It is there in the morning when you rise, it surrounds you during the day, and at night around the campfire when a lull in the conversation allows the river to break the silence. The river teaches you its own language. Each river is a variation of these different terms, and like the people who run them, no two rivers are alike. Only the sound remains the same. And every year, like the bubbles of water on my tent, runoff is stored up high in the mountains, only to come crashing down at the first sign of spring.
More snow just means an extended whitewater season.
Our thoughts of whitewater begin when the snow still clings to the mountains. The pristine, white powder that we ski on all year will soon turn a muddy brown, like cold, creamed coffee. Face shots of powder will be replaced by the cold slaps of waves breaking over our heads, and just like in the winter, our hands will numb from the water's bite. When the mountains are parched of their snow cover, we hope for rain to sustain the river levels. By August, though, the rivers begin to subside.