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Who is Scott Lindgren’s wife? Kayaker’s story The River Runner premiered on Netflix on August 25, 2021.
Scott Lindgren is a professional kayaker and filmmaker. He is known for first ascents in and around the Himalayas and as an expedition kayaker. He went to the deepest river gorge and the last great unexplored river in the world, Tsangpo, and pulled off the Everest of rivers. It took seven men in the kayaks 45 days to complete the journey.
Scott Lindgren was just 12 when he started exploring rivers. He went on a family trip to Snake River, Wyoming. He started kayaking when he was 18 and went to the Himalayas when he was 19. Lindgren kayaks 250 days a year and goes to the mountains to train, reports SFGATE.
Who Is Scott Lindgren Wife?
Scott Lindgren’s wife is Rachael Weiner.
Rachael and Scott have two children together. She is active on Instagram under the username @yogawatergirl. Judging by Rachael’s Instagram account, she seems to enjoy traveling and outdoor activities as does her husband.
Lindgren lives with his family in Meadow Vista, near Auburn.
Is Scott Lindgren On Wikipedia?
Scott Lindgren is not on Wikipedia. Lindgren’s biography can be read on a few wiki bio pages.
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However, Scott Lindgren is active on Instagram with more than 10.1k followers. His Instagram username is @scottlindgren_. Scott’s Instagram bio says that mountains, rivers and oceans are his passion.
Lindgren’s documentary The River Runner was recently released on Netflix. In the documentary, Lindgren sets out to become the first person to paddle rivers that originate from Mount Kailash.
What is Scott Lindgren Age?
Scott Lindgren is 49 years old in 2021.
Further details on Lindgren’s date of birth and exact birthday are currently private.
Speaking of height, Scott Lindgren is 5 feet 11 inches tall.
Scott Lindgren Net Worth Details Explored
Scott Lindgren’s net worth details are currently private.
Lindgren has an IMDb profile with details of his career. Scott has worked as a cinematographer on documentaries such as The River Runner, Ten Adventures of a Lifetime, Liqu Lifes 3: Spawning Grounds, Into the Tsangpo Gorge, and Three Great American Adventures.
Scott Lindgren has also worked as a producer on several documentaries and television series including Ultimate Rush and Where the Trail Ends. He has worked as a director, writer and editor for the TV film documentaries Liqu Lifes 3: Spawning Grounds and Into the Tsangpo Gorge.
The River Runner (2021) | Scott Lindgren Paddles Great Rivers of Mt. Kailash | Official Trailer HD
Images related to the topicThe River Runner (2021) | Scott Lindgren Paddles Great Rivers of Mt. Kailash | Official Trailer HD
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Who Is Scott Lindgren? Kayakar Wikipedia And Net Worth
Scott Lindgren is a professional kayaker and filmmaker. He is known for pulling off first ascents in and around the Himalayas and being an …
Source: 44bars.com
Date Published: 11/14/2021
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Scott Lindgren: Kayakar, Girlfriend, Net Worth, Partner, Bio 2021
Scott Lindgren Net Worth is. $7 Million. Scott Lindgren is a cinematographer and maker, known for In to the Tsangpo Gorge (2002), …
Source: www.haviknowledge.com
Date Published: 4/19/2021
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Scott Lindgren Age, Birthday, Wikipedia … – The Wiki Biography
He’s recognized for climbing the Himalayas and encompassing areas apparently and as an expertise kayaker. He went to essentially the most …
Source: thewikibiography.com
Date Published: 3/7/2021
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Scott Lindgren (@scottlindgren_) • Instagram photos and videos
25.7k Followers, 974 Following, 425 Posts – See Instagram photos and veos from Scott Lindgren (@scottlindgren_)
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Date Published: 2/26/2022
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Scott Lindgren Kayakar, Girlfriend, Net Worth, Partner, Bio 2021
Scott Lindgren was a notable canoeist famous for his short stories. He was a man who appreciated exploring the surrounding streams and mountains and countryside.
Scott Lindgren: Kayakar, Girlfriend, Net worth, Partner, Bio 2021
Kayak:
Expedition kayaker Scott Lindgren made first descents of the world’s most remote and dangerous rivers, from the Himalayas to the Sierra. He paddled with an aggressive attitude and viewed weakness as an unforgivable trait in himself and others.
The worst part about paddling Uganda’s Murchison Falls section of the White Nile wasn’t the rapids, though the 50 miles of Class V whitewater are framed by two impassable falls.
Actor: Scott Lindgren
Publishers: Rush Sturges, Aidan Haley
There was no threat of illness, although on my first visit to Uganda in 2000, I left the country just before an Ebola outbreak. It wasn’t even the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), the brutal rebel force that for decades has been kidnapping, recruiting and killing children in northern Uganda and calling this region home.
