Pinned on the Machias River: A Swiftwater Rescue Story

"This is the story of a near-death entrapment, a rainy-day rescue, and one unforgettable dead moose."

Last summer, I attended the Swiftwater Rescue course sponsored by the Penobscot Paddle and Chowder Society. Organized by Kenny DeCoster and taught by Jeremy and Ian from Northeast Whitewater, the course is designed to build the mindset and skills needed to improve our collective safety on the water. We covered topics like entrapment dangers, wading in swiftwater, swimming in rapids, how to throw a rope, tie rescue knots, and how to set up a mechanical advantage for unpinning a boat. I left with new skills—and a new mantra: plan when you can, act when you must.

Like many in the class, I couldn’t help wondering how often a z-drag is actually needed in real life. Even so, I started carrying a small pin kit. I didn’t have to wait long to find out why that mattered. This is the story of a near-death entrapment, a rainy-day rescue, and one unforgettable dead moose.

Swiftwater Rescue training on the Dead River with Northeast Whitewater helped prepare us when things went wrong on the Machias River.

It was the second day of a weekend trip on the Machias River in May. I had asked Paul Plumer to suggest a route that would be challenging, but still manageable for my son Nolen and his college roommate Ben. Paul offered the section from Third Machias Lake to the Wonderland campsite as fitting our needs. We expected excitement—but nothing life-threatening. We were wrong.

Rain was falling lightly when we shoved off, and visibility was poor. Nolen paddled solo in his 16' Old Town Camper; Ben and I were tandem in my Camper. Despite the rain and high water, we handled the early rapids well. Knowing Long Falls was approaching, we paused in an eddy behind large boulders to scout where the river narrowed and the current picked up. That’s when Ben spotted something downstream.

“People in the river!” he shouted over the roar of the rapids.

Two paddlers out of their boat were waving from midstream. They motioned for us to pass them on the right, but their posture told a different story: they were spent. In trouble. We paddled past them but couldn’t find a clean eddy. Instead, we turned upstream and slammed into the riverbank, grabbing wet branches to hold ourselves in place. Between us and the stranded canoe was a narrow, fast-moving side channel. We waded across carefully, bracing with our paddles, and got our first clear look at the situation.

Their canoe was pinned broadside on a midstream rock and partially submerged. The two men stood waist-deep beside it, pushing and pulling, but making no progress to free the boat. Every few minutes, a piece of waterlogged gear broke loose and floated downstream. I tossed them a throw bag. Their fingers and minds were clearly struggling in the cold as they worked to tie it off. I waved and gestured wildly, trying to get them to loop the line under the hull for better leverage. The rush of the water made communicating by voice impossible.

M tying the throw rope onto the sunken canoe for our first attempt at rescue.

The first time we freed the canoe, the lines became tangled, turning it sideways so that it sunk again.

Once secured, the boys and I grabbed the line and pulled hard. The canoe came free—but it was a short-lived success. There was a tangle of lines still attached to it, and this nest of knotted rope grabbed onto the pile of junk that had previously been holding their canoe. As the rope tightened, the canoe twisted perpendicular to the current and couldn’t be pulled ashore before it caught the current sideways. It quickly sank beneath the surface and wedged on another rock twenty feet downriver. We had managed to make the situation worse.

With the canoe stuck again and going nowhere fast, we got the two men to shore and assessed the situation. The canoeists—Nephew and Uncle—were the only people we saw on the river all weekend. They were relieved we’d come along when we did.

Uncle is an experienced solo whitewater paddler, but they were paddling a heavily loaded Old Town Tripper—new to them—and had entered the rapid too far left. Their canoe hit a partially submerged log broadside, rolled, and stuck on what looked like a tan boulder. In the chaos, Uncle was pulled under, pinned beneath the log, and held there for 30 to 40 terrifying seconds while the current crushed him against the jam. Nephew thought Uncle was trying to right the boat—until he realized he wasn’t coming back up. He leapt into action, pulling his uncle out of his predicament and back to the surface, likely saving his life.

When they caught their breath, the stench hit them. At first, Nephew thought Uncle had lost control of his bowels during the ordeal. But no—the “boulder” was the bloated carcass of a dead moose, its body tangled in the same log jam that had nearly killed Uncle.

Now their canoe was gone—completely submerged, pinned hard by the current, and still full of gear. The rain intensified. Visibility dropped. Communication was difficult. Both men were showing signs of hypothermia, with Nephew shaking uncontrollably from cold and the shock of what transpired.

My pin kit: two pulleys, two locking caribiners, two prusik loops, and a 10-foot length of tubular webbing.

One thing I learned in the Swiftwater Rescue course: act fast when you must, but take time to plan when you can. We took a few minutes to assess our immediate well-being, survey the scene, and formulate a plan. Nephew acted fast when it mattered, but now we had to be careful not to make our situation worse yet again. There was no stable footing near the canoe, so it looked like we’d need a mechanical advantage from shore. We grabbed our throw ropes and my small, homemade z-drag kit: two pulleys, two locking carabiners, a 10-foot section of webbing, and a couple prusik loops.

But knowing what gear you need and remembering how to use it—when you’re cold, wet, and amped on adrenaline—that’s the real test. I asked the group for patience as I mentally and verbally walked through the setup. Once we had the plan and anchored the system onshore, I took the other end of the rope, walked upstream, and jumped out head-first and flat to get out into the river, then let the current carry me straight to my target.

The canoe was almost completely submerged and stuck hard on the bottom when I swam out to attach the z-drag line.

Bullseye. I landed midships, found a solid brace point, and worked quickly to clear the tangled lines. I threw those to the boys on shore, then tied the business end of the z-drag line to the far end of the canoe, hoping we could pivot it off the rock. Once the 3:1 mechanical advantage system was in place, it didn’t take long. Four men, pulling with the power of a dozen, and the boat came free smoothly.

With the canoe back on shore, I took another swim to rejoin the group. We recovered most of their gear just downstream, including a canvas bag so waterlogged it took two people to lift. We stayed with Nephew and Uncle and helped them portage Long Falls. By that point, we were all soaked to the bone, but the work kept us warm.

Looking back, this experience was a stark reminder that even a seemingly straightforward Class II rapid—barely waist-deep—can present real, life-threatening danger. Uncle was lucky that Nephew acted quickly. They were both lucky we arrived when we did, and that we had the training, gear, and time to help.

I also learned I could use more practice setting up the z-drag—especially the brake. While my kit worked, a better prusik-minding pulley setup would’ve saved time and trouble.

Days later, Uncle told me, “We’d probably still be out there if you guys didn’t help.”

I was thankful that they were OK—and grateful for the hands-on training I received through PPCS and Northeast Whitewater. That z-drag kit I rarely use? I’ll never leave home without it.

See video from our adventures on the Machias River on YouTube.