The women sink their paddles into the mountain snowmelt, crank their kayaks into a series of corkscrews and let the riverbank’s gaudy enticements–Jacuzzi Rooms! Theme Rooms! Fantasy Rooms!–evaporate into the spritz of pummeling white water.
Karan Estee and Cari Holliman prefer to frolic on remote rivers lined with oaks or aromatic pines. Like millions of Americans who pour billions of dollars a year into mountain bikes, snowboards, hiking boots and other outdoor toys, these Salt Lake City friends bought their kayaks at least in part to escape the civilized life.
But this time, Estee, 29, and Holliman, 30, explored the Truckee River not in alpine canyons near Lake Tahoe, but miles downstream, where engineers hired by the city of Reno have sent it frothing through a man-made kayak park downtown.
Reno is selling itself in outdoor magazines and on big banners downtown as America’s Adventure Place, and its 10-month-old Truckee River Park at Wingfield is the linchpin.
A University of Nevada-Reno economist predicts the park in Reno will draw several thousand fans to paddling events, while enticing locals and out-of-towners alike to spend at least $1.9 million a year at riverside eateries, shops and hotels.
Engineers took charge of the Truckee River as it cleaves downtown, miles from where it squiggles out of the mountains below Lake Tahoe.
In August 2003, Gary Lacy, Truckee River Park’s engineer, had workers replace much of the concrete lining with 7,000 tons of rocks, and crafted a steplike course of 11 pools and rapids rated a mellow Class II to III, on a scale of six.
Now neophyte kayakers learn the basics near the spot where Estee rehearses her rotations, far from the moody wild rivers where she and Holliman were schooled in white water.
On the river’s south channel, slalom gates striped like candy canes dangle from wires across a channel the length of four football fields. Play holes–waves that allow kayakers to stay in one spot “surfing” and perfecting trick moves–stipple the north channel.
Casual paddlers practice, champion kayaker Jay Kincaid trains, and the lines get long in the eddies where paddlers kick back to wait for a turn in the standing waves.
Some purists say they are uneasy with altering any river in any way. The grumblers came out during construction, says Lynn Zonge, a hydrologist involved in the planning. “They said, ‘Why does it look so engineered? Why is there so much concrete?’ “
Zonge says the park is nature, but sanitized. The city manages the park like a skateboard park: Visitors are responsible for their own safety.
Idaho river outfitter Les Bechdel doesn’t begrudge his urban brethren.
“But from the safety aspect, it makes me nervous,” says Bechdel, who co-wrote the book “River Rescue.” “They go out there and run these rivers like a banshee and think they’ll be really good because they can do all these tricks. … But you have to spend time on a river to know its nuances.”
Time-crunched urban dwellers and suburbanites account for almost two-thirds of kayakers. Kayak parks target this audience.
“Man can’t build a Chesapeake Bay,” says Brad Nelson, founder of a Pennsylvania group that tracks urban kayaking projects. “But man can build a white-water park.”
Water world
One study shows the number of kayakers nationwide has leapt 125 percent in five years, to 9.9 million. About one-fifth of those are white-water kayakers.
———-
Edited by Cara DiPasquale (cdipasquale@tribune.com) and Kris Karnopp (kkarnopp@tribune.com)
