It was likely in the early 2010s. I was relatively new to whitewater canoeing at that time, though I had been canoeing flat water my whole life. I had a great deal of experience in a canoe and with camping, but had always avoided any sign of a rapid. Probably wisely, as many of the boats that I had paddled were simply not equipped to handle rocks that demolish canoes with certainty. I've met a few such rocks over the years.

Having stayed cleared of anything white and frothy on rivers had been relatively easy, as I mostly paddled lakes. I liked rivers, but I used to canoe to fish. Tim likes to remind me that at some point, fishing became subservient to the canoeing. I had been on rivers but never pursued them. With the newfound passion for whitewater, rivers emerged as the preferred destination.

I stood for a minute, overlooking the wave train that I was about to drop into, testing my burgeoning knowledge of reading rapids, mentally mapping out where the demolishing rock was .... or at least where I thought it was. Then, I followed Tim to the boat. 

My Dance with Anxiety ... and Neurodivergence

Neurodiversity is a bit of a buzz word these days. Over the past decade, its prominence in society has exploded. In a general sense, it is used to describe "the idea that people experience and interact with the world around them in many different ways; there is no one "right" way of thinking, learning, and behaving, and differences are not viewed as deficits" (Baumer & Frueh, 2021). It is most commonly used in the context of autism spectrum disorder, ADHD, and other learning disabilities. It's a term that has been used to "increase acceptance and inclusion of all people while embracing neurological differences" (Baumer & Frueh, 2021).

I think I always recognized myself as different.

That summer day, as I sat overlooking Split Rock with Tim, I associated my body's response as anxiety. At that time, I was only really beginning to understand how anxiety manifested in my life. Anxiety was present in my family—both immediate and extended. For me, it felt manageable - or at least not disruptive. I stayed up late at night reading because I wanted to read, not because I couldn't sleep .... or so I told myself. It was normal when you had to get up early to lie awake all night fretting about sleeping in, right? Everybody has a hard time turning off their brains (who am I kidding, there is no off switch!).

Anxiety was not something that was explicitly discussed in my childhood. It was acknowledged but not confronted. It was something that existed, but never really something that anyone talked to me about. I was a good student, and over all a pretty good kid. I was able to function as expected, and so the invisible struggles that existed in my brain—many of which I did not feel the need to vocalize—were my own demons to manage and to overcome. I did not present with problematic behaviours, I was social, and I could communicate. It is only upon reflection that I notice things about me and my behaviour that I think went unnoticed. Certainly nobody told me. 

It wasn't until much later in my life, while on a trip to Uganda, that I could no longer ignore how anxiety was affecting me. I had taken a trip to visit my youngest brother and his wife who, as part of his schooling, did an international exchange in Kampala. That trip shaped my life in many ways, but perhaps most profoundly was the way in which anxiety manifested.

The crux came on a day I was in Murchison Falls National Park on a safari. I saw incredible things that day. Elephants, giraffes, baboons, a lion, endless birds and other creatures, and included a river boat tour where I saw so many hippos and Nile crocodiles (including one that had to be 15 feet long!) that they almost became blasé. The day ended with a delicious meal at the Safari headquarters where, literally, a warthog was grazing on the grass a few feet away.

My anxiety had been building over the trip. I think a lot of it had to do with the anti-malarial medications I had been taking. But there were other reasons—like the fact that my luggage did not all arrive—and the pieces that did arrive, my sister-in-law bribed an airport worker to deliver them to their house. The bag that didn't arrive until the day before I left had almost all of my clothes. I was washing my boxers nightly in the sink - which made me worry about bot flies. I tried to buy clothes, but my attempt failed. The biggest pair of boxers I could find was half the size I needed. Foreigners are referred to as "Mzungu" - a Bantu word meaning 'wanderer'—and I was regularly referred to as "baby Mzungu." I was, in many ways, a giant.

Over the days I had been in Kampala, I had experienced things unlike anything else I had in my life. We visited an orphanage in the slums where we donated shoes we purchased with money raised through a fundraiser at my kid's school. Shoes were a simple way to address the threat posed by jiggers—sand fleas—that could cause significant harm. "Jiggers can easily kill young children by sucking their blood and can cause early deaths in grown-ups who have other diseases. Most of those infected, especially the elderly and children, cannot walk" (Jawoko, 2011). We visited a market where we purchased hundreds of cheap plastic shoes—expensive shoes were not as useful, we were told, as families would resell them rather than let their kids wear them. To this day, I keep a pair in my office to remind me of the totality of this experience. 

And it was quite the experience. The traffic. The acrid smell of charcoal cooking, burning garbage, and pollution hung over the city. The guns brandished by security guards everywhere, even grocery stores. The children begging at every corner—and the need to, sadly, ignore them when the supply of crackers my sister-in-law travelled with ran out. 

Insomnia did not help. I think I slept only a few hours total over the first three days. Whether anxiety or the anti-malarial or the mosquitoes that evaded the netting intended to protect me or the exposure to poverty unlike anything I had ever seen, my worldview shifted on that trip and my ability to sleep with it.

Back at the Safari compound, I excused myself from the table, mentally said goodbye to the warthog, and started the walk back to the safari tent I was staying in. The panic inside of me was crescendoing. I thought to myself as I scanned the horizon for hippos (which were known to come into the camp - and represent one of the gravest dangers to humans) that my poor younger brother was going to find me dead.

I thought I was having a heart attack.

