By Cary Collins
“Once a Cedar River boat racer has had his veins infected by the river’s crystal-clear waters it can never, it seems, be completely rinsed away.”
The Cedar River Boat Races, a forty-year community tradition, occurred annually during Maple Valley Days when the Cedar River flowed swiftly. It was more than a competition; it embodied the values of family, friendship, and resilience. The race was a defining element of Maple Valley’s identity, celebrating its primary waterway and uniting the community. Racer Dan Petchnick, a Tahoma High School graduate, and his brother Rudy formed the Petchnick Boat Racing Team, pouring their hearts and souls into the race. Dan expressed in a brief history he wrote in 2010 that the race’s discontinuation was not just a moment of sadness but a substantial loss for the community. Here’s an excerpt:
The Cedar River Boat Races
By Dan Petchnick
The year 2000 was the last official time the Cedar River Boat Race was run. Attrition, the growth of Maple Valley Days, with its many activities, lack of race sponsors, rookies’ inability to crack the stranglehold that wise old veterans held on the top three places, all these and more helped nail the door shut on this unique race. The race committee, the officials, the racers, and the community all suffer to varying degrees by losing this splendid race, the one truly unique action event that historically set Maple Valley apart from other small-town celebrations across the state. Other towns with their food booths, kids’ games, bike rides, footraces, and parades present themselves as all quite similar. The town with the river running through it did not realize the gift it indeed possessed until it silently drifted away and was gone.
These days I am removed from Maple Valley, but I still occasionally travel to Seattle and destinations north via Highway 169, the main vein through the valley. When I opt to suffer the seventeen traffic lights and the traffic congestion, I realize all too well that it is only for nostalgic, personal reasons. I cannot fool myself. The Cedar still has a hold on me. As I cross over the river’s bridges, its waters continue to command my attention, continue to call me. Its grip is still strong as it silently beckons. At times, its siren is nearly impossible for me to ignore. I visually check the water levels. My mind wanders as I contemplate a stretch of this calm water, that eddy, this rock slightly beneath the surface, that gap between large boat-killing rocks, this stretch of brush and shoreline limbs compromising my rower’s oars, lower lying limbs with their prosperity to slap my partner on the back. I picture the cheering crowds at the start and the spectators on the river’s banks encouraging racers throughout the eleven-mile length of the course. I recall the adrenaline rushes, the cold water in my face, the teamwork, and finally the champagne at the finish line. Little wonder the struggles and challenges are still seemingly so fresh in my memory. Just as in, I suppose, losing a mate or a loved one. The memories of the best of times will be with me, thankfully, forever.
Memories. Sometimes, I wish they could all be placed in a bottle, a bottle that, at my whim and fancy, I might conveniently uncork to enjoy or re-cork to ignore. On this day, however, my mind allows me to transform even the unpleasant memories of a long race season into the best of times. The aching muscles, the boat-repairing task, the disagreements with partners, the frightening capsizes, the long training runs in cold rains, the freedom-sapping and time-consuming obsession with the Cedar River Boat Races.
As intoxicating as racing once was, I can still feel its tug. The river continues to beckon. Today, I require only a sip; a glimpse out of the car window as I pass by does just fine. At other times, I need a full-fledged drink and a stop along a quiet bank to gaze at its timeless beauty. But on rare occasions, the addiction cannot be suppressed, and the only thing that can help, my mind tells me, is a complete immersion into this elixir, into the sweet waters of the Cedar. Only a fast ride downriver in a Cedar River race boat will cure my ills. Alas, apparently, it is not meant to be.
During these times, I remain convinced, perhaps foolishly, that Maple Valley still needs a boat race. I chafe at the thought that it no longer exists, and that the town of Maple Valley outgrew the one distinguishing characteristic that allowed it to transcend the ordinary.
