Tidal-bore rafting is anything but boring

The first waves were nothing, a slap on the bow, some spray in the face. Then all hell broke loose, eddies and rapids and rollers popping up everywhere as the massive incoming tides of Nova Scotia’s Bay of Fundy collided with the outgoing freshwater flow of the Shubenacadie River, turning it in its tracks and stirring up a chocolate-colored mess.

Our inflatable Zodiac, powered by a 60-horsepower, four-stroke Yamaha outboard and piloted by a mud-country daredevil, took it all on, scaling one wave after another as curtains of warm, salty water rose up over the bow and slammed into us. As initiates in the curious, dirty and very wet adventure of tidal-bore rafting, we white-knuckled the boat’s safety lines, shrieked, laughed, groaned and squinched with each dousing.

The expedition sounds easy enough. You don’t have to paddle, just strap into rain gear and a life vest, and hang on for dear life. No experience is required. But what experience could possibly prepare you for this super-soaker roller-coaster ride? The dunk tank at a fun fair? Upside-down apple-bobbing?

“I’ve never done something like this,” one of my dripping fellow passengers said, wringing out her clothes at the end of our trip with the three-decades running Tidal Bore Rafting Resort in Urbania, 15 minutes upriver from Maitland. “I’ve never even imagined there was something like this.”

The “bore” is the first wave that sweeps into the river from the Bay of Fundy at high tide. The bay’s famed tides are enormous, the biggest in the world, recorded at well over 50 feet above the seabed. At peak tide, all that water piles up at the narrow end of the funnel-shaped bay and gushes into the Shubenacadie River near the historic seaport village of Maitland. The initial bore may be up to 3 feet high, travel at 10 mph and have class-four rapids following in its wake.

Riding these wild waters at high tide is an honored tradition on “the Shubie,” one of Nova Scotia’s largest rivers. Long before entrepreneurs started pitching white-water tourist trips with high-powered watercraft, local river rats were catching the tidal waves on inner tubes, floating mattresses, surfboards, kayaks — whatever they could rustle up. Our guide Kim Artz, who grew up along these banks, once attempted the ride on a blowup alligator. (It popped mid-rapids.) “Any way we could float on the water, we tried,” she said as we motored toward the mouth of the river at the start of our 10-mile excursion.

The waters were eerily calm as we hummed along, dodging sandbars and catching the occasional sniff of manure from pasturelands on overhead banks. We scouted numerous mature bald eagles on snags and studied chalky gypsum outcrops in 200-foot cliffs of red sandstone and mudstone. The constant erosion of those soft cliffs, along with the scouring of ancient river sediment, silts up the river and colors it sienna brown.

“The erosion rate is a foot a year,” Artz said, pointing out a house with a front yard spilling over the banks. “Everything ends up in the river.”

So did we when our 16-foot Zodiac became grounded on a sandbar. We six jumped ship and hauled it off, splashing in 70-degree water, marveling that the ground we were walking on would soon be deep underwater. How soon? The tidal clock was ticking.

We were full of anticipation as we piled back into the boat, waiting for the famous tidal bore to sweep in and the action to begin. I’d heard rumors of 15-foot waves on these wild waters. I was pumped. But 15 minutes later, when we finally spotted our tidal bore, it was, sadly, simply boring, a Chihuahua of a ripple with some halfhearted froth. I was starting to feel a bit deflated — I’d picked the longest possible ride on the most extreme tide — when the muddy river started swelling and churning like water in a washing machine switching from rinse to spin. Something was up.

The river simmered, boiled, then erupted in chaos as surging tides slammed into sandbars and rapids began to rise all around us. Artz chased them with a wicked eye, taking multiple rides through one set, then racing to catch another, always hunting down the craziest wave, the killer ride. Our boat continually climbed and crashed and filled until we were not on the water, we were in it, and of it, no longer able to see our feet, or even the boat beneath us.

The boat bailed fast, but even as we popped up, caught our breath, wiped our faces, and let out our “whews,” Artz was on another set. She would keep at it for more than two hours, until we passengers — including a fun-loving Englishwoman plucked sputtering from the water after spilling on a 5-foot “Perfect Storm” ascent — finally threw up our hands in surrender, exhilarated, exhausted from bracing and clenching, and drenched to the core. Unlike the others, I was shivering, my teeth chattering like a windup toy. Stupidly, I’d worn non-insulating cotton instead of recommended fleece, and every bit of breeze had penetrated my soggy being.

This is not a ride for anyone with aquaphobia, like the woman who once spent an entire four-hour trip clinging to Artz’s ankle in the bottom of the boat. You will get wet — deeply, profoundly wet — no matter what measures you take. One rafter, determined to stay dry, donned the company rain gear, top and bottom, then defiantly duct-taped the neck, legs and arms before setting out. “He filled up like a balloon. The guide had to drain him by cutting all the tape,” said Steve Elder, owner of the resort.

It welcomes guests to its nicely appointed wood cabins and chalets with Nova Scotia’s traditional Gaelic greeting “Ciad mile failte,” or “100,000 welcomes.” It is the oldest of a half-dozen companies running trips on the river. In peak summer season, 30 boats might crisscross the tidal rapids at once. When passengers spill — and some will — guides are on them in a flash, instantly shutting down motors and hauling them safely aboard.

Most tours conclude with a bit of river floating — jumping overboard and drifting along with the warm current — and mud sliding, or “mudding,” another honored tradition in these parts, where kids grow up mud-fighting, building mud castles, sinking in mud bubbles up to their waists and plastering themselves with the muck for sunbathing beauty treatments.