Girlfriend:
Scott Lindgren and his wife Rachel have been married for some time and lead a happy life together.
Scott began exploring rivers at the age of 12.
On a family vacation, he visited the Snake River in Wyoming. He began touring in his kayak at the age of 18 and traveled to the Himalayas by the age of 19.
net worth:
Scott Lindgren net worth is
7 million dollars
Scott Lindgren is a cinematographer and maker known for In to the Tsangpo Gorge (2002), Water Life styles 3: Spawning Grounds (2001) and 3 Great American Journeys (1998).
Partner:
Lindgren’s partner is Rachael Weiner. Rachael and Scott have two children. His wife is active on Instagram under the username @yogawatergirl.
Similar to Scott Lindgren, she is also interested in travel and outdoor activities.
Bio 2021:
Scott was a notable canoeist known for his tales. He was a man who appreciated investigating the nearby river holes, mountains and countryside.
It’s pathetic to hear someone with incredible love and energy leave this world from the very beginning of their life.
Scott has found his end in everyday life. It’s quite surprising for someone whose narration was simply delivered a few days earlier.
Scott Lindgren Age, Birthday, Wikipedia, Who, Nationality, Biography
Scott Lindgren was a notable canoeist famous for his short stories. He was a man who knew how to examine the nearby river holes, mountains and landscapes.
It is pathetic to listen to someone leaving this world with incredible love and vitality from the very beginning of their life.
Scott Lindgren has spent his entire life achieving his goal. It’s quite shocking to anyone whose narration was delivered just a few days earlier.
However, the reason for his death cannot be provided by a partner and a closed family. It’s a big secret as Scott seemed nothing but good and energetic for his narration, which was delivered a few days earlier.
Scott appeared to be a healthy individual who was constantly in the water and it means lots of exercise.
Scott is a professional canoeist and film producer known for The place the Path Ends (2012), The River Runner (2021) and Final Rush (2011).
He is obviously known for climbing the Himalayas and surrounding areas and as an experienced kayaker. He went to the deepest river gorge and the Zangbo River, the last missing waterway on the planet, and bought trails from Mount Everest.
Scott Lindgren’s main counterpart is Rachael Weiner.
Rachael and Scott have two children. Its key difference is dynamic on Instagram under the @yogawatergirl username. Like Scott Lindgren, she’s also into traveling and open-air workouts.
She was his old flame. She was all Scott could ask nose to nose. She has been by his side on most of his outings, just like the couple we respect in motion shots.
However, Scott Lindgren can’t seem to share knowledge with his entire fortune.
If we could somehow pinpoint the numbers, his total net worth must be over $300,000. Scott is said to have a decent income depending on his calling and films.
Scott Lindgren was only 49 years old at the time of his death.
More precise knowledge of Lindgren’s date of birth and cautious birthday is currently secret.
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The worst part about paddling Uganda’s Murchison Falls section of the White Nile wasn’t the rapids, though the 50 miles of Class V whitewater are framed by two impassable falls. There was no threat of illness, although on my first visit to Uganda in 2000, I left the country just before an Ebola outbreak. It wasn’t even the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), the brutal rebel force that for decades has been kidnapping, recruiting and killing children in northern Uganda and calling this region home. No, the worst were the hippos, which are among the most dangerous animals in Africa thanks to their enormous size and rude temperament. They were everywhere and they didn’t appreciate our intrusion into their world.
Dozens of them gathered in the shallows beneath rapids. Bursting out of the depths without warning, sometimes just a boat length away, they presented the bewildering reality that a 5,000-pound animal could move with the silence of a minnow. At first I thought the whitewater might offer sanctuary, but then I watched a hippopotamus swim right through a class V rapids. And there were crocodiles too, almost as numerous and just a little less naughty. There couldn’t have been a worse place for me to fall apart.
It was August 2007 and I was there to shoot a film about Steve Fisher, a fierce South African and world-class paddler. Fisher was part of an expedition I led in 2002 to complete the first successful descent of the upper gorge of the Yarlung Tsangpo River in Tibet, considered one of the most difficult kayaking feats of my generation. Getting my first taste of whitewater as a rafting guide in California’s Sierra Nevada during high school was the kind of opportunity I dreamed of. But now, on the red banks of the Nile, at the age of 34, everything turned into a nightmare.
I felt terrible. My energy levels were so low it sometimes took me 30 minutes to get up in the morning. In 2004, after a week-long first descent of Class V on the Upper Salween River in China, my vision became temporarily blurred. I had attributed it to the hangover following the usual post-expedition belly. That was the drill back then: drink when you’re up, drink when you’re down, and spend the rest of the time sending it down a giant river in the middle of nowhere. But the Nile was no place for a beer cooler, and I still had trouble seeing, thinking, and paddling straight.
