Fear welled up inside of me as I felt the
pressure of the current relentlessly increasing
against my legs as I waded toward the far shore.
The water was only knee deep, but the current was
now a raging torrent threatening to sweep my feet
out from under me with every step. My legs were
tiring and my breath was deepening and quickening
from the labor. I quickly re-evaluated the
situation and judged the distance to the far shore
was now too great and the risk not worth it. I
made the decision to turn back toward the
protected bank. Our trucks were parked on the
opposite shore and it was too far to walk around
using the Highway 5 bridge. We would have to wait
for the current to recede or find a ride from a
Good Samaritan.
I knew I would have to use caution when
reversing my course. As I turned downstream
my legs were suddenly swept from under me
just as if I had been hit low by a blocker
in a football game. I felt myself tumbling
head first into the raging waters. I quickly
fought back the panic and let it happen. Far
too many injuries occur when people resist a
fall instead of “going with it” and allowing
their body to absorb the shock. I expected
to hit the rocky bottom, so I allowed by limbs
to go loose instead of bracing for the impact.
My waders made me somewhat buoyant and the
loose state of my now prone position allowed
me to float, and I was carried along by the
current rather than impacting the streambed.
My swift-water rescue training kicked in and
I immediately turned my body and pointed my
feet downstream…taking up something pretty
much like a seated position in the river. I
was headed for deep water. I knew I needed
to make the attempt to stand back up right
away, or I might not get another chance.
In my right hand, I held my fly rod. My
left hand was free. I reached down to see
if I could touch bottom. I felt the slick
rocks and decided to go for it. I plunged
my free hand into the graveled bottom and
reached downward with my opposing right leg.
Both found purchase and I struggled quickly
to my feet. It worked!
The water was rising fast and I knew I had
to act even faster, or I would find myself
in water far too deep to wade to safety.
I headed for the bank on the inside of the
bend where I knew the current would not be
quite as swift and I knew the bank from
walking it earlier that day. I caught sight
of a huge rock about ten yards up the grassy
bank and made a bee-line straight for it.
Even in the slack water of the bend in the
river, the current was still threatening to
once again sweep my feet out from under me.
I struggled hard with each step. My chest
was now heaving from the exertion of fighting
against the little stream that had become a
raging river in less than two minutes. I began
to question whether or not I could even make
it to this more protected bank. But shear
determination and the will to survive kicked
in and the dry grass loomed nearer and nearer.
This was my first conscious thought for my
wading partner. I glanced upstream and Mike
came into my field of vision. He too was
struggling to keep his feet, but he was halfway
in toward the bank from my position. I knew
he could make it. I don’t know exactly how it
happened, but I actually made landfall first.
I struggled up the bank, now laboring the catch
my breath. I collapsed on the big, flat
limestone boulder and began stripping off my
gear down to my waders, which were now full
of water. I was safe.
Mike came out of the water just behind me.
I heard him ask if I was OK. Between ragged
gulps of air I nodded and said, “Yeah, I’ll
be fine.” By then Mike had reached the boulder
as well. I noticed he was pretty wet himself,
but I never saw him fall. We were safe. And,
for now, that was all that mattered.
Exhausted and wet, Mike and I waited there on
that rock and gathered out thoughts. Our trucks
were parked at the access parking area now
directly across the river from us. We were
both wet and tired. Norfork Dam might continue
to generate power for several hours. We could
be waiting until nightfall or later before the
current subsided enough to safely wade across.
The highway bridge was several miles downstream.
And I knew I was not familiar enough with the area
to be certain I could even find it easily. And
I knew I didn’t feel up to a walk of what was
probably ten miles or more. Our best bet was
to sit and wait.
After about fifteen minutes of sitting on the
big rock, we heard boat motors laboring their
way upstream. Three boats full of anglers
passed closely by us and we exchanged greetings.
No one offered any assistance. And, frankly,
I was still too tired to ask for it at that
moment. I knew the fishermen would drift
back by our resting spot eventually, and I
decided I would ask for help when they did.
That’s how we managed to get out. The first
fishing boat that drifted by came close enough
for a gentle conversation, and I asked if they
would be so kind as to ferry us across to the
landing on the opposite shore where our trucks
were parked. They readily agreed to assist us.
A few minutes later, we were sitting on the
tailgate of my truck looking a bit worse for
the wear. But we had neither lost nor damaged
any of our gear. And we were both uninjured
except for a couple minor scrapes on my hands.
We decided we had been very lucky.
The Bull Shoals and Norfork tailwaters of
Northern Arkansas have claimed the lives of
over two hundred anglers since the dams were
built in the mid-twentieth century, and I am
grateful not to be counted among them. Hindsight
is twenty-twenty. Looking back, it is relatively
easy to see what went wrong.
Fist of all, that day was my first trip to the
Norfork tailwater. I had heard and read that
it could be dangerous and one needed to pay
attention to the water in order to be safe.
But I have fished other Ozark tailwaters for
several years, and I made the near-fatal
assumption that Norfork would function pretty
much like the others. I was relying on hearing
the horn sound to signal the beginning of
hydroelectric power generation. We never
heard the horn. Our first audible warning
came from a man standing below the handicapped
access we had used to enter the stream yelling,
“Water’s on! Better hurry!” And hurry we had.
But it was already too late. I never even
looked at a map or asked anyone specifically
if the horn was audible from where we were
fishing. Since the incident I have learned
that it is not. Had I know this in advance