, Shah, rope in hand, jumped ashore with Ghani. The current was so strong that both took another involuntary swim while trying to pull the heavy raft ashore. They remained at the side of the river as the boat continued downstream.            Nobody else was in sight now. We knew the others were somewhere upstream since we had passed them earlier. Finally, we managed to secure the raft in an eddy right as a kayak paddle came floating by. Throwlines ready in case a quick rescue action might be necessary, Assif and I reorganized our cargo and kept sending radio messages to both river teams and land support. There was no answer. The canyon walls were too steep to hike upstream so we had no choice but to wait. About an hour later we spotted the other boats coming around the bend. They were in control and the kayaks were visible too. We were relieved, yet ready to intervene with rescue lines. Our radios hadn't proved very reliable so far. The kayakers had tried to warn us of the hazards, but we hadn't received the messages. The land group too was cut off for awhile. As we regrouped and discussed further approaches for proceeding downstream, we felt we were now prepared for the worst. Shaukat was visibly shook up. He had been trapped in the center hole of the first drop, recycled as if in a giant washing machine, literally hitting rock bottom several times. Deep marks on his helmet were proof of his ordeal. Lukas eventually came to his rescue but capsized when Shakki grabbed hold of the kayak. The heavy load of a human body hanging onto the otherwise very maneuverable craft made it impossible for Lukas to "eskimo roll" himself right-side-up. Both were now in trouble, but Paul finally managed to pull them out of the furious spot in a more successful rescue. Ken and his crew had gotten away with just two broken oars. It was only now that some of us had become aware of the dangers we faced on this mighty river. But it made us pull together as a team, and morale grew higher. After reestablishing radio contact with Jan and the Air Marshall at the land support base, we picked up Gopal further downstream and continued as planned. Powerful rapids with boulders blocking and disrupting the current called for quick decisions. Not only the oarsmen had to give their all; the violent blows the river dealth us could only be counterbalanced by fast highside action, demanding presence of mind and guts from the whole crew. Sometimes the men nearly had to throw themselves overboard to keep the tilting boat from turning over. We regained some strength in a quieter stretch while Paul scouted ahead and signaled us to pull ashore. Further downstream the river funneled into a narrow channel, creating a rapids blocked by sharp rock formations in its center. The obstacles were almost hidden by water crashing through the main chute. A maze of smaller chutes, blocked by boulders and rocks, made up the larger part of this section. Ken decided to line the boats through the sidestreams. In a difficult and time-consuming effort, we avoided the "can opener rocks" in the main channel. They would have shredded our rafts. Later, Ancil, our mountaineer, set up a rappelling system for those who remained on shore; they had to come down a cliff to get back to the boats. One or two men stayed on each raft as the others manned the ropes from shore. Lines were attached to both the bow and stern to guide the rafts' flow. This took several hours, leaving us just enough daylight to find a good spot to secure the rafts for the night.      The shortness of the winter days limited us considerably. One day we covered only six miles due to the difficulties we encountered. Night quarters were usually set up by land support people in a nearby village. The exhausting days on the river were followed by steep hikes our of the canyon to meet a support truck to take us to base camp.      On Dec. 12. we rigged the rafts for an early start. The river's power didn't let up. Our radios worked well, however, and contributed to precise maneuvers. We "leapfrogged" downstream in an efficient pattern, securing each other's crews one by one after completing each rough section. The first boat through would always prepare rescue lines for the following raft, and the kayakers usually took lead position. Things went smoothly most of the day until another lining maneuver was necessary to avoid disaster in an unrunnable class six section. A huge boulder blocked the main channel in the narrow canyon; we had to position the rafts on the river right more than halfway into the rapids. Again, this could only be done with ropes. Holding each raft in the desired position and then releasing it would allow us to avoid the boulder and the certainty of capsizing. This way, the bow would barely clear the midriver obstacle. One after another we positioned the rigs, enabling them to cushion off a thick curl of water. The boulder repelled the oncoming flow of the river, withstanding the tremendous force of the water for probably another century or two. Quick oar play made for a sharp right, and the boats slipped through unharmed as the sheer mass of water thrashed the granite guard. Again and again the perpetual curl would pulsate, rise up, explode and collapse in only split seconds. Timing was everything. Mongo and Atlas managed well, while Thor turned out less lucky. The risk of overshooting the curl was out of our control because its rhythm wasn't predictable. Steve and his crew were its victims, overshooting and grazing the rock - enough impact to spin the raft and cause a sideways entry into the main hole - a powerful whirlpool. They were certain they would capsize.     