Along with Fisher and I, five other river runners were on this trip, including South African Hendri Coetzee. We traveled on an 18ft support raft – piloted by legendary explorer Pete Meredith – because its size served as a (small) deterrent to crocodiles and hippos. My younger brother Dustin sat up front and alternated between filming and paddling. Dustin and I grew up in California rafting together and as a cameraman he has worked on many of my expeditions, including the Tsangpo.
The trouble started with the put-in. Crocs greeted us in shallow water and after only a quarter of a mile the raft turned around. I fought back a pang of panic when I saw Dustin swimming, not because he was drowning but because he was bait in the water.
I paddled to the raft, where Dustin and I looked at each other and read our minds: Nothing about it feels right. We can always go back. That fleeting moment of vulnerability was quickly repulsed by a philosophy that had guided my life since I was a little boy: Harden the fuck up.
It was a lesson I learned during a turbulent childhood, and it kept me alive on the mean streets of San Bernardino, California, where my walk home from school routinely involved either a fistfight or a thousand-yard dash to the front door ended . It was a lesson instilled in me as the youngest guide on the Colorado River that has propelled me to rack up more than 50 first descents on three continents and direct dozens of adventure films over two decades. Well this mantra would get me in this hellish flow.
Lindgren running California’s Upper Heath Springs Falls (Charlie Munsey)
I paddled badly for the next five days. I was hesitant, avoiding every obstacle I could and seeking Class IV sneak routes rather than losing heart. Even then, I’d miss my line and get flipped by a junky feature I’d normally blast through. I never had to swim—a dangerous dilemma that arises when an upside-down kayaker fails to paddle upright and has to slide out of the boat—but I had trouble keeping my balance. When I found myself upside down, I was completely disoriented. My roll, the basic whitewater kayaking technique of righting an inverted boat, felt like a beginner’s frantic groping.
At one point a teammate pulled me aside and let me have it. “You paddle like shit,” he said. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re jeopardizing this whole mission.” He wasn’t wrong or particularly wrong. That’s exactly how we communicated.
The worst happened during a portage on our third day. Given the difficulty of carrying all our gear and the multitude of dangerous creatures lining the banks, sometimes traversing a massive rapid was safer—and easier—than disembarking our boats. But in this case we had no choice. Hippos and elephants had pounded a network of tunnels through the dense jungle, which Fisher and I followed in search of a way out. Dustin disassembled the raft for transport.
Suddenly we heard a low grunt followed by a cracking sound that got louder and louder. We never saw the hippopotamus, but from the safety of a nearby tree, we watched the brush collapse in its path as the animal ran toward the river — and my brother. Dustin jumped into the raft, dodging the lumbering animal by inches. When I got to the river, all I could see was the back of his head as he swam away.
I turned to Dustin and let out a deep sigh. Little did I know that my blurred vision and weakness were symptoms of something much more serious than the standard case of expeditionary fatigue. Little did I know this trip would be my last in a kayak for almost ten years. All I knew was that we had to lug 1,500 pounds of gear through the jungle before we could get back into a river full of things that wanted to kill us. I put my helmet on and thought about this mantra again.
Harden the hell up.
I spent my childhood hopping around in California’s Central Valley, far from whitewater. My father, Craig, was a traveling salesman who sold everything: agricultural produce, building materials, computer hardware. My mother Mary raised Dustin and I. We drifted through the hot and dry inland capitals — Visalia, Merced, Fresno — in a series of moves that would shape my passion for a nomadic lifestyle.
My parents were irrefutable proof that opposites attract. Mom is the most disciplined, organized, and sensible person I know. Dad will be a wild man until he dies. He introduced us to the mountains and took us skiing and backpacking for the first time. A former Marine, he lived fast and easy. He loved towboats and had a beautiful flat-bottomed V drive in the garage called Love Me or Leave Me. There were also trash cans filled with empty beer cans, and Dad invented an exciting, if slightly criminal, way to dispose of them. Dustin and I set them up on the street, a Coors airstrip that stretched for hundreds of yards. Then Dad got in his pickup truck, crushed them, and let us pocket the refund.
One Christmas morning, after my brother and I unwrapped our presents, my parents told us they were getting a divorce. Before we knew it, Dad was gone. i was seven
Suddenly my mother had two children at the age of 32 that she had to raise alone. Eventually we moved to San Bernardino where she enrolled at Cal State to major in accounting. The town’s early economy was based on farming and prostitution, and little seemed to have changed as we moved into a modest home on Church Avenue and Base Line, a strip notorious for drugs and hookers.
