About an hour into the kayak rally, I noticed a distinct cultural and apparel difference between the Poles and the Americans. As it began to rain heavily, we Yanks wrestled into waterproof Gortex as a bathtub raft filled with Poles wearing only swim trunks paddled by. They waved merrily, throwing back vodka shots as raindrops the size of golf balls plunged into the water. Around our necks hung expensive sunglasses dangling from croakies; they had shot glasses tied around theirs.

I was part of a posse of five journalists who specialized in river rafting who were invited to Poland for the 54th Annual International Kayak Rally on the Dunajec River that borders Slovakia. A friendly competition among canoers and kayakers from all over Eastern Europe, about 700 professionals and tourists of all ages and abilities descend over 57 miles of river in a frenzied three day party. Our host and guide for this fete was Yurek Majcherczyk, an infamous kayaker with first descents on several continents.

Our group was flown to Warsaw and were whisked by train to Krakow in southern Poland, then by bus to the town where the race would start the next morning. At the opening ceremonies and banquet we were regaled with speeches and toasts. We toasted each other's countries, the rally, the mayor, the color of the drapes (festive Communist bordello red velvet) and on and on it went. At one point in the toasting, one of the American journalists fell backwards in his chair. As he rose to give yet another toast about rivers and brotherhood, none of which was coherent, the Poles grinned good naturedly at the tipsy Amerikanis, and raised their glasses yet again.

Jib Ellison, fellow journalist and founder of Project Raft, whispered that we needed to nominate a designated drinker. Jib had spent two years in Russia and said it's the only way we non drinkers would survive because the Eastern Blocers can drink us under the table. He also showed us a neat trick — surreptitiously filling the shot glass with water when no one was looking. We drank a lot of water that night unbeknownst to the Poles who thought we were matching them shot for shot.

The next morning we organized our gear. Yurek provided us with kayaks, paddles and lifejackets, while a van and driver took our luggage to the next hotel. I had never been in a hard shell kayak before and felt some trepidation. I opted not to use the spray skirt so if by chance I should tip over, I wouldn’t be trapped. The river we ran that morning was a very easy Class II with few rapids. As Robert, one of my paddling compatriots, pointed out, “The only reason you'd capsize would be from gawking too much at the Dracula landscape," which included looming castles and Carpathian mountain gorges. However, it was instantly evident that the point of the race was having fun. People were launching in wooden canoes, racing kayaks, and even kiddie rubber rafts.

The river carried us gently along. Occasionally, we had to pay attention to a minor rapid or portage our kayaks around low head dams (only 1 or 2 feet high). We passed farms and towns with quaint buildings where many roofs were capped with a stork's nest.

Towards the end of the day, the terrain of gentle, pastoral fields dotted with haystacks changed and craggy mountains reached up from the riverbank to rocky heights. We pulled out between two castles on granite outcrops.

A traveling soup kitchen was set up on shore. This delightful contraption had four containers filled with various steaming savory soups—the lentil and caramelized onion was rib sticking good, as was bigo, a chunky dish of cabbage and meat. We washed this down with frothy beer and took in the surreal vista of the castles looming above the dark opal hued waters of the Dunajec.

Satiated and lazy we were ready to peel off our Gortex layers and wash off the silt of the Dunajec. An escort van took us to a country inn where we luxuriated in a bone warming sauna. We rejoined our fellow paddlers at the kayak rally’s huge campsite and Yurek searched out a group of old college chums he hadn’t seen for 20 years. Yurek and his friends had conquered rivers all over Eastern Europe in their university days. They reminisced about cutting classes to drive to Yugoslavia and run rivers no one had descended before.

We sat around the campfire for hours telling stories and singing. His friends insisted we sing a song for them in English. Contrary to the Poles, who all seemed to be able to play the guitar and sing, not one of us Americans knew the lyrics to more than nursery rhymes. Finally, out of embarrassment and pressure, Eugene Buchanan (editor at Paddler Magazine) crudely strummed the tune to Jeremiah Was A Bullfrog—not on my top ten favorite tunes, but it was that or Mary Had a Little Lamb. We made up lyrics and our hosts clapped and hummed along enthusiastically, even though we had no clue what it was really supposed to sound like.