Nobody else was in sight now. We knew the others were somewhere upstream since we had passed them earlier. Finally, we managed to secure the raft in an eddy right as a kayak paddle came floating by. Throwlines ready in case a quick rescue action might be necessary, Assif and I reorganized our cargo and kept sending radio messages to both river teams and land support. There was no answer.      The canyon walls were too steep to hike upstream so we had no choice but to wait. About an hour later we spotted the other boats coming around the bend. They were in control and the kayaks were visible too. We were relieved, yet ready to intervene with rescue lines. Our radios hadn't proved very reliable so far. The kayakers had tried to warn us of the hazards, but we hadn't received the messages. The land group too was cut off for awhile. As we regrouped and discussed further approaches for proceeding downstream, we felt we were now prepared for the worst.          Shaukat was visibly shook up. He had been trapped in the center hole of the first drop, recycled as if in a giant washing machine, literally hitting rock bottom several times. Deep marks on his helmet were proof of his ordeal. Lukas eventually came to his rescue but capsized when Shakki grabbed hold of the kayak. The heavy load of a human body hanging onto the otherwise very maneuverable craft made it impossible for Lukas to "eskimo roll" himself right-side-up. Both were now in trouble, but Paul finally managed to pull them out of the furious spot in a more successful rescue.       Ken and his crew had gotten away with just two broken oars. It was only now that some of us had become aware of the dangers we faced on this mighty river. But it made us pull together as a team, and morale grew higher. After reestablishing radio contact with Jan and the Air Marshall at the land support base, we picked up Gopal further downstream and continued as planned. Powerful rapids with boulders blocking and disrupting the current called for quick decisions. Not only the oarsmen had to give their all; the violent blows the river dealth us could only be counterbalanced by fast highside action, demanding presence of mind and guts from the whole crew. Sometimes the men nearly had to throw themselves overboard to keep the tilting boat from turning over.We regained some strength in a quieter stretch while Paul scouted ahead and signaled us to pull ashore. Further downstream the river funneled into a narrow channel, creating a rapids blocked by sharp rock formations in its center. The obstacles were almost hidden by water crashing through the main chute. A maze of smaller chutes, blocked by boulders and rocks, made up the larger part of this section.      Ken decided to line the boats through the sidestreams. In a difficult and time-consuming effort, we avoided the "can opener rocks" in the main channel. They would have shredded our rafts. Later, Ancil, our mountaineer, set up a rappelling system for those who remained on shore; they had to come down a cliff to get back to the boats. One or two men stayed on each raft as the others manned the ropes from shore. Lines were attached to both the bow and stern to guide the rafts' flow. This took several hours, leaving us just enough daylight to find a good spot to secure the rafts for the night. The shortness of the winter days limited us considerably. One day we covered only six miles due to the difficulties we encountered. Night quarters were usually set up by land support people in a nearby village. The exhausting days on the river were followed by steep hikes our of the canyon to meet a support truck to take us to base camp.      On Dec. 12. we rigged the rafts for an early start. The river's power didn't let up. Our radios worked well, however, and contributed to precise maneuvers. We "leapfrogged" downstream in an efficient pattern, securing each other's crews one by one after completing each rough section. The first boat through would always prepare rescue lines for the following raft, and the kayakers usually took lead position.Things went smoothly most of the day until another lining maneuver was necessary to avoid disaster in an unrunnable class six section. A huge boulder blocked the main channel in the narrow canyon; we had to position the rafts on the river right more than halfway into the rapids. Again, this could only be done with ropes. Holding each raft in the desired position and then releasing it would allow us to avoid the boulder and the certainty of capsizing. This way, the bow would barely clear the midriver obstacle. One after another we positioned the rigs, enabling them to cushion off a thick curl of water. The boulder repelled the oncoming flow of the river, withstanding the tremendous force of the water for probably another century or two.Quick oar play made for a sharp right, and the boats slipped through unharmed as the sheer mass of water thrashed the granite guard. Again and again the perpetual curl would pulsate, rise up, explode and collapse in only split seconds. Timing was everything. Mongo and Atlas managed well, while Thor turned out less lucky. The risk of overshooting the curl was out of our control because its rhythm wasn't predictable. Steve and his crew were its victims, overshooting and grazing the rock - enough impact to spin the raft and cause a sideways entry into the main hole - a powerful whirlpool. They were certain they would capsize.       Steve's boat popped out and came through at last. The river soon calmed and we were able to rescue the shipwrecked crew, blocking the capsized raft with another in midstream. The kayaks went after lost cargo since the rescue was under control by the use of throwlines from shore. Steve, the otherwise cheerful hunting and river guide from Idaho, was visibly frustrated the rest of the day.      