While Mom supported us with student loans and part-time jobs, Dustin and I learned something very different. In sixth grade, two of my classmates got pregnant. There was an acid bust. I got suspended for smoking and fighting.
I’d been in a lot of rubble before, but living off the base line taught me the true meaning of savagery. I was walking home one afternoon when two children threw me to the ground and started stepping on me. As I got up, one of them stabbed me in the left shoulder with a pocket knife. I managed to escape and patch myself up so my mom wouldn’t have a clue when she got home. In the midst of all the chaos she killed herself taking care of us. Hiding my worries was my way of taking care of them. Also, I had a pretty good time.
I hardly recognized myself. Sometimes I slept for 15 hours straight, only to wake up with blurry vision and thoughts. I barely had the strength to lift my kayak into my truck. Do I have Lyme disease? Malaria? Concussion? I felt like I was chasing a ghost.
Money was tight and Mom was struggling to finish her final three terms of high school. I’ve always excelled in sports – I’ve played soccer, swam and run in competitions – and she was worried I’d find the kind of trouble that would jeopardize all of that. When I was 13, she sent us to live with our father in the Bay Area suburb of Pleasanton. Life there was a very different scene. Children had stable families and received allowances. There I was, a petty thug-in-training in a town so beautiful it literally called itself pleasant.
When I wasn’t exercising, I was hustling, positioning myself as a middle man and convincing our new pool of friends to spend their pocket money buying weed and beer. Dad, meanwhile, continued his no-fuss approach to parenting, leaving us free to do as we pleased.
In the eighth grade, I was handcuffed and detained by the police for possession of alcohol. Mom brought some structure back into our lives when I entered high school. She got a job in accounting, met a guy, and moved us to Rocklin, a small town in the shadow of the Sierra Nevada. It was our last move and it probably saved my life.
We lived two houses down from a raft guide named Doug Stanley. When I was 15, I made my first trip with Doug’s business partner Roger Lee, down Giant Gap, a 14-mile Class IV-V stretch of the North Fork of the American River. As soon as I got home, I begged my mother to let me go to Doug and Roger’s tour guide school. I barely managed to pass my classes and she would only let me pass if I got a B average. This spring I brought home my first 3.0.
I was 16 when I graduated. Nobody on the American would hire me because I was too young, so I called John Vail, the owner of Outdoors Unlimited, who ran tours of the Grand Canyon.
“Have you learned to row?” Johannes asked. I told him I did, which was almost true.
“Can you come tomorrow?” he asked. I wasn’t sure if I heard him correctly.
“Forgiveness?”
“I need you here tomorrow,” he said. Forty-eight hours later, I was on the Colorado River, a 135-pound kid with barely a week’s experience, pushing a 2,000-pound rowboat full of gear down one of the most remote and iconic stretches of whitewater in the country.
The river sang to my heart. I had fought all my life – children, teachers, cops, parents – and here was a force so powerful my only choice was to surrender. I recognized the river as a teacher that offered me a gateway to the world. It channeled all the energy that would imprison or kill me into something productive. I couldn’t get enough.
When I wasn’t making money as a guide, I spent it kayaking. I went to Idaho’s North Fork of the Payette when I was 20 and met Charlie Munsey who knew where to find him
some of the greatest rivers of all: in the Himalayas. A few months later, in the fall of 1992, I made my first trip to Asia, completing a Class V descent of the 30-mile Tamur River, where I learned a lesson that would reinforce my approach to expedition kayaking.
Lindgren with Charlie Munsey (center) and Gerry Moffatt, 1995 (Charlie Munsey)
When we left the Tamur I had a high fever, a sore throat and an ear infection. As I sat at the bus terminal staring at a 35-hour journey back to Kathmandu, I told Charlie I felt like I was dying and considered staying in a hotel room for the night. But the flow never stopped and neither did we. I sucked it up and a few days later we attempted a first descent down the Thule Beri.
The 90’s were a golden age of whitewater exploration. Paddlers had been snooping around the great rivers of the Himalayas since the 1970’s, but an evolution in boat design and materials, and a natural progression of skill and ambition, started a revolution. At the time, a gradient of 60 feet per mile was considered extreme for a high-volume river, but in British Columbia, Charlie and I navigated some of the steepest sections of the Stikine River at 100 feet per mile. How far can we take it? We released the topo maps and spent weeks discussing what could be done.
In 1994 I started a film company that would eventually become Scott Lindgren Productions. My office in Auburn, California has become a kayaking mecca due to its proximity to world-class whitewater and the opportunity for hungry paddlers to get into a movie. We had athletes coming from all over (New Zealand, South America, Europe) and sleeping anywhere (in my closet, in my front yard, or on an unoccupied inch of couch or floor space). I’ve negotiated six-figure budgets to do adventure films; picked up a slew of sponsors, from kayak brands to Detroit automakers; and helped my friends to do the same. I even won an Emmy for cinematography. I didn’t get rich, but I made a living doing what I loved and that was enough.
