From a harrowing experience on a raging stream as a youth to a more refined mission down Blackwood Creek as an adult, the thrill of moving water never grows old for a Tahoe photographer

I was about 13 years old, living in the suburbs of Connecticut, when a major storm rolled in. It may have even been a hurricane, but at this point, I’m too old to remember the details. 

Most of my afternoons then were spent with my friend Ron, wading thigh-deep in our local creek, casting our lines for trout. On this day, however, the winds were howling and the normally calm little creek was swollen to its max. There was no fishing to be done. 

Instead, we rummaged through our sheds, looking for anything that floated. Lo and behold, we found one of those inflatable grocery store rafts and schemed up a plan without telling our parents. 

With the creek ripping, Ron and I hopped in, one in front of the other, to take on the torrent. The sky was dark, and rapids tore through this otherwise peaceful stretch of water. 

We made it through the first section unscathed, but soon after, we found ourselves pinned on a sizable boulder. Half laughing and half drowning, we managed to dislodge the raft before careening downstream once again. In the next shallow section of water, the floor of our floatation device began tearing away from the body of the raft. Before long Ron and I were left holding on to the sides for dear life as the bottom flushed out downstream toward the pond below. 

We fought the torrent for survival, pinballing against rocks before eventually ending up beached. Scratched and bloodied, yet elated beyond belief, we bailed through overgrown thorns and thistles to a nearby road and walked back to Ron’s house, high-fiving as we reminisced about our early-teen adventure. 

A Creek and a Mission

On a recent Monday, my buddy “Big Jeff” Schertz messaged about a potentially fun backyard mission on Tahoe’s West Shore. He had noticed that his neighborhood creek was (kind of) pumping. We decided to have a gander.

Joel Oberly and Jeff Schertz ride e-bikes to the put-in of a recent packraft journey down Blackwood Creek

Driving up Blackwood Canyon, we stopped at numerous points to scout and observed that, despite a handful of strainers and fallen trees, it appeared good to go. The key would be waiting until later in the afternoon for peak snowmelt. Blackwood Creek is tiny, so we would also need to choose the right craft—one both short and shallow.

Big Jeff had recently purchased a packraft that was suitable for the task. We hoped to leave the following day, but there was one problem: I didn’t have a raft. 

As I do with most things I want but don’t possess, I posted to Facebook and Instagram asking if anyone had a raft they would lend me. It took 36 hours, but a kind soul named Kelley Casper responded and offered me her 9-pound, self-bailing Kokopelli Nirvana packraft on loan. Rated for rapids in the Class I-III range, the Kokopelli packs down to the size of a sleeping bag yet is somehow durable and capable.

We set off two days later. To make the mission even more unique, we opted to go green. I strapped the Kokopelli and gear to my e-bike and rode to Jeff’s house on the West Shore. From there, joined by our friend Joel Oberly, we embarked on e-bikes to our starting point at the bridge in Blackwood Canyon, where we inflated our rafts. 

Floating … and Portaging

I had never been in a packraft before. I had never even inflated one. Did I have the right pump? I hoped Kelley had left me everything I needed in the raft bag. I imagined I would instinctively know how to paddle one. After all, I’d been on all types of rivers all over the world.

With water too high to wade through and beaver dams blocking the flow of the creek, Joel Oberly and Jeff Schertz hoof it around the obstacles

The mosquitoes were having a field day on my exposed legs as we locked our bikes and aired up our boats. I topped mine off by blowing into the intake valve. Jeff and Joel tromped upriver to start just above the first rapid of our journey. I stood there wondering if I had done everything right. 

The two began thumping downriver and I followed suit, fully coming to life as a deluge of frigid water washed over my body on the first rapid. The paddle was underway as we began snaking and switchbacking through the forested canyon. Almost immediately, I was overcome by a feeling I know and love—being alone with my buddies at the mercy of the water. 

We expected it to be a mellow run. This wasn’t some wild stretch of whitewater. But it didn’t take long before we reached the first of many down trees and strainers. Transitioning from my seated paddle position into portage mode was something I would get used to quickly. With the creek’s narrow width and many of the bends being blind, we were forced to make split-second decisions on whether to paddle through or hike around potential hazards. 

Jeff Schertz ducks under a fallen tree

These transitions would have been easier a decade ago. I had been nursing a sore lower back and bum left knee from ski season, and the switch from a comfortable seated paddle position to quickly hopping up and into the water and grabbing the raft before getting swept into sharp tree branches was both intense and repetitive. 

But the scenery and mood were perfect. It’s amazing how different the energy is when floating on a river or creek versus standing on its banks. The sounds of water in motion, the rumble of rocks under the surface and the feeling of crisp, melted snow splashing against your skin make the journey worthwhile. 

While we knew our float would end at Lake Tahoe, we never knew what was beyond the next bend. Tall pines and firs lined our path, and birds squawked above our heads. Every so often, the creek would bend in the right direction, offering views of the surrounding peaks. Other times, we found ourselves shivering through shady, dark stretches where the sun barely poked through the forest. 

Jeff Schertz negotiates a small drop along Blackwood Creek

Beavers roam these waters, damming certain stretches while creating homes and safe havens. These dams created both hazards, in the form of stainers and blockades, and some of the best rapids on the run. 

Where the dams weren’t fully stacked, the water still rolled over, creating 2- to 3-foot drops. Many of these areas had slow-moving pools just above where the water was collecting, which allowed us to quickly scout the drops and monitor for sharp branches and logs that could injure us or pop our packrafts. Once we determined it was clear, we lined up one by one to drop in. 

The packrafts made easy work of these rolling rapids and only caused the occasional capsizing—mostly by Big Jeff, I might add. By late afternoon, the sun was lower on the horizon, and submerging in the creek was not advisable. 

Mission accomplished

As we rounded Eagle Rock, houses became more prevalent. The creek dipped in elevation, creating one of the most adventurous sections of water. A back-and-forth bending of the creek culminated in one final stretch of rapids before passing through a tunnel and emerging at Lake Tahoe.  

Thunder echoed as dark clouds backdropped the lake’s glassy surface. The remnants of a rainbow lingered to the south, reminding us of our good fortune to live in such a place. Joel threw us each a cold beer, and we slowly paddled back to Jeff’s house, congratulating one another on a successful mission. 

Kid at Heart

Besides having a daughter, gaining a handful of gray hairs and taking on a few more responsibilities, not much has changed since my childhood.

My days are still spent monitoring the weather and waiting for those perfect moments to create lifelong memories with friends. The creeks may exist on different sides of the country, but the mission remains the same: Find something that floats and figure out a way to paddle down to the larger body of water at the end.

With this most recent adventure, technology was on our side thanks to the invention of packrafts. My borrowed boat’s canvas remained in one piece, and conditions were far more ideal. In the end, both journeys concluded with scrapes and bruises, but also the building blocks for whatever comes next.

Ryan Salm is a North Lake Tahoe-based photographer, writer and world-traveling adventurer, who also enjoys a good adventure close to home.