Instead, it was my first full-blown panic attack—and the worst I've had to date. 

Sitting at the side of the rapid, staring into the churning water, I was aware of the role of anxiety in my life. How it shaped my perceptions and manifested in my body. How it screamed "no" at the wave train rollercoaster I was about to tackle. The summer after my trip to Uganda I undertook my longest expedition to date—a 10-day, 205 km trip down the Katawagami river. I went prepared this time with medicines to help me sleep; it still took three days before I settled into the routine of the river. 

Years later, as my own journey into exploring my neurodiversity led me to AuDHD - essentially, an autistic person with ADHD - I began to understand my anxiety in new ways. "Research suggests autistic people are more prone to experiencing anxiety and estimates that up to half of all autistic people experience high levels of anxiety on a regular basis" (National Autistic Society). 

I understood my experiences as anxiety, but I never fully understood why I felt so anxious. It wasn't something I chose. I was sitting beside Split Rock intentionally, having eagerly gone on this river adventure, only to find my own body screaming at me not to do it. 

I do not know that I am autistic—though there are some pretty significant signs - but I do know that I have had to learn how to not succumb to anxiety that seems to like to rear its ugly head in my life. Catastrophizing and endlessly working through scenarios to try to account for all possibilities.

No wonder I struggled with sleep.

On the Banks of the River

Years later, now armed with 100s of kms of whitewater experience and new insights into myself, I think back to the day on the bank of the river. My body was telling me something important—it was anxious, scared even, of what lay ahead of me. That is not something that should just be ignored. At the same time, my body was reacting, not rationalizing. I was aware of my abilities then - which, admittedly, while limited, were more than sufficient for the rapid—but also of the safety measures in place. Tim had far more experience, we were wearing PFDs, helmets and had safety equipment, and we had run this rapid before.

I got through the rapid that day. In fact, I always get through that rapid - I don't think I've ever dumped on Split Rock. If I have dumped, it was not a memorable one. And it is not the most difficult rapid on the Mad, as I had once perceived to be the case. It can be big and splashy—and there is a rock, though demolishing anything on it would be tricky.

Truth is, it is my favourite rapid. It represents much for me—including what I was able to overcome. I have also been able to teach my children and friends on this rapid over the years—and this past year, I ran it with Ghost. Clearly I love the rapid: it's the namesake of my little club!

It is also where I learned some very important lessons about myself. About being honest with how I was feeling, but also recognizing that my feelings may not align always with reality or with my abilities. I was prepared that day to run the river. When running whitewater it is likely appropriate to be a tad anxious about what is ahead, or at least cautious, but I am grateful that I did not let it dictate how I was going to behave. 

Over the years, I have spoken with hundreds of students embarking on the journey of their lives—to push the metaphor, they are standing alongside the river, charting a course, often through what may be the most turbulent part of their lives thus far. Many decisions that are being made seem enormous—huge even. Career decisions that have implications for the rest of the trip. It can leave one racked with anxiety or fear or other difficult emotions that come when there is an uncertain and tumultuous path ahead. Life is a rollercoaster, and there are certainly lots of rocks along the way that can demolish your boat. 

And the river of life is not always easy. My experiences of Split Rock have been at low or medium water levels. I have never run Split Rock in high water. That will hopefully happen this May. It requires a different level of skill and preparation - including different gear, like a drysuit. The temperature will be cold, the flow will be fast, and the obstacles that I have, by this time, memorized, will be beneath several feet—or meters—of water. It will be a new river and new rapids. It will require some time on the banks, scouting, charting a course.

I will likely feel some anxiety before I drop into the wave train at Split Rock. This time, I will be travelling with the Split Rock crew - Tim and Stefan (in a kayak)—and will also very likely have two big dogs. I'll need to worry about their safety—but they will be in their own PFDs (it's super cute). Just like on that day, many years ago, I anticipate sitting on the side of the river scouting the river, reading the rapid, and navigating the complexity of the feelings that will be present—the excitement, the nerves, the worry about what the dogs will do should I finally take a swim ... I will have a chat with my old friend, anxiety. After all, the guidebook notes that "in very HW approach with caution, as there can be some really huge waves and extreme turbulence in the river beyond." 

Extreme turbulence! It actually sounds fun to me ... but we'll see.

While life doesn't come with a handy guidebook that can help us navigate the various travails and challenges that can bring turbulence, it is not unlike whitewater. It's important to be adequately prepared—to use the right boat, have the right gear, to pay attention to the conditions. It's critical to be observant and to take time to plan appropriately—scouting is a critical (and fun) part of whitewater. It can be a lot safer and more fun to have something akin to my paddling life partner to journey with.

But eventually, you have to get up and head to the boat. To have confidence that you've done what you can to be ready for what's coming. To take a deep breath, make sure your PFD is secure, and to drop into the rapid.

You may find yourself swimming—as I have at times—but that's ok (a future Split Rock Outdoors segment will cover this!). The important part is to get in the boat.

My recent discovery into my own neurodiversity and what it means for me and my dance with anxiety has added some context to my experience that day on the river. But it hasn't changed the reality that despite my own worries and fears, I was able to overcome them. 

It has taken time, effort, investment, learning, and humility, but this past year I ran the biggest rapids of my life. I've still stood on the shore of the river, scouted, felt the twinge of anxiety, but instead of hearing "No" and having to fight my body, I was able to just get into the boat. 

And I'm so glad I did. This is that rapid: