Workingman's Cherry Creek
words by Chris Harjes
photos by Chris Harjes
Dan Glauser, Josh Bruckner, Tim Robinson, Matias Nunez and Chris Harjes shuffled work, school and family commitments to reunite for three days of hard hiking and fast sliding in Yosemite/Emigrant Wilderness's fabled Upper Cherry Creek.
Got a random email on Saturday from Dan Glauser- “Taking a couple days off, hiking in to Upper Cherry- wanna go?” It would be Dan’s first multi-day river trip since he and Cortney got pregnant with Mason two years ago. I stared in dismay at my name on Friday night’s ICU work schedule, squinted at it sideways and upside down, and called my boss to beg the weekend off. Next Thursday I was flying over the drought-parched trickles of the once-mighty Jocassee drainage, bound for plentiful California snowmelt.
I spent Friday morning following little Mason around Dan’s house, yard and garage, watching him systematically push, pull and turn every switch, door handle and button in sight. I could see how the little guy could keep his parents from doing much boating. Fortunately, Cortney volunteered to take Mason for a four-day beach weekend so Dan could go after some much-needed sunshine and adrenaline. Next time it’ll be Dan’s turn to watch the Fussy Nugget while Cortney goes off to run the shit with her homies. While I was chasing Mason around, our buddy Tim Robinson did a ten o’clock interview, scored the job, then joined us to leave Sacramento at the crack of noon. We would have left sooner, but I was having too much fun watching Bob the Builder with Mason and playing with construction toys. We stumbled across Josh Bruckner and Matias Nunez on the side of the road in Groveland, got our wilderness permit and headed for the hills.
Matias and I got pulled over in Josh Hill’s borrowed truck by some really bored park rangers. We spent 45 minutes rifling through heaps of garbage and kayaking gear, searching in vain for the registration, while the rangers grilled us with accusations of substance abuse, failure to register our trashed, borrowed vehicle in the state of California, and even of being Josh Hill in disguise.
By the time we ditched the fuzz and started lugging our immensely heavy backyaks up the mosquito-infested Kibbie ridge, the sun was already dipping below the granite horizon.
We slept at the first overlook, watched the sun rise over the picturesque series of gorges surrounding Cherry Bomb, then continued our excruciating crawl up the sun-blasted granite ridge. By the time the rest of us limped into the put-in at Lord’s Meadow, Tim had already made coffee, scouted the first series of slides, and taken a nice little nap.
The entrance slides of Cherry Creek welcomed our weary forms with plenty of cool, clear water blasting our dusty, mosquito-chewed faces clean
We cruised downstream, marveling at the immense glacier-sculpted cliffs and domes framing our Martian riverscape.
Miles of long, shallow, low-angle slides led us into steeper, tighter rapids, culminating in the powerfully constricted slides and drops of the Class IV Gorge. The five of us took turns remembering lines into mini-gorges, never hurrying but rarely stopping long enough to interrupt the flow of the run.
With the notable exception of Tim, we were far too beatdown from the hike to even consider dropping The Bomb that evening, so we left our boats and scrambled around the gorge to have a cocktail with Karen Smith and Joe Bosquin. They had forsaken the murderous backyaks in favor of small loads of food and drink and a direct hike into camp. We felt unabashedly envious of the well-rested, happy campers before us.
The next morning’s hike up to drop The Bomb was somber and meditative, and for good reason. Cherry Bomb Gorge ain’t nothin’ to #@! with. Three days before our run, Paul Stamilio dislocated his shoulder in The Weir, got patched up by Jason Hale in the next swirly eddy, then dislocated again and body-pinned in the sieve at the exit of the lower gorge. While we walked up that very morning, an errant paddler got slammed into the right wall pothole, recirculated in The Weir, then canyoneered/swam through the entire gorge. Fortunately for us, we didn’t get to hear any of these stories until later that night.
We attacked even the smaller rapids of the entrance gorge with far more precision than necessary, fine-tuning our skills for the more demanding drops to come. I sent Robert Peerson a mental thanks for his amazing design work on the Habitat, as body and boat melded into one.