“Harden the fuck up” became a main theme of my travels. During my street fighting days, I had learned to smell fear and weakness, and as soon as I caught a whiff by the river, I increased the intensity. On a tour of California’s Middle Kings, a friend brought along his brother, who couldn’t keep up. Instead of slowing down, I accelerated. Hard lines, long days, no rest. I knew he would eventually make it, but by the end he was devastated. He never paddled with me again. It was a strict code, but the consequences were too severe to play Mr. Rogers. Too many of my paddling friends had died in river accidents and it was an affliction I could not endure.
In 1997 alone, seven kayakers I knew died within a few months, including my best friend, Chuck Kern, at 27. Chuck was our North Star. He gave direction to our crew and ran the strongest whitewater. He was always at the top, pushing our pace, our lines, our concept of the sport.
That summer, Chuck and I made the rounds at the biannual Outdoor Retailer trade show in Salt Lake City. After it was completed, Chuck and his two younger brothers, Willie and Johnnie, headed to Colorado to paddle the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. They invited me, but I had to go back to Auburn to cut a film. I hadn’t been home for more than a day when I got a call from Johnnie. “We lost Chuck,” he said.
I jumped into a van with my producing partner Mark Hayden. We drove 15 hours straight. Standing at the edge of the canyon and looking through binoculars, I could see the tip of a kayak pinned under a rock. Chuck was still in his boat. The Gunnison is controlled by a dam, and the next day they brought the water down. I will never forget the sight of his collapsed, lifeless body being pulled out, so different from the friend I knew. It tore us all apart.
Lindgren on the Indus (Mike Dawson)
It also crystallized my commitment to kayaking. What else should I do? Pushing rubber down the Grand Canyon again? Get a nine to five? I began to focus on the boldest idea I had ever heard Charlie Munsey suggest to me: paddling the four rivers of Mount Kailash. In a region characterized by spectacular mountains, Tibet’s Mount Kailash is unique. Standing alone within the Tibetan Plateau, the 21,778-foot pyramidal peak is considered a sacred site by four religions. A quartet of great rivers – Karnali, Sutlej, Tsangpo and Indus – flow from the mountain in four cardinal directions. Nobody had run all four. Charlie suggested we be the first.
After Chuck’s death, I threw myself into the project, first walking the 32-mile circumnavigation of the mountain, a pilgrimage that Buddhists believe washes away a life of sin. By 2002 I was relegated to Karnali, Sutlej and Tsangpo. Only the Indus remained.
My expedition teams were put together according to rigid rules. Outsiders were untested and therefore undesirable; emotional weakness was dealt with, usually with a verbal taunt or physical feat. I avoided any hint of vulnerability, because if the river—the most powerful force I knew—didn’t hurt us, nothing else should.
To a certain extent it worked. I know more than 35 people who have died kayaking, but in over 20 years of leading expeditions, everyone on my team has made it home alive. I pray that never changes. However, as I watched friend after friend drop out of the sport due to substance abuse, trauma, or the responsibilities of adulthood, the tools I had developed to survive on the water left me dangerously ill-equipped to take on the challenges cope with everyday life.
After returning home from the Uganda hippo avoidance fiasco in 2007, I needed a break. Adrenaline was the only thing that kept me going on the White Nile and when I got back to Auburn I collapsed. My plan was to take a three month break from the water, edit the film we made and then get back to paddling. Three months turned into almost ten years.
I hardly recognized myself. Sometimes I slept for 15 hours straight, only to wake up with blurry vision and thoughts. I barely had the strength to lift my kayak into my truck. Do I have Lyme disease? Malaria? Concussion? I felt like I was chasing a ghost. After nearly a year of medical treatment, I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism, a condition caused by a drop in hormone production in the thyroid gland that slows metabolism and other important functions.
I threw myself into researching the condition. I tried western medicine and alternative treatments and followed a strict diet, but experienced only minor improvements. I lived cheaply and took jobs as a filmmaker, but I didn’t plan any projects of my own. I didn’t have the fire.
Asking for help had become contradictory to my self-image, and when I got sick and really needed it, I didn’t know how to find it or get it. For 20 years I was no longer the center of everything, but felt completely alone. The phone fell silent. I didn’t have the energy to maintain relationships with my kayaking buddies or my sponsors and they broke up. I gave up my dream of navigating the Indus and completing the four rivers of Kailash. As I transitioned into my mid-thirties into my forties, I thought careers were going to end like this. It had been a good run.
