Steve took off around ten to see what he could find. I was left to worry, filter water, take stock of our food supply, and sing all the show tunes I know as loud as I could in hopes of keeping bears away. (It worked, as far as I could tell.)
Steve returned around four looking absolutely haggard, dragging himself up from the stream at a near crawl. All the color was gone from his face and it was immediately obvious that he’d sweated/dehydrated himself borderline not-okay hypothermic. He got out of his drysuit and sweat-soaked long johns and into dry gear and a sleeping bag, and while I mercilessly forced him full of hot soup and tea and snacks he relayed what he’d found.
Basically, we’re fucked. After our current set of rapids there’s a brief respite, followed by more that go on for about twice as long. He followed the river to that point, then cut inland/east on a logging road that looked like it might lead downstream… but didn’t. There’s no good portage route, the rapids continue, and there isn’t even a decent spot to pull out.
Since the water level is still super high and Steve is wiped out, we’re zeroing tomorrow and hopefully coming up with a plan. This sucks, but we’re surprisingly well-equipped to be this miserable; we still have plenty of food, our gear is (mostly) dry, we have a four-season tent and a zero-degree down quilt in addition to our own sleeping bags, we can travel in the drysuits, and our fuel/TP supply is strong. All we really need to worry about is the scotch. (And, you know, our parents eventually freaking out.)