We enjoyed a relaxing moment in the sun and breeze on The Lake at the Edge of the Universe, decompressing for a bit before portaging our boats around the guard sieves to the lip of the Falls. The five of us huddled together on the tip of the last big shard of loose granite, and gazed down upon our bedrock nemesis.
Cherry Bomb Falls was formed by a neighboring dome collapse. Thousands of tons of shattered granite dams the river and squeezes it high onto the left canyon wall. Two small channels break out of the left edge of the dam, fold together and accelerate with violent fury back into the ancient riverbed below, splattering into the undercut, potholey right wall. Just below, The Weir recirculates calmly and efficiently from eight or ten feet downstream. We studied the crux entry move from our crowded perch, calculating the ebb and slop of the converging currents, placing ourselves in that delicate moment when one well-timed stroke would push us out of the hanging eddy and into the mad screaming power of the falls itself.
I climbed into my boat first, partly to set safety for the boys, but mostly because I would have puked all over them if I stared any longer. I was scared. I thought about my wife Natalie, my hometown of Asheville, the life I would lose if this run went gravely wrong. I forced these demons at bay, taking a long moment to digest my fear. Decades of running hard rivers, my strength, and the proven rescue skills of my homies at my back, would get me through this gorge, no matter how hard the shit hit the fan. I boiled down the battle within to its rawest essence, leaving only an unshakeable focus and an indomitable will to survive.
One last mental dry run and a grinning thumbs-up from the boys, and off I went, tweezing through the entry slot, hurling boat and body as far left as physics would allow
Despite my best effort, Cherry Creek’s frenetic return to its pre-rockslide riverbed launched me sailing toward the swiss-cheese @#*fest of the right wall. I landed hard sideways on a left edge/left brace combo, exchanging a portion of my wallward speed for an arcing vector toward the weak right edge of The Weir. My contacts folded into themselves on impact, lending new meaning to “running it blind.” Memory and momentum served me well- I punched the weak spot and climbed out of my boat below to set safety and grab a photo of my buddies in flight. I lounged back in a little pothole, cheering on the boys and marveling at the exquisite beauty and inaccessibility of the gorge.A rare black swift screamed down the wind tunnel of the falls, banking hard left just in time to avoid cratering into the right canyon wall. In that moment I felt completely and undeniably alive, and damn happy to be so.
Tim, Matias, Josh and Dan followed suit, gathering in the swirling little eddies to celebrate our passage through the crux of the entire trip. “Left, left, middle, right” Dan chanted, driving downstream into the meat of one big burly hole after another. We finished the gorge and the walls finally opened up, allowing a playful leapfrog through the dizzying speed of the Jedi Training slide, the intractable awkwardness of Dump Truck, and the carefree boofs and meltdowns of the Teacups
Back at camp, we threw together a hodge-podge feast of donated mac&cheese, tuna, salami and every imaginable camp snack, then washed it all down with a surprisingly palatable concoction of vodka, creekwater, Gatorade powder and lemon juice. Karen decided she was tired of walking, and decided to swim down the last slide into camp, dodging rocks and punching holes with no material protection but a bikini. We’re not quite as hardcore as Karen, but were nonetheless inspired, so we took turns barreling down the slide face-first on Tim’s Thermarest.
We spent the rest of the afternoon hiking domes, running laps on the Teacups, and eating ridiculous piles of food.
The next day offered plenty of action, with West Cherry adding just enough volume to toss us old farts around in the final gorges before the lake.
Almost all of us showed our age and part-time kayaker status by crashing in some very interesting, difficult-to-access spots.
Dan treated us to a class V Baja monster truck session on the shuttle, and a crew of Team WS and Pyranha boys at the put-in gave us the best-tasting Pabst Blue Ribbons we’ve ever had.
Two nights later I was back at work, still giddy from the best Cherry Creek trip I’ve ever done, not quite believing I had snuck in such a monumental experience on an extended weekend. The friendly crew, relaxed pace and playful vibe made it even better than any of the other five trips I’ve made through Upper Cherry.
If you are fortunate enough to make the pilgrimage to Upper Cherry, come prepared mentally and physically. Pay close attention to the instructions and rules placed by the rangers managing this pristine area of wilderness.