It was close to dusk by the time we had Thor in an upright position again. Continuing downstream to find a landing spot, we encountered solid stretches of class four rapids till we pulled ashore and backpacked out of the canyon.        In the early morning hours of Dec. 13. we hastily set out, for our goal was to reach Thatri by noon. Fast, long, and powerful rapids challenged us as we navigated swiftly downstream in a spirit of instinctive yet aggressive caution. When we saw an increasing number of enthusiastic villagers following us along the shore, we knew Thatri was near. We were the first expedition that had succeeded in negotiating the gorge section of the Chenab canyon which ended in Thatri. Having come this far, the first leg of the expedition was completed. We also thought it had been the most crucial stretch and that from here on things would be easier. My premature joy was quickly put back in perspective. Entering the moderate but fast whitewater that roars past the foot of the village, the raft suddenly sank into a deep hole that churned upward and curled against the flow in a massive backwash. We couldn't have entered any straighter, but the sheer size of the liquid mountain stopped us long before we could reach its peak. For a moment, stern and bow of our fully-loaded 18-foot Havasu lined up vertically and it seemed as if we were skybound. I thought for a split second the raft would flip over. Then I fell backward and lost control; Assif and Shah also lost their hold in front and crashed into me. Somehow the rig managed to come out of the hole in an upright though sideways position, only to be thrust onto a rock back on the left side. The uncompromising current kept pushing full-force as countless villagers looked on in spirit of anticipation. The water now had us pinned against a large rock, threatening to flush us overboard while the gushing current momentarily turned the raft into a submarine. Instinctively Assif and I grabbed the dangling oar on the river side to direct the blade into the current. With all our remaining strength, we were able to resolve the critical situation as quickly as it had begun. The raft spun out of its awkward position and reentered the main current. In only a few more yards, the Thatri bridge bought a welcome change of pace: lunchtime.      Past Thatri, the upper Chenab canyon widened into a broad valley, allowing the river a vast but shallow flow which soon broke up into a boulder- and rock-strewn maze. It was in this difficult stretch that I felt my two oars snap in matter of seconds. I, who had taken pride in keeping my oars intact till now, turned sour at once. The river had taught me another important lesson that at first was hard to swallow: This was not an ego trip.      Making it to shore with our bent spare oar in Venetian gondola style, Atlas too was grounded. The town of Doda lay another seven kilometers ahead. We waited on shore while Ken disappeared over the next drop. The plan was that, once in Doda, Ken's oars would be returned to us by land. Several hours later we were on our way again, and it was almost dark when we arrived at the outskirts of the town, a welcome sight. Amid rapids crashing right into the village, we pulled ashore to be celebrated by dozens of enthusiastic townfolk. Again, we felt like explorers in another time and place. A government jeep stood ready to take us uphill to the main part of town where we rejoined the other expedition members in the local guest quarters. Within 12 hours, a shipment of oars was due to arrive from Delhi. This plan called for a one-day delay in Doda - a welcome and much needed rest. Some of us were sick with the flu and stomach problems. I was almost deaf as the result of an ear infection. Ancil was doing his best to overcome an illness that wouldn't desist, and Lukas had fallen victim to some local delicacies offered by well-meaning villagers the previous day. Yet we managed to muster enough energy for a downtown photo excursion. No news awaited us regarding the oars, however, and despite repeated trips to the local telephone office, we couldn't get through to Delhi.      On the morning of Dec. 15, finding ourselves still in the same bind, we decided to improvise. Ken consolidated the crews according to individual experience. With only two oars left, things had to go smoothly; perfectly was more appropriate. But no person and no expedition can ever be perfect. No matter how well coordinated we were, we knew that even with the best of the crew together in one boat, we were still taking a big chance, bigger than ever. The boat packed to the brim, Ken, Ancil, Steve, Shaukat and I boarded Mongo. There would be no support if things went wrong; we were on our own. As we shoved off, our landlocked expedition members jubilantly saluted us farewell, and we all felt heady once again. Paul scouted ahead in his kayak while Lukas remained on shore with the others since he hadn't yet recovered from his illness.         The land team did a marvelous job throughout the expedition. They literally carried the load of the expedition on their backs, packing equipment up- and downhill over the most rugged terrain imaginable. Loading and unloading trucks, setting up and repairing equipment, they were generally less visible yet had the most important job of coordinating the expedition's logistics. They were the backbone of our project and despite their workload, they always had plenty of energy and enthusiasm left to celebrate with the river crew whenever possible, though we were the ones having all the fun.      