A thunderous roar of white water crashing over jagged rocks at the notorious Diana’s Pool on the Natchaug River in Chaplin drowned out our voices the other day while three of us stood in ankle-deep snow and plotted possible paddling routes.

In truth, only my son Tom and our friend Phil Warner were discussing ways to navigate this treacherously turbulent stretch; at that moment, my plotting consisted of looking for a way to carry my kayak around a gut-clenching plunge.

Tom, who just returned from a month-long, 630-mile solo kayak expedition from Port Angeles, Wash., across the rollicking Strait of Juan de Fuca and into the wilds of British Columbia, has spent the past few years as a kayak, back-country ski and river-raft guide. Phil is certified in river rescue and one of New England’s premier kayak racers. Their pulses quicken at the mere mention of white water.

I may have knocked off a number of extensive kayak voyages on rivers and in coastal waters over the years, and I play around in white water every so often, but when it comes to big, gnarly rapids, I’m literally and figuratively in over my head.

Tom and Phil took turns tossing snowballs into the churning river just above a swirling cataract to see which way the current would carry a kayak.

Each time, the bobbing orb got sucked into a nasty hydraulic — a haystack-like wave kayakers call a “keeper.” If you somehow managed to escape this watery trap, a chest-high overhanging ledge loomed just downstream, followed by a minefield of partially submerged boulders.

Finally, Phil shook his head.

“Nope. Too dangerous — especially in these conditions.” He was referring not just to the rain-swollen river, but to snow and ice left over from last week’s storm that covered the banks, making any necessary rescue even more complicated.

So instead of rocketing over the worst of the Natchaug’s rapids, we would carry our boats down a slippery slope and launch a few yards farther downstream.

The good news, for me, was we wouldn’t have to worry about flipping over and getting pinned in Class IV rapids. The bad news is that, within about 100 yards, we would be thrust into an only slightly less-daunting, Class III stretch. I was so distracted I almost forgot to don my life jacket.

We started in formation: Tom leading the way as a scout, then me, following Tom’s chosen course, and finally Phil as sweep to fish anyone — i.e., me — out of the drink in the event of a mishap.

That system worked without incident for our first challenge, a steep drop into a standing wave that brought water up to our chests. Happily, I avoided turtleing.

But moments later, the boiling river diverted into two channels. Tom and I veered right, while Phil shot to the left. Instantly, Tom and I were squeezed into a narrow gap partially blocked by branches, followed by a nasty, twisting descent into heaven knows what kind of impediment.

“Hold up! Ferry to shore!” Tom exclaimed.

I paddled frantically to the bank and clung to vines while Tom peered downstream.

“Let’s try to eddy back upstream,” he suggested. Easier said than done. The quick current kept dragging me backward. I finally said, “I’m getting out and portaging.”

Using one hand to clutch a tree root and the other to unfasten my spray skirt, I managed to scramble onto snow-covered rocks while dragging my plastic boat. Naturally, the 50-yard overland route around the hairy river section took me not only over slippery rocks but also through thick briars.

Phil, meanwhile, had pulled ashore downstream and was relieved to see me emerge intact. Moments later, Tom worked his kayak through the mess and joined us.

“Well, that was fun,” I said.

Soon, the three of us were paddling in formation again.

The Natchaug, which flows nearly 18 miles from the confluence of Bigelow Brook and the Still River in Eastford, eventually joins the Willimantic River to form the Shetucket River. The Shetucket flows into the Thames River, which eventually empties into Long Island Sound between New London and Groton.

Diana’s Pool, which we wisely avoided kayaking through, is a popular fishing and paddling spot, mostly during warm-weather months. Although swimming is technically banned there, students from the University of Connecticut in nearby Storrs have been known to splash around surreptitiously.

A 2008 article in the Hartford Courant said the pool could have been named for a broken-hearted woman who jumped to her death from a high cliff into the river. Related lore claims Diana slipped on her tears, while a separate legend claims the pool was named after the Diana family, who once ran a concession stand at the pool in the 1800s.

The rest of our downriver journey was relatively uneventful, though we had to execute a few fast maneuvers to avoid getting snagged by fallen trees, aptly called “strainers.”

When we finally approached our stopping point, we were not quite out of the woods — we still had to carry our kayaks through snow a couple hundred yards uphill, where we had dropped off Phil’s car in a muddy parking lot. There we encountered a few pheasant hunters roaming around with shotguns, and one man with a trained red-tailed hawk clinging to his forearm.

I guess you never know who or what you might encounter on a Nachaug River excursion.