Then on Christmas Day 2014 I got my first raging headache followed by a triple vision inducing skull crush that left me passed out on the bedroom floor. An MRI finally revealed the source of all this misery: a brain tumor.
I never thought I would be happy to find out I had a brain tumor, but the news lifted my spirits. I wasn’t just tired; I didn’t just lose it. I had a growth wrapped around my right carotid artery, a shade smaller than a baseball, a vascular superhighway that carries blood to the brain. Called a pituitary adenoma, it was pressing on my optic nerves causing blurry vision and my pituitary gland which was responsible for my low energy. My neurosurgeon, Brian Jian, suggested it might have been there for 15 years, making it quite possible I carried it down the Tsangpo. Suddenly I had something tangible to fight against.
A month later I had surgery. Jian shoved a toolbox of sharp, foot-length instruments up my nose and cut through my septum and sinuses to the center of my skull, scraping out a tumor the shape and consistency of a piece of cottage cheese. Embedded in my cranial vitals, it was too risky to remove completely. Eventually, he told me, it would grow back.
Within a month I experienced sensations I had long forgotten. Everything seemed sharper – smells and sounds, my visual and mental clarity – and I was more energetic than I had been in years. I healed physically. Emotionally, I had a long road ahead of me.
I only told a few people about the tumor and sworn everyone to secrecy. I felt it as a form of weakness, a giant neon sign proclaiming my weaknesses to the world. I had already lost my identity as a kayaker – now I was the guy with the brain tumor? Who could ever love someone like that?
My expedition teams were put together according to rigid rules. Outsiders were untested and therefore undesirable; emotional weakness was dealt with, usually with a verbal taunt or physical feat. I avoided any hint of vulnerability, because if the river—the most powerful force I knew—didn’t hurt us, then nothing else should either.
I isolated myself in a homemade prison and hit rock bottom in September 2015, seven months after surgery, when I was arrested for my second DUI in four and a half years. I stumbled into my car out the back door of a bar when a police officer appeared. A drunk driver had just killed someone around the block, she said. I was arrested and treated, eventually ending up in a holding cell next to a man in his early 20s who had dressed for a night on the town. He looked devastated, slumped on his elbows on his knees, his face in his palms. I noticed a criminal record next to him – he was the other drunk driver and now he’s been charged with involuntary manslaughter. I was fortunate that my actions only resulted in a 10-day sentence in Sacramento County Jail.
In January 2016 I met Patricia. Strong and beautiful, she worked in the wellness industry and had spent her life practicing and studying emotional growth. We fell in love hard and fast and bought a house in Truckee. For the first time in years I thought I was in a healthy relationship until she told me she was struggling to stay with me.
It’s the tumor, I said to myself. She thinks I’m weak. After collecting my thoughts, I asked her why.
“You’re emotionally unavailable,” she said. I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“Emotionally unavailable?” I replied. “Get undressed, I’ll show you what emotionally available looks like.”
She hit back like a 20 foot wave. “That’s exactly what I mean, Scott. They have nothing to offer but physical reactions to everything. They need help.” At other times I’d escaped situations like this—to the river, to the bar—but I had given up drinking and hadn’t touched a kayak in years. I couldn’t escape the truth she confronted me with.
Patricia had a powerful set of emotional tools and began showing me how to develop my own. I started therapy, read books, meditated and wrote. She suggested I take a week-long course in Napa designed to help people build the skills I lacked. She stayed with me and promised that if it got too intense, she would come and get me.
“Do you know how much suffering I’ve caused?” I scoffed. “I can handle anything for seven days.” A few hours into the program, I realized I was beginning a Tsangpo descent into my own psyche, down a river that never ends. It was one of the toughest journeys of my life, one that forced me to confront behaviors that had shaped my first 44 years. I began to understand that knowing how to toughen up didn’t make me strong and that being emotionally vulnerable didn’t make me weak. Learning to talk about the pain inside helped me let it go so I didn’t have to bury it in a river gorge or a bottle of liquor. By the end of the week, I had hope that the next time help arrived, I might be vulnerable enough to receive it.
Towards the end of 2015 I got a call from an old friend and kayaking buddy named Gerry Moffatt. I met Gerry in the early ’90s on the North Fork of the Payette River in Idaho. We had navigated a number of major rivers in the Himalayas together and in 1995 completed the fifth self assisted descent of the Stikine. He turned 53 and planned to ride it again. “I want you to be with me,” he said.
I had no illusions that I would be ready to embark on such a flow again, but Gerry’s call motivated me to relearn the sport I had almost forgotten. I started at the rivers in my backyard in the Sierra. I was a shell of the athlete I had been. I felt so humiliated; After two decades at the top of the sport, I was at the bottom again, the weakest link, the kind of boater I once would have ostracized. But I kept forcing myself out of bed and just calling my closest friends to kayak with me as I tried to find my way back into the world of dangerous whitewater.