Rita Balla, a young Sikh from the Punjab, earned herself a crew position in one of the rafts at a later stage of the expedition. She was the only female on the river and easily outperformed most of her male counterparts, both earlier, on land, and on the river too. This does not imply a lack of effort by the others - it simply means that she often did better, by sheer morale. Yet everyone gave their all.       Frankly speaking, we didn't expect any critical challenges from this point on in the journey. Again, the mighty stream had a surprise for us. When the biggest waves we'd yet encountered started exploding all around us in a stretch of continuous, unpredictable rapids, we were forced to act. In meticulous team effort, we managed to balance the raft in conjunction with Ken's skillful maneuvers. Several times we escaped capsizing by mere inches. It was late in the day as icy water slammed continuously into the boat from all directions. With the sun long gone behind the canyon rim, we began to feel as if dozens of whips were snapping mercilessly at our hands and faces. The temperature of the water now penetrated our drysuits and we were becoming increasingly uncomfortable. But as we rounded a bend, we saw before us the golden shimmer of a wide and sandy beach in the last rays of sunlight. It seemed like a miracle. We set up camp, and Ken began preparing a hearty supper of pancakes. Villagers gathered on the opposite shore as if our beach was a stage and their side the auditorium. They watched us curiously while two boys from a nearby village joined us in camp. Word of the expedition had gotten around the area, and they had awaited our arrival for quite some time.       Our final day on the river began with an early breakfast and news about our oars from New Delhi. Via radio contact from land support base, we learned that the other rafts would be brought to a spot a few miles downstream. With the arrival of the new oars, we would be able to finish the expedition with the entire team.      The two boys who had visited us the previous evening came back in the morning with their families, including a grandmother and a two-year-old who hadn't been able to sleep for days in anticipation of our passage. To our surprise and discomfort, the grandmother threw herself to the ground in front of Ken, chanting prayers and attempting to kiss the captain's feet. He became visibly embarrassed, trying to help the old woman up while wrestling with a rooster handed to him. Shaukat understood her Hindi dialect and began translating; she was recounting an ancient legend which said that those who navigated the gorges of the mighty river unharmed would ascend to godhood. Thus we had revealed our new status and were eligible for her worship and offerings. This explained the rooster, a treasure to the extremely poor by deeply religious mountain people. It would have been an insult to reject the gift, so we kept our new mascot, "Whitewater Red," and put a lifejacket on him. Safety came first.      We, the men who would be, not kings, but gods . . . wow. There is a part of every man that longs to be the hero of such a legend. This encounter had enriched our adventure enormously. For me, there was another parallel to the story. Who could have overlooked the similarities to Kipling's great story, "The Man Who Would Be King."      Cutting short an eight-mile walk to the next river crossing, we ferried some of the family across while the others kept us company until our departure. Once again, a group of people waved us ashore, reaching out with fists full of banknotes. We took only one symbolic rupee, thus accepting their offering. Land support had radioed us to confirm a new put-in for the immobilized rigs. The river now gave way to a fast but moderate flow, the current taking a wide shallow approach down the mild gradient of this winding section. Eventually we recognized members of our expedition waving in the distance, anticipating our reunion for the grand finale.      At the put-in, preparations were completed. The land crew had covered miles of rough wilderness terrain carrying the heavy equipment on foot to the river. This was the only possibility for a successful realization of our plans. After a couple more hours of repairs and loading, we set off to complete the final leg of the adventure. Ramban now lay only 10 kilometers ahead. With three rafts, two kayaks (Lukas too had recovered) we were on our way. A few more good-sized drops had us worried, and once we added water to the raft to gain more weight and stability. After these last breathtaking challenges, we arrived at the outskirts of the city. Crowds of people threw flowers from bridges and greeted us from shore. The weather had changed and it began raining lightly. The crowd grew larger as we floated through the town center. There was cheerful applause from all sides as we drifted along. A loud roar reminded us that we were still on the river. A last set of rapids grabbed our attention at once. They looked scary, especially because we were now in full view of a large audience. We wanted to look good.      The river ran straight into a granite wall that repelled its flow in a dangerous pillowing reversal. The wall forced the water to turn 90 degrees to the right, causing powerful hydraulics that made for a last great run. Immediately thereafter the river fanned out in a wide and lazy manner as if nothing unusual had occurred. We all had made it through, and managed to look good doing it. A dramatic final display of a great adventure. We had arrived.  ###                                                       EXPEDITION LIFE® (click here to return)

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