“Is it my imagination, or does this look a lot scarier than it used to?” I asked my son, Tom, as we stared at a thunderous torrent of whitewater that crashed over a smashed dam on the Salmon River in Colchester one day last week.

“Nope,” he replied, “Pretty much the same.”

The two of us were standing on the west bank, only a few yards from a jumble of busted concrete and boulders that once contained the river at the site of Browns Mill. Its vine-covered ruins lie just downriver.

Water roared through a narrow gap in the crumbled dam, dropped six feet over three ledges, boiled up into a huge standing wave, and then swirled through confused froth before smoothing out somewhat in about 100 yards.

In a little while, Tom and I planned to climb aboard kayaks, plunge through the breach, and then, we hoped, continue downriver through manageable rapids to the covered Comstock Bridge just north of Route 16.

Both of us have “shot the dam” many times over the years, and it had been an annual spring tradition until last year, when for some reason, we skipped the ritual. It may have been that the river was too low — the Salmon is only runnable in early spring, or in any season after days of heavy rain.

In any case, I always considered missing a year bad luck — not that I’m superstitious. Skipping two years in a row, though, would be REALLY bad luck.

So, off we drove to Colchester, near the East Hampton border, two plastic whitewater kayaks lashed to the car roof.

In the past, we’ve driven to a launch site about three miles upriver and paddled through Class I and Class II rapids before reaching the dam, but last week we decided to cut to the chase and park not far from the main attraction.

Although we would miss a wonderfully scenic upriver section, we knew that fallen trees and branches often form hazardous “strainers” along this stretch. Plus, one of us would have to jog three miles while wearing a baggy drysuit to retrieve the car.

The Salmon is one of the state’s premier flyfishing destinations, so kayakers not only have to weave among rocks and logs, but also avoid getting snagged by arching monofilament lines. For the most part, paddlers and anglers share the river harmoniously, but every so often there are undercurrents of annoyance.

The fishermen we encountered last week, though, were friendly, and politely waited for us to pass before casting their lines. We smiled, waved and wished them luck.

After Tom and I stared at the dam and plotted our route, we strolled along the downriver bank to study how to navigate the gnarly “haystack” of water immediately after the dam.

“Just punch through it,” Tom advised.

“You don’t think it’s a ‘keeper?’” I asked.

“Should be enough water to flush you through,” he said.

“OK, worst-case, if one of us flips (meaning me), he’ll be able to get out, right?” I continued.

“Well, there’s always a risk … but I’m pretty sure …” Tom said. Nothing like a ringing endorsement to boost the confidence.

We settled on a plan: We would carry Tom’s boat about 100 yards upriver of the dam, and my kayak a similar distance below it.

I would stand downriver and “go to school” by watching Tom go over first.

I crawled out on rocks for a better viewing point while Tom boarded his kayak. Soon I could see him paddle into the middle of the river and head directly for the opening.

Whoosh! He swept through smoothly, squeezed past a ledge, surged into the haystack, pivoted around an eddy, and then, just for kicks, paddled back upstream to play around in the churn for a few minutes. Finally, after surfing the standing wave several times, Tom paddled ashore.

“Scraped a couple of rocks, but nothing too bad,” he said.

Now it was my turn.

After strapping on a helmet, tightening a lifejacket, snapping a spray skirt over the kayak coaming and making sure the full-body drysuit zipper was pulled up all the way, I took a deep breath and shoved off.

With a few tentative strokes, I paddled into the current and felt the boat quicken, along with my heartbeat.

In 50 yards, the river had me in its grip. There was no turning back.

I steered for the gap, and the kayak sped forward. Dead ahead: furious whitewater — the first of three closely spaced drops.

Whoosh!

Much relieved that I was still upright, a sense of calm embraced me, and in the half-second before the next drop, a comforting thought flashed: “I got this!”

Whoosh! Over the second and third drops — now I was smiling.

Another half-second: Splash!

While blasting through the haystack wave, the bow of my kayak submerged, bringing water up to my chest. Whee! What fun!

A second later, the kayak, with me safely aboard, squirted out like a spit watermelon seed. Above the roar of rapids, I heard Tom whoop in delight.

With one final paddle stroke, I edged into a calm pool and joined him ashore. We both beamed.

“Sit here and savor the moment!” Tom said.

“Nothing but good luck the rest of the year,” I replied.

The Salmon may still be runnable for another couple weeks or longer, depending on rainfall.

For updated conditions, visit www.americanwhitewater.org, click on the River Info tab and follow the prompts.

Here’s a link to a video of me going over the dam in 2017, shot with a camera attached to the bow of my kayak, during paddle with Carl Astor and Ian Frenkel.