They have had serious problems in the past with plastic shavings on trails, poorly buried waste, and bits of garbage around camps, which attract rattlesnakes in addition to being ugly. Pack a working backyak, bury your poo at least 6” to 8” deep in soil, and take the time to meticulously clean your campsite, even if it’s other people’s garbage. The rangers do not realize how popular riverside camping has become amongst non-boaters, and have blamed us in the past even for items that wouldn’t fit into the back of a kayak. If you happen to find Cherry with too much water, don’t get your ass kicked in the monster holes. Just run West Cherry instead- it’s great!
words by Chris Harjes
photos by Chris Harjes
Dan Glauser, Josh Bruckner, Tim Robinson, Matias Nunez and Chris Harjes shuffled work, school and family commitments to reunite for three days of hard hiking and fast sliding in Yosemite/Emigrant Wilderness's fabled Upper Cherry Creek.
I spent Friday morning following little Mason around Dan’s house, yard and garage, watching him systematically push, pull and turn every switch, door handle and button in sight. I could see how the little guy could keep his parents from doing much boating. Fortunately, Cortney volunteered to take Mason for a four-day beach weekend so Dan could go after some much-needed sunshine and adrenaline. Next time it’ll be Dan’s turn to watch the Fussy Nugget while Cortney goes off to run the shit with her homies. While I was chasing Mason around, our buddy Tim Robinson did a ten o’clock interview, scored the job, then joined us to leave Sacramento at the crack of noon. We would have left sooner, but I was having too much fun watching Bob the Builder with Mason and playing with construction toys. We stumbled across Josh Bruckner and Matias Nunez on the side of the road in Groveland, got our wilderness permit and headed for the hills.
By the time we ditched the fuzz and started lugging our immensely heavy backyaks up the mosquito-infested Kibbie ridge, the sun was already dipping below the granite horizon.
We slept at the first overlook, watched the sun rise over the picturesque series of gorges surrounding Cherry Bomb, then continued our excruciating crawl up the sun-blasted granite ridge. By the time the rest of us limped into the put-in at Lord’s Meadow, Tim had already made coffee, scouted the first series of slides, and taken a nice little nap.
The entrance slides of Cherry Creek welcomed our weary forms with plenty of cool, clear water blasting our dusty, mosquito-chewed faces clean
We cruised downstream, marveling at the immense glacier-sculpted cliffs and domes framing our Martian riverscape.
Miles of long, shallow, low-angle slides led us into steeper, tighter rapids, culminating in the powerfully constricted slides and drops of the Class IV Gorge. The five of us took turns remembering lines into mini-gorges, never hurrying but rarely stopping long enough to interrupt the flow of the run.
With the notable exception of Tim, we were far too beatdown from the hike to even consider dropping The Bomb that evening, so we left our boats and scrambled around the gorge to have a cocktail with Karen Smith and Joe Bosquin. They had forsaken the murderous backyaks in favor of small loads of food and drink and a direct hike into camp. We felt unabashedly envious of the well-rested, happy campers before us.
The next morning’s hike up to drop The Bomb was somber and meditative, and for good reason. Cherry Bomb Gorge ain’t nothin’ to #@! with. Three days before our run, Paul Stamilio dislocated his shoulder in The Weir, got patched up by Jason Hale in the next swirly eddy, then dislocated again and body-pinned in the sieve at the exit of the lower gorge. While we walked up that very morning, an errant paddler got slammed into the right wall pothole, recirculated in The Weir, then canyoneered/swam through the entire gorge. Fortunately for us, we didn’t get to hear any of these stories until later that night.
We attacked even the smaller rapids of the entrance gorge with far more precision than necessary, fine-tuning our skills for the more demanding drops to come. I sent Robert Peerson a mental thanks for his amazing design work on the Habitat, as body and boat melded into one.
We enjoyed a relaxing moment in the sun and breeze on The Lake at the Edge of the Universe, decompressing for a bit before portaging our boats around the guard sieves to the lip of the Falls. The five of us huddled together on the tip of the last big shard of loose granite, and gazed down upon our bedrock nemesis.
