PUMPHOUSE RECREATION AREA — Walter Kirschbaum didn’t have a favorite river. Perhaps that’s part of the reason Colorado’s unheralded king of whitewater kayaking has gone so long without the recognition he deserves.
When the annual Timberline Gore Canyon Raft and Kayak Race returns to the steepest section of the entire Colorado River at noon Saturday, much of the field will recognize the name “Kirschbaum” only as that of the final Class V rapid before the race’s finish.
Some will identify it as the name of the man who first paddled a kayak — solo — beneath the 2,500-foot walls of the gorge back in 1962, navigating his homemade, canvas-decked vessel through the swirling whitewater rock garden tumbling some 350 feet over its 5-mile crux.
Only a few will know his full legacy.
Although she’s never been to the nearly 25-year-old race, Walter’s former wife, Ruth Kirschbaum, knows that legacy as well as anyone. Still, the Glenwood Springs resident who once paddled by Walter’s side has never seen the whitewater rapids that share their name, the only public recognition — informal as it may be — of her late ex-husband’s achievements as a pioneer of the sport.
“Walter didn’t talk a lot about his adventures. He didn’t want to brag,” said Ruth, 83. “He always thought it was such a gift that he was able to do that.”
Since his untimely death off the river in 1972, little bragging has been done on Walter Kirschbaum’s behalf. There is no “Kirschbaum Award” given away at the Gore Canyon Race he arguably spawned. An attempt to have the relatively new Glenwood Whitewater Park named in his honor has gathered little steam.
Perhaps, then, it’s time for the bragging to begin. The only question is: where?
A German emigrant, Kirschbaum was first invited to Colorado as a competitor in the FIBArk races in 1955, two years after winning the kayak slalom world championships in Italy. Upon discovering the rivers of the American West, he all but abandoned racing in favor of exploration, turning his attention to first descents in boats he and Ruth built at home in Denver.
His goal, according to late guidebook author and paddling protege Fletcher Anderson, became running every significant piece of whitewater in the Colorado River drainage, which Anderson said he did by the fall of 1965.
His resume includes the first kayak descent without portage of the 296-mile Grand Canyon (the only such descent before the Glen Canyon Dam) in June 1960, the first descent without portage of Cataract Canyon (a requirement of the ranger to receive the Grand Canyon permit) the year before, and pioneering portage-free routes on the Colorado River through Westwater Canyon as well.
As a language teacher and kayak instructor at Colorado Rocky Mountain School in Carbondale, Kirschbaum began notching first descents on segments of the nearby Crystal River and the burly Cross Mountain Gorge on the Yampa River before attempting perhaps his most audacious feat with a solo run of the Gunnison River’s treacherous Black Canyon near Montrose in 1961 or 1962.
The remote run dropping roughly 75 feet per mile wasn’t repeated again until 1975, then by a team of four, and sees little traffic to this day.
“He was very self-conscious and self-effacing,” Ruth said. “One of the reasons he dared what he did was to convince himself that he was a brave human being. It helped him with his own self-image.”
Paddling a leaky, 14-foot canvas and fiberglass kayak without a seat or foot braces, Kirschbaum was wise enough to portage the first two rugged drops of Gore Canyon before tackling the remaining rapids, including the technical rock slalom now serving as his namesake, with expertise. Not until the late 1970s would Roger Paris and Walt Blackadar kayak the run in its entirety.
These days, expert kayakers paddling shorter, plastic kayaks Ruth describes as “little bananas” complete laps through the canyon in less than half an hour. For many, Kirschbaum Rapid serves as the highlight.
The hidden whitewater gem is an appropriately humble place to begin the overdue recognition of Colorado’s most historically significant paddler. The Glenwood Springs Whitewater Park, in the place Kirschbaum helped put on the paddling map since 1966, would seem a logical next step.
Ruth and her four sons — three of whom still call Colorado home — are among a small cadre of folks hoping for a plaque or bench recognizing Kirschbaum’s contributions alongside the Colorado River in Glenwood. Ruth admits, though, that almost any of the many rivers the modest kayaker knew and loved would probably do just fine by him.
“I don’t think he differentiated,” she said. “He loved all of them.”
