On May 6th, 2003, five of us gathered on the east side of Northern California's Marble Mountains for an esoteric pilgrimage. Shackleford Creek is not considered a classic. At the put-in, it is little more than a snowmelt-induced firehose in the steep sun-speckled forest. We hugged, chatting flow and getting to business, unstrapping kayaks, pulling out gear bags, and dressing for something more like battle than recreation. After sliding in, the next 45 seconds were filled with so much sensory stimulation that time no longer adhered to the rules of physics. Suddenly, the river disappeared, and we scrambled to catch the last
