I was with Ben on the Elwha River when he passed.

Since I got back from Ecuador, Ben had been my only local friend and kayaking buddy. I only really knew him for a few months but in that short time I had really come to admire his humble and amiable personality, and his incomparable spirit for doing the things he and all of us loved. His death is both incredibly shocking and incredibly frustrating to all of us, due to the unequaled composure that he had come to possess and due to the improbable circumstances of his passing.

We were running the Grand Canyon section of the Elwha, as Ben had previously done by himself(!) and for the first time(!!) not very long ago. The gauge was reading around 1050 cfs. We made our way safely through the upper canyon, portaging the hole in Eskimo Pie and the last part of Landslide. Upon entering the lower canyon (Rica) I elected to lead the first drop (Goblin's Gate) and the set safety at the end of the pool below it, to prevent anyone from swimming into the next drop.

I got through okay and pulled out on some shallow rocks that are walled in by the sheer canyon walls. Ben went next and got worked a little in the top hole, and flushed toward the second ledge upside-down. He tried to roll a couple of times, and then several times after dropping over the final ledge.

Any other paddler that I know would have pulled out by now (and my rope would be smacking them in the forehead) but Ben was not like any other paddler I know. I remember seeing him capsize somewhere on the Clear Fork, and despite some obvious impediment to his ability to roll where he was, he tried not four or five times, like most of us do, but ten roll attempts before finally figuring something out and nailing it. This guy had more balls and dedication than any of us combined, so much it would just emanate from him and rub off on us just for being there. I can't remember how many times I stood scratching my head at the top of a drop, and Ben instantly made me feel like a salmon with just a few words. "I feel pretty good about it." "It's not too bad." And then proceeded to skip down the drop like class five was made for sissies and waterwings.

But on this day, the deck was stacked way too high even for the combination magic and luck that was Ben Manfredi. He must have been underwater for more than 30 seconds now, and he was still trying to roll. I could see his boat in the moving pool in front of me, moving toward me. I was holding my breath and just begging for the opportunity to throw. I saw the boat shifting and the paddle moving, a good sign. I saw his paddle sweep, and the boat shifted up--but not nearly enough... And then I saw the problem; his paddle feather was twisted far away from where it should be for a roll attempt, maybe because he couldn't feel the paddle index through his new neoprene gloves.

He tried again and his paddle sliced uselessly into the water, and still he didn't swim. He set up for another roll attempt, not having taken a breath for a solid minute. He passed by the canyon wall, out of sight.

I was baffled.

I was scared.

I was useless, standing on the rocks with a rope.

I signal for the next two paddlers to run the drop so they can chase down Ben, who MUST be swimming by now. Or...

The other two paddlers run Goblin's Gate just fine and fly by as I yell to them that Ben is most likely in trouble. I then scramble back to my boat as fast I can as a deadly chill settles into the canyon.

I can now hear loud, desperate yells echoing off the walls as I fasten my skirt; the fear in those voices chills me to the bone. I turn the corner to see what is every kayaker's nightmare: Ben is not far from where I had last seem him, still in calm water, still in his boat, upside down. When I arrive Ben is out of his boat but not breathing, no pulse. "Do you know CPR?" they ask.

I wish I could say that the next hour was a blur, but it wasn't. No one should have to experience what we what we went through during that time, battling futilely drag Ben back into the world of the living. Neither your imagination nor your worst nightmares will ever come close to preparing you, so for god's sake, do anything in your power to avoid having to find yourself in that situation.

Nothing worked; Ben was gone.

We were trapped in a deep canyon in November with the sun close to setting. The other paddler who stayed with me, one of Ben's best friends, had been in sub-40 degree water all day with only a thin layer of neoprene and a drytop. He didn't stand a very good chance of being able to survive the night, so we hiked out. It was dark when reached the cars and the other paddler had brought the rangers. They seemed satisfied that the two of us had made it out of the canyon and informed us that SAR would be there at 8 the next morning.

We are all greatly saddened by this loss and still dealing with many intense emotions, and trying to strengthen all of our best memories of Ben. We don't know why he lost his life under such unexpected circumstances, or why he was still in his boat when we caught up to him. It not clear whether he was okay at the time I last saw him, or whether he had sustained an injury in the rapid.

Yes, he was doing what he loved and he was happy that day. Ben spent his last day with us deep within a beautiful, pristine wilderness canyon accessible only by kayak and only by kayakers possessing the kind of expertise and dedication that he did. We were in a place so majestic and so rarely experienced that the risk involved seemed an small price to pay to be able to exist in such an amazing place.

Ben paid that price, but his loss would have been far greater had he never followed his spirit up the snowy peaks and down the crystal clear rivers of his home and heaven here in the Cascades. He was a hero to many, a best friend to a few, and true to himself. Now he is a legend to all.

The first time I climbed a mountain with Ben he asked me if I was bringing my snowboard. I had given up snowboarding in exchange for kayaking four years ago, and never ridden since. But the signs suggested the first fresh snow of the season high on Mt. Baker so the answer was obvious. What better way to pick it up again than to experience my first summit "ski" in the tracks of the best ski mountaineer on the West Coast? (the country? the world?) His inspiration were my wings and I had the best day of riding in my life.

Thank you Ben for helping us all believe in ourselves, and for showing us what may be accomplished when one's mind allows the spirit to guide.

I will not forget.

Justin Ashworth