There is something wholly unnatural about whitewater sledging. Perhaps
it's the hurling of oneself down a roaring river, head first — in a
record water level year no less — whilst attempting to avoid large
boulders, rocks and logs. Or maybe it's the rapids (that seem all the
more daring when your body is in the water) that manage to catch you
off guard, stealing your breath away and temporarily obscuring your
field of vision. Better still, it might be your guide, effortlessly
floating up ahead, screaming back at you to get in line behind him so
you don't veer off down an even more treacherous path.

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But then again this is the Roaring Fork Valley, where some of the best
snowsliders in the world mach down the steepest terrain and, just this
past weekend, mountain bikers flew downhill in Snowmass with such
reckless abandon that the terms safety and well-being never seemed to
cross their minds. And even hikers, long seen as the most cautious
group of outdoor enthusiasts, risk life and limb on exposed trails and
the narrow crags of 14ers.

Or maybe it was just me.

I've had the occasion to raft more than a few rivers in my life, have
tried kayaking and, my favorite, floated the Colorado on inner tubes
with beers in tow. But there was something about my recent trip with
Aspen Seals for whitewater sledging that really got my adrenaline
pumping. And, though I'm somewhat ashamed to admit, it was on one of
the easier routes for America's sole commercial sledging outfitter.

The sport, for those unfamiliar, utilizes a hydrosledge, or a molded
plastic flotation device on which customers lie in the river. They are
fitted with elbow rests and handles, and the user can steer one
(relatively) easily by shifting his or her weight and using swim fins.

Back in 1998 New Zealander Gary Pera was convinced by friends (and his
soon-to-be wife) that Colorado was the place to be; the winters were
unparalleled and the summers - specifically the rivers - were perfect
for the Kiwi sport of sledging. So he made the move and soon realized
not only that there were no companies offering sledging trips on U.S.
rivers, but that just about nobody had even heard of the sport.

"I had to start from scratch," says Pera. "I spent five years getting
insurance and permits. There were no rules and regulations for the
sport here, so I wrote them."

Sledging is effectively a distant, if more daring, cousin to rafting.
And that's exactly how it began to garner a following. Pera says that
as he was promoting the sport, he found groups of rafters who
frequently floated class IV and V rapids and wanted to get into
something a bit more adventurous.

"This sport gave them something new and exciting to do," he says. "It's
not necessarily that people were getting bored with rafting, it was
that the thrill level had sort of faded."

And that reasoning still applies five years later. Robert Roschman, 43,
and his son Logan, 12, are river rats from Ft. Lauderdale, Fla., who've
visited the valley on a few occasions. They were all set to go rafting,
and went to check out one of the local outdoor adventure companies in
town.

"We went in to sign up for a cool raft trip," says Robert, "and we saw
some info on sledging. We're both real thrill-seekers, and we thought
being in the water sledging would be a lot more fun."

Brent Brisben, 40, was also along for the trip with his 62-year-old
father Bill. But Brent had plans that extended beyond a desire to be
one with the river; he was in Aspen to film his audition tape for the
TV show "Survivor."

"I've already done a bunch of hiking, rafting and hot air ballooning to
show the casting agents that I'll try anything once," says Brent. "And
going down a fast river head first seemed like it would fit right in."

The one-hour float trip down the upper Woody Creek section of the river
in 42-degree Fahrenheit water was a rare one for July. The river was
flowing at 1,500 cfs, and the only other people we passed were a few
fisherman. The river was flowing about 25 mph, and all we had to stop
ourselves from crashing was our fins and shifting our body weight in
the sledge. But, as Pera and his son Jamal (who served as our rear
guide), were quick to remind us, "You will never be stronger than
Mother Nature."

"You're going to roll over a few times," Gary added. "But other than a
few scrapes and bruises, no one's been seriously hurt yet."

And given that we were on the easiest route (when the river is running
high, the Slaughterhouse run has a waterfall drop up to six feet)
there's still time for me to pick up my own scrapes and bruises.

"At least we have something to build up to for next year," Robert Roschman says of his and his son's next trip to the valley."

damien@aspendailynews.com [1]