Tributary Two, Swimming the South Platte, conclusion
By Carl Pudlo, Colorado
Downstream from 'Boulder Canyon' is a stretch of less
dangerous water. During the spring of 1997, I went to
that stretch with two fishing companions, my two older
sons. The older son, Alex, was sixteen at the time.
The younger, Zachary was eleven. This was a very
special outing for us since it was the first time
Zachary had his own waders. Zachary had been prodding
me since Christmas, when he got the waders, to take him
fishing. He wanted to inaugurate the waders in a way
fitting for someone taking that step to a higher level
of trout fishing, the step that includes wading. He
could now reach those holes with his fly rod and fish
the hotspots never before attained. The size of the
waders somewhat exceeded the size of his body. We
attached the wader suspenders and put the waders on
with no trouble, but the waders drooped to his waist.
We fixed the problem with some strategically placed
knots in the suspenders. I got the feeling he really
started to grow into a man since he was able to do the
things I had been doing for years. I sensed pride in
his demeanor and a certain joy in being with the 'big
boys' as we walked past 'Boulder Canyon' to a place
downstream. While Zachary and I headed downstream,
Alex stayed upstream from 'Boulder Canyon' and fished
his way downstream.
Since it was late spring, the runoff was at its peak,
and the water was high. We fished a place where the
water swelled to eighteen inches deep from its normal
depth of six inches. The current was strong and since
the water was high and not completely clear, wading was
slow. I had wanted to start in a place where I had a
particular rock chosen as a landmark. Usually the rock
protruded the surface by about fourteen inches. I could
not find the rock so we started wading and fishing
downstream from a place I thought looked familiar. I
fished the faster current while Zachary fished the slower
left bank. The current is overpowering to an eleven-year-old
boy. I had to help him in a few places by taking his hand
and guiding him to a spot where he could fish an attractive
section of bank. While I was guiding him on a move to
another stretch of water, I found my landmark rock. The
strong runoff from earlier in the spring displaced the
rock in a place barely visible. I hit it solid with my
foot on a long stride. The vigorous current only aided
to the comical fall that took place. I twisted and turned
myself in a useless attempt to keep from swimming. The
current got the best of me. We both ended sitting in the
eighteen inches of water. I had taken water in through
the backside of the waders. Zachary was less fortunate.
Since he was smaller, he took on the full onslaught of
water, in the front, back, and sides of the wader tops.
We stood as quickly as possible. The spring water was
cold, and it was time to stop fishing for the day. Much
to our surprise, only a short walk upstream from us was
Alex. It had not taken him long to get downstream to
where Zachary and I were licking our soaking wounds. I
was sure that he would laugh at us and unmercifully tease
us for our latest swim in the South Platte. As soon as
I got close to Alex, it became clear why he was not
teasing us. Clearly, he had taken a deeper and longer
swim than we had. His first words expressed his desire
to go home since he was also wet and cold. For a few
minutes, we all had a good laugh at the fact we were all
once again victims of the river. It would definitely be
a ride home with the heater running.
As we walked back to the truck, we exchanged swimming stories.
I could not wait to hear Alex's story. He had been fishing
a wide bend in the river and waded through a safe, slow moving
stretch of water above the bend to get to the inside of the
bend. From there, he methodically fished the hole from the
top of the bend to the bottom. This was the first time he
had fished this stretch of water. As the water flows out
of the bottom stretch, it deflects from a large rock in a
deep section of water, back to the other side, to another
very deep hole. He fished the deep water across the stream
from him, and the deep hole downstream from him. He was
ready to cross the river. The terrain on that side of the
river forces the wader into three options. The first option
is to become a Rocky Mountain Big Horn sheep and climb some
dangerous and steep terrain on that side of the river, not
a good choice. One slip and the hiker could potentially
tumble down the rocky incline into a stretch of rushing
water filled with huge rocks and logs. The second option
is to walk upstream and safely cross the water at the point
where wading first began. The third option is wading.
The deeper water lies just above a steep drop in the contour
of the land, a potential stretch for class four or five
white-water rafting. The choice made by Alex was wading.
As he related the story to us, I realized the danger he
had avoided. I was very happy that he was just wet. He
could have taken a wild ride down the river, very similar
to the ride Brad Pitt takes at the end of the movie A River
Runs through It. Alex started wading and got to a point
where he could not turn back. I remember laughing when Alex
described how he started tiptoeing to keep his wader tops
above the water surface. The current was strong enough to
sweep him off his tiptoes and start carrying him toward the
gushing drop-off. He sidestroked to the other bank before
the water could hurl him over unforgiving rocks to large
logs and boulders downstream. He took on water, lots of
water.
As we walked back to the truck, I can remember thinking how
Zachary's first experience with wading was not his best. I
remember how quickly his feelings of disappointment turned
to joy as we saw how wet Alex was. I remember how we laughed
with each other as we talked about the beauty and danger of
the river. I remember how silly we all felt for not
exercising due caution. I still chuckle to myself when I
remember the description of everyone's swim that day. I
remember the smiles, the tones of each voice, and the facial
expressions as each related the swimming stories, and mostly
I remember the humility we felt as it was imparted to us by
the South Platte River. ~ Carl Pudlo, Colorado
The South Platte Chronicles Archive
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