In June 2016 I traveled back to Idaho to intensify my training on the Payette. In Boise I met Aniol Serrasolses, a 28 year old from the Catalan region of Spain and one of the best kayakers in the world. He needed a ride to Payette and after getting into my truck he asked for the tsangpo. I told him about the expedition, about my dream of navigating the four rivers of Kailash, and how all those plans had been dashed. Instead of judging or shunning me after pouring out my soul, this guy I barely knew did something I could never have imagined. He offered his help.
“What is your fourth river?” asked Aniol.
“The Indus,” I replied. Aniol smiled.
“You know, we’re going to the Indus this fall. You should come.”
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to guide the Stikine, let alone the Indus, but the fact that Aniol would consider inviting an old busted boater into his world blew me away. He was offering me something I wouldn’t have offered to anyone in my condition when I was his age.
Lindgren with Aniol Serrasolses (Mike Leeds Photography)
We paddled Upper Cherry Creek and I swam. I swam the North Fork of the Mokelumne and a familiar backyard run on the North Yuba. Nobody seemed to care but me. Die Technik hatte sich in den zehn Jahren, in denen ich weg war, weiterentwickelt, und Aniol war unermüdlich in seinem Coaching. „Du paddelst nicht hart genug“, sagte er mir. „Du sitzt zu weit hinten im Boot – fahr!“
Aniol war nicht die einzige Person, die bereit war zu helfen. Je offener und verletzlicher ich wurde, desto mehr Leute wollten mit mir paddeln. Die Kinder haben mir nicht nur das Kajakfahren wieder beigebracht, sie haben mir auch geholfen, mein Herz zu öffnen.
Ich bin in diesem Herbst nicht an den Indus gefahren, aber ich bin mit Gerry die Stikine gefahren, eine Reise, die sowohl mein Potenzial als auch meine Grenzen offenbart hat. Ich machte zwei Läufe den 60-Meilen-Canyon hinunter, von denen die Hälfte Wildwasser der Klasse V ist, wurde aber wegen eines Leistenbruchs operiert, den ich in meiner zweiten Runde erlitten hatte, als ein Furunkel mein Boot unter Wasser saugte und meine Bauchmuskeln riss. Als ich mich erholte, meldete sich Aniol mit guten Neuigkeiten: Der Indus war ein Erfolg gewesen, er würde in einem Jahr zurückgehen und er könnte mir beim Visumsprozess für Pakistan helfen. Plötzlich stand mein Traum, die vier Flüsse des Kailash zu vervollständigen, wieder auf dem Tisch.
Die nächsten 12 Monate verbrachte ich fünf Tage die Woche mit Kajakfahren. Ich begann barfuß zu laufen und konditionierte meinen Körper auf den Aufprall. Das Training war anstrengend, aber egal wie wund ich war, ich ging Kajak fahren, machte Yoga oder ging ins Fitnessstudio. Zum ersten Mal, seit ich ein Teenager war, erfüllte der Fluss meine Seele ohne Bedingung. Ich dachte nicht an den nächsten Film oder einen großen Drop, der meine Sponsoren glücklich machen würde. Verdammt, ich hatte keine Sponsoren. Das Einzige, worauf ich mich konzentrieren musste, war meine Liebe zum Fluss.
Im Frühjahr 2017 bekam ich nach einer Routineuntersuchung den Anruf, den ich seit meiner Gehirnoperation gefürchtet hatte. Mein Tumor war gewachsen und der Arzt wollte ihn mit Bestrahlung behandeln. Der Kurs würde sechs Wochen lang an fünf Tagen in der Woche stattfinden und könnte meine Chancen erhöhen, später im Leben an Demenz zu erkranken. Am unmittelbarsten würde es wahrscheinlich meinen Versuch am Indus beenden.
Ich ließ die Bestrahlung aus, sagte meine Arzttermine ab und konzentrierte meine Energie auf das Training für den Indus.
Die erneute Fokussierung hatte ihren Preis. Patricia und ich waren zusammengeblieben, aber es gab immer noch Komplikationen. Die Indus-Expedition zwang uns dazu. Unter anderem dachte sie, ich würde mich umbringen, entweder an einem Fluss oder durch Vernachlässigung meiner Krankheit. Sie wollte nicht Achterbahn fahren. Ich musste mich zwischen der Beziehung und einem 20-jährigen Traum entscheiden. Wir trennten uns und ich ging nach Pakistan.