Cherry Bomb Falls was formed by a neighboring dome collapse. Thousands of tons of shattered granite dams the river and squeezes it high onto the left canyon wall. Two small channels break out of the left edge of the dam, fold together and accelerate with violent fury back into the ancient riverbed below, splattering into the undercut, potholey right wall. Just below, The Weir recirculates calmly and efficiently from eight or ten feet downstream. We studied the crux entry move from our crowded perch, calculating the ebb and slop of the converging currents, placing ourselves in that delicate moment when one well-timed stroke would push us out of the hanging eddy and into the mad screaming power of the falls itself.
I climbed into my boat first, partly to set safety for the boys, but mostly because I would have puked all over them if I stared any longer. I was scared. I thought about my wife Natalie, my hometown of Asheville, the life I would lose if this run went gravely wrong. I forced these demons at bay, taking a long moment to digest my fear. Decades of running hard rivers, my strength, and the proven rescue skills of my homies at my back, would get me through this gorge, no matter how hard the shit hit the fan. I boiled down the battle within to its rawest essence, leaving only an unshakeable focus and an indomitable will to survive.
One last mental dry run and a grinning thumbs-up from the boys, and off I went, tweezing through the entry slot, hurling boat and body as far left as physics would allow
Despite my best effort, Cherry Creek’s frenetic return to its pre-rockslide riverbed launched me sailing toward the swiss-cheese @#*fest of the right wall. I landed hard sideways on a left edge/left brace combo, exchanging a portion of my wallward speed for an arcing vector toward the weak right edge of The Weir. My contacts folded into themselves on impact, lending new meaning to “running it blind.” Memory and momentum served me well- I punched the weak spot and climbed out of my boat below to set safety and grab a photo of my buddies in flight. I lounged back in a little pothole, cheering on the boys and marveling at the exquisite beauty and inaccessibility of the gorge.A rare black swift screamed down the wind tunnel of the falls, banking hard left just in time to avoid cratering into the right canyon wall. In that moment I felt completely and undeniably alive, and damn happy to be so.
Tim, Matias, Josh and Dan followed suit, gathering in the swirling little eddies to celebrate our passage through the crux of the entire trip. “Left, left, middle, right” Dan chanted, driving downstream into the meat of one big burly hole after another. We finished the gorge and the walls finally opened up, allowing a playful leapfrog through the dizzying speed of the Jedi Training slide, the intractable awkwardness of Dump Truck, and the carefree boofs and meltdowns of the Teacups
Back at camp, we threw together a hodge-podge feast of donated mac&cheese, tuna, salami and every imaginable camp snack, then washed it all down with a surprisingly palatable concoction of vodka, creekwater, Gatorade powder and lemon juice. Karen decided she was tired of walking, and decided to swim down the last slide into camp, dodging rocks and punching holes with no material protection but a bikini. We’re not quite as hardcore as Karen, but were nonetheless inspired, so we took turns barreling down the slide face-first on Tim’s Thermarest.
We spent the rest of the afternoon hiking domes, running laps on the Teacups, and eating ridiculous piles of food.
The next day offered plenty of action, with West Cherry adding just enough volume to toss us old farts around in the final gorges before the lake.
Almost all of us showed our age and part-time kayaker status by crashing in some very interesting, difficult-to-access spots.
Dan treated us to a class V Baja monster truck session on the shuttle, and a crew of Team WS and Pyranha boys at the put-in gave us the best-tasting Pabst Blue Ribbons we’ve ever had.
Two nights later I was back at work, still giddy from the best Cherry Creek trip I’ve ever done, not quite believing I had snuck in such a monumental experience on an extended weekend. The friendly crew, relaxed pace and playful vibe made it even better than any of the other five trips I’ve made through Upper Cherry.
If you are fortunate enough to make the pilgrimage to Upper Cherry, come prepared mentally and physically. Pay close attention to the instructions and rules placed by the rangers managing this pristine area of wilderness.
They have had serious problems in the past with plastic shavings on trails, poorly buried waste, and bits of garbage around camps, which attract rattlesnakes in addition to being ugly. Pack a working backyak, bury your poo at least 6” to 8” deep in soil, and take the time to meticulously clean your campsite, even if it’s other people’s garbage. The rangers do not realize how popular riverside camping has become amongst non-boaters, and have blamed us in the past even for items that wouldn’t fit into the back of a kayak. If you happen to find Cherry with too much water, don’t get your ass kicked in the monster holes. Just run West Cherry instead- it’s great!
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