Well, I’m relaxed here on the slate stone terrace of the Old Angler’s Inn, est. 1868, perched comfortably in the forest here beside the Potomac River, enjoying a very nice day. The beer and soup is nice too. A small waterfall, covered in wild strawberry vines, spills into a small clear pool beside my chair. The sun is out and shifting shadows beneath the oak tree hovering above what’s left of the Wednesday lunch crowd here, a few older couples chatting about old times and occasionally the new. My tomato gazpacho is cool and delicious, and although I just spilled my beer across the table like an idiot, it is time that I state once and for all that there is indeed nothing like a cold Bass ale after a few hours on the river. The waiters responded quickly, of course, as this place is rather chi-chi, and they were probably cursing under their breaths at this faux pas by the wet-haired kayaker crashing their 5-star ambiance with mud streaked legs and only enough cash for an appetizer.
I woke this morning and drove over to the Whole Foods Market, a stupendously healthy organic grocery near Erin’s house, where they let you park for free if you shop for two hours. And such a grocery expedition would not be unfeasible here—this place is a vegetarian’s delight, a vegan nirvana. Fruit I’ve never seen before is piled in multi-colored heaps beside rows of organic grain breads and pastries, complemented by aisle upon aisle of pure foods untouched by the indecencies of pesticides, animal testing, cursing or any other possible appearance of digestive impropriety. The clientele is naturally eclectic, pairs of short-haired older women in Birkenstocks and Lilith Fair t-shirts (this is DuPont Circle, after all) arguing gently over which color rigatoni to buy, the butcher a big African fellow with dreadlocks pulled back into a pile behind him and a laugh like it came from the bottom of a deep well. I managed to avoid any purchases, and moseyed over to 17th street, the shops covered with increasing amounts of rainbow-themed décor, and, after being eyed by more than one guy on the sidewalk, I found refuge in a wireless internet café, coffee and walnut muffins suited to my tastes. Not a bad spot.
After a quick Google search I found that the best rapids on the Potomac are near the Old Angler’s Inn, just a few miles outside of the city, right off the Beltway, actually. So I wrapped up a few emails and headed to the car, calling Erin for directions out of town. I took it as a good sign that as we were talking, a fellow pulled up near me with a kayak on his car: I stepped over and asked him where to go and he told me. Easy as pie.
As everyone knows, by the time the Potomac reaches Washington D.C. proper it is a very wide river, criss-crossed by a number of long bridges. But just a few miles upstream, off the I-495 Clara Barton Exit, to be precise, it is a kayaker’s playground. Huge boulders twice the size of houses sit tilted along the shore, shoving the water inward into flows and rapids, pine forests etched into the soil on top and spilling away over the ridge. The recent rains have created a rich earthy river hue, and the water is up, way up. I put in at the public access landing with no idea where to go, but I could see a few whitecaps further upstream and paddled toward them. Not a soul in sight. A pair of hawks threaded and rethreaded the breeze over a nearby island of stone. The river smelled like old wood and rock. Just as I came around the bend I saw some paddlers launching into the rapids from a steep slanted rock, crashing in splashes and busting out Aieeeeeees as they tumbled down. I paddled over and we chatted, exchanging river beta and a few light inquiries into just who each of us was. Or is. Two of them, Andrew and Mark, were still in high school; the third, John, had just graduated and was out paddling today before he started his first day on his new job. I wondered where Luke was, but he must have been fishing..
Anyway, it turns out that one of the best playspots on the river was just on the other side of the rock they had been cavorting on, a ten-foot-wide hole called Center Chute. It was neither a chute nor centrally located, but hugging the inside of a rock island and carving out a nice eddy there making it easy to catch and recatch the water. Mr. Sun came out, and we played (the kayakers, not Mr. Sun). It occurred to me a few days ago how different kayaking is from most exercise—when exercise happens, it normally involves a workout. Not kayaking. We go to a playspot. It is debatable which is better for you, but I would suggest that surfing energetic waves in a boat beats benchpressing deadweights any day. Of course, going to the gym offers very little danger of bashing one’s face on a submerged rock, or drowning for that matter, but the point stands.
At any rate, we had a great hour or two of tumbling, surfing and popping the wave before the kids wandered off to find “a better spot.” Short attention span, or something. I stayed for another whole hour, memorizing the current, getting into the wave and letting it shove me around, coaxing me toward its tumultuous bouncing right side and then easing me out into the green water on its left. A classic hole, like a water spectrum, alternating between ease and violence depending on which direction you choose (or not) to spin. A liquid musical scale, if you will.
But before that metaphor runs into a brick wall, I’ll bring things to a close here and just say that is was nice moving from the crazy D.C. traffic (damn cabbies!) into the river gorge filled with light, and finding this nice old pub with cold beer and pleasant refuge from the sun. Hope I make it back tomorrow.
