The Cleveland Mafia

It isn’t my style to get thrown out of business establishments for unruly behavior, but sometimes, life takes an odd turn.

My first visit to Grand Canyon, a raft trip on the Colorado River, was in May 1994. One of my trip mates, Chris, lived in Atlanta, too — coincidentally about five miles from my apartment.

Chris grew up in Cleveland, and with him on the raft trip were three buddies from his old neighborhood. More about them is featured in my post, Trip Log, May 1994 under the Trip Reports category.

Chris and the guys were a rowdy, good-natured bunch. In addition to being lively companions, they introduced me later that year to a world I didn’t know existed: whitewater rafting in West Virginia.

The boys from Cleveland rafted the Gauley River in central West Virginia every fall. They invited me to join them later that year to get my introduction to Eastern whitewater.

The Gauley River is one of the premier whitewater rafting destinations in the world. In the fall, when water is released from Summersville Lake to make room for snowmelt the following spring, the Gauley is awe-inspiring.

Whitewater enthusiasts come from everywhere for the experience. Over the course of 28 miles are more than 100 rapids, five of them rated Class V.

Class V means the rapid is exceedingly difficult and violent. Class VI means unrunnable — a death trap not to be attempted.

I’ve paddled the Gauley River and the nearby New River a dozen times since then, but that first trip in October 1994 stands out for many reasons.

For one thing, it was my maiden voyage on the mighty Gauley. During the fall drawdown, the Upper Gauley in particular is non-stop action — nine miles of whitewater with scarcely a let-up.

Second, it was the only time I tent-camped there for the weekend. The campground was a raucous place that never got quiet, ever. Sleeping wasn’t a real option. But as it turned out, most of the outfitters are located in Fayetteville, a city with about 30 motels. On future rafting trips, I booked a room.

Third, it was the only time I rafted with Ace Whitewater. They were perfectly competent, but they seemed less committed to safety than to showing the customers a macho good time. Subsequently, I found another outfitter.

The fourth reason was our guide on the Upper Gauley, Bo Jeffries. Bo was a Fayetteville fella who grew up on the river and knew it well. In the fall, he was a paddleboat guide. In other seasons, he was a fishing guide.

Bo was an unforgettable character. He’s the only guide I ever knew who declined to wear a safety helmet. He strapped on a helmet at the put-in because Park Rangers were around, but after we were underway, he replaced it with a baseball cap.

The fifth reason was Christie, a fellow passenger on our run of the Lower Gauley. The day before, Christie’s raft had flipped on the Upper Gauley. For a harrowing few seconds, her foot was wedged in rocks, and the river held her underwater.

But the river spit her out, unharmed. She was back on the water even though still terrified. She had to do it, she said. Otherwise, she feared she would never paddle in whitewater again.

Our trip that weekend was a “Reverse Gauley.” On Saturday, the guys and I rafted the less intense Lower Gauley. On Sunday, we tackled the real deal, the Upper Gauley.

The Lower Gauley was plenty exciting. Our group of rafts had several swimmers, and two of the other rafts flipped. Our guide was a tough, tiny girl who was very skilled and had paddled numerous rivers. But she had never guided on the Upper Gauley, and she never planned to.

By the end of the day, the Cleveland boys and I we were pumped and full of stories. Back at the campground, we soon were full of beer and whiskey, too. Eventually, someone suggested the local Pizza Hut for supper.

Which brings me to reason number six, the unique experience of being thrown out of a business establishment for unruly behavior.

At about 10:00 PM, our party of six burst into the Pizza Hut in Oak Hill, West Virginia, like a car crash. Several of us were noticeably inebriated; the rest were knee-walking drunk.

Only a handful of customers were in the restaurant. Immediately, the manager began trying to quiet us down. He appealed to one or two of us, but we couldn’t control our friends any more than the manager could.

Finally, he made us an offer: we could leave, in which case we could have two deluxe pizzas, free; or we could stay, in which case he would call the police.

Ten minutes later, we were back at our campsite dining on pizza. For the record, we paid for them.

At some point during the night, I crawled off to my tent and got an hour or two of fitful sleep. Most of the rest stayed up all night drinking. A short time later, the icy water of the Upper Gauley snapped them out of it.

As promised, the Upper Gauley gave us quite a ride. Bo got us to the takeout flawlessly — no incidents, no accidents, all thrills.

That day, the river was a blur of sights, sounds, and rapids with names I immediately forgot. But over the next 10 years, I got to know the Gauley much better. And I’m pleased to note that every trip was as exciting as the one before.

After the bus ride back to Ace Whitewater, as the Cleveland guys and I were walking down the gravel road leading to the campground, a car came up behind us. The driver tapped a cheerful refrain on his horn.

It was Bo in a red Cadillac convertible, smoking a cigar. “Hop on, boys,” he said. “I’ll give you a lift the rest of the way.”

The six of us climbed onto the Cadillac. I got the driver side front fender. Bo drove us, slowly and carefully, to the campground entrance.

As we said our goodbyes, Bo gave each of us this business card:

The Cleveland Mafia plus me at Pillow Rock, a Class V rapid. Note that our guide lacks protective headgear. Also note the flagrant t-grip violation on the right.

If you’re interested, you can watch videos of virtually every significant rapid on the Gauley River here. Ironically, this website is from my old friends at Ace Whitewater.