The next day we toured the castle of Niedzica. Our guide, over 80 years old and hefting a huge clanking key ring, delivered the castle's history in a chanting oratory. The torture chamber with its hooks and racks got our attention as did the shadowy haunted room. Our guide had been working here for 60 years and, yes, he had seen the ghost. He said he almost broke his leg scampering out of there when it appeared before him.

We then reunited with our rally mates at the riverbank. We were heading for the dramatic Dunajec Gorge—five miles of winding emerald river between jutting cliffs more than 90 feet high. Here, Highlanders (men from the Tatra Mountains) joined the parade of boaters. Wearing traditional embroidered costumes and jaunty felt hats, they steered colorful wooden trough boats. Built like rafts, the troughs are lashed together with green boughs in the front to prevent passengers from slipping when they step off. Families of tourists wedged themselves onto the wooden seats to be poled down the river.

Just before entering the gorge, a brief but torrential thunderstorm chased us to shore and — what luck! — a kielbasa (Polish sausage) stand awaited us. We crowded together under the tent canopy, helped the ruddy cheeked proprietor turn the sizzling sausages on the grill and washed them down with beer.

We then kayaked through the gorge which acts as a natural boundary between Poland and Slovakia. The lush, tree lined banks were alive with symphonic songbirds. Occasionally we would see a border patrol guard. Yurek warned us not to get out to take photographs or go pee on the Slovakian side because they might arrest us for illegal entry!

That night at the campground men performed the Zbojnicki, a Cossack style knee dance. One of the dancers was a veritable pogo stick. When the taped disco music came blasting from the loudspeakers, he joined us for a dance, hopping up and down like a kangaroo. It was very hard to keep up with him, especially during the 1970s disco hit, Staying Alive… he even looked a little bit like John Travolta in lederhosen. The dance troupe also did an impressive ax swinging, thigh slapping, pushups dance called Thojnkki, punctuated with loud yells and frenzied violin music. Afterwards, we ate succulent barbecued lamb and sang songs (we got a lot of mileage out of the bullfrog song on this trip!) around a sky licking bonfire.

By the last day of the rally, we recognized people we had kayaked, danced, sung and conversed with. We literally bumped into one charming Polish family on the river; our kayaks gently colliding when we hit a small rapid. We linked up, holding onto the edges of each other's boats, speaking a melange of languages from French to German.

That night, the Polish Canoe Federation presented the awards and we stood and gave thanks and speeches with an American flag waving behind us on the stage. This is the closest I’ve ever come to feeling like an astronaut after a successful journey into space or an Olympic gold medal winner. We were the first Americans ever to participate in the event and they treated us like royalty, even letting us use the prize kayaks as our boats during the rally until they were given to the winners. We found this a tad embarrassing as we didn’t know we had been crashing about in the trophy kayaks for the last three days until we saw them lined up on stage and Jib pointed and exclaimed in surprise, that’s my purple kayak!

One guy with a Rumplestiltskin beard, who said he had participated 34 times, remembered when the crystal trophy was filled with champagne and everyone passed it around the room and drank from it. It is a very heavy goblet that holds eight bottles of champagne and many folks kept leaning over to tell me it was worth $8,000! The first place winner gets to keep the goblet until the next year’s rally.

Bereft of the prize kayaks, Yurek swept us away by bus to the Alpine town of Zakopane for sighseeing. The landscape was reminiscent of a pastoral oil painting of broad ultra-green valleys hemmed in by snow capped peaks. The winding country roads were carless but around many curves we encountered horse drawn carts driven by costumed peasants. Poland's Old World culture is still intact, not a relic of the past. I spied a shepherd's hut in a meadow and we stopped to pay a visit. The shepherd sat on his porch in the sun drinking raw sheep's milk from a stiff leather cup. He invited us to join him on the rough hewn bench. Immense Tatra Mountain sheep dogs sat at his feet as he described how they chase off the mountain wolves. Then he lifted the rustic cup high and offered us a wordy toast in Polish that translated by Yurek included, “…my honored first foreign visitors. Crazy Americans who fly far to drink with me.” After splashing the pungent sour warm milk to our lips and passing around the cup, we all agreed that vodka wasn’t so bad after all!

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