Der Indus brachte die Harappan-Zivilisation hervor, eine der fortschrittlichsten Gesellschaften der Antike, und heute ist es die Kornkammer Pakistans, die trockene Ebenen in ein landwirtschaftliches Kernland verwandelt. Der Fluss fällt etwa 2.000 Meilen vom tibetischen Himalaya ins Arabische Meer und sein Oberlauf ist eines der riskantesten Wildwasser der Welt. Der Abschnitt der Rondu-Schlucht, auf den wir uns konzentriert haben, besteht aus mehr als hundert Stromschnellen der Klasse V, die den Fluss zu einer mehr oder weniger durchgehenden 85-Meilen-Strecke aus tödlichem Wildwasser machen.
Unser Team hätte nicht stärker sein können: Aniol, Rush Sturges, Mike Dawson, Ben Marr und Brendan Wells. Ich war der Graubart der Gruppe, 13 Jahre älter als der zweitjüngste Paddler, Rush, der sich mit 32 Jahren zu fragen begann, wie lange er die Grenzen unseres Sports noch ausreizen würde. Bei meiner letzten Reise in den Himalaya, um den Tsangpo zu leiten, war ich der Alpha. Jetzt hoffte ich nur noch, mit den Kindern Schritt halten zu können – und war dankbar für die Gelegenheit, es zu versuchen.
Der Indus ist nur bei seinen niedrigsten Flüssen befahrbar, also begannen wir im November 2017, nachdem die Monsunfluten abgeklungen waren. Der Fluss zeigte schnell, wer das Sagen hatte. Direkt unterhalb des Put-in wurde Aniol, der den Indus zweimal ohne größere Zwischenfälle gelaufen war, in ein flussweites Loch gestoßen, das seinen Helm vom Kopf riss, seinen Körper aus dem Boot zog und ihn 40 Meter unter Wasser schleifte . Er tauchte mit einer gezwickten Schulter auf, die ihn für den Rest der Reise plagen würde. Das war schnell Nummer eins.
„Zu lernen, über den inneren Schmerz zu sprechen, half mir, ihn loszulassen, damit ich ihn nicht in einer Flussschlucht oder einer Flasche Schnaps vergraben musste“, sagt Lindgren, der hier unter einer Stromschnelle namens Scott’s Drop an der North Fork of North Fork zu sehen ist den American River, den er als erster befahren hat. (Eric Parker)
Jeder erkannte, dass wir alle gute und schlechte Tage haben würden und dass es keine Schande war, es zurückzunehmen, wenn wir uns körperlich oder geistig nicht zu 100 Prozent fühlten. Der Ansatz half mir, mein Kajakfahren – und mein Leben – nicht an Siegen und Niederlagen zu messen, sondern daran, ob ich mit offenem Herzen auftauchte. Wenn ich einen schlechten Tag hatte, sagte ich mir, dass das Universum an mir dran war, mir in den Hintern zu treten. Wenn ich einen guten Tag hatte, genoss ich den Fluss des Lebens. Es war alles so einfach.
Als wir tiefer in die Rondu-Schlucht vordrangen, wurden die Schluchtwände und das Wildwasser größer. Das Navigieren wurde zu einem ständigen Kampf zwischen dem Halten unserer Leinen und der unwiderstehlichen Anstrengung des Flusses, uns dahin zu schieben, wo es ihm gefiel. There was one rapid, Zero to Sixty, that had been on my mind since the put-in and would test my limits.
The entire river pinches through a narrow gap, creating a three-story hole on the left that could eat a house. The only way through was to drive my kayak down a narrow ramp of water at the center and paddle like hell to hold my line. Aniol went before me, hit the bottom of the ramp, and was launched 20 feet into the air. I followed, paddling furiously to get onto the ramp. As lateral waves battered me, I slid down the ramp’s tongue, hit the bottom, got flipped, got pounded, and rolled back up. A good day.
After a white-knuckle week, we reached the confluence of the Gilgit River, where the canyon walls gave way to a wide plain. I was overwhelmed: by the massive mountain peaks and the equally massive river; by the decades-long dream I’d just realized; by the sheer impossibility that I’d even had the opportunity to do so; and most important, by my gratitude to this next generation of paddlers for helping me rebuild my life. I leaned forward, put my head on the deck of my boat, and wept.
Three days after returning home, I was back in the hospital for an MRI, prepared for the worst. “The tumor has stabilized,” Jian told me. “No growth.” The results shocked us both. “What did you do?” er hat gefragt.
“I went kayaking,” I replied.
“Well,” Jian suggested, “maybe you shouldn’t stop.”
At 47, Scott Lindgren (@scottlindgren_) continues to fight his brain tumor and kayak the world’s most difficult rivers. Legacy, a documentary about his life directed by Rush Sturges, will premiere in 2020. Correspondent Thayer Walker (@inkdwell) profiled big-wave surfer Mark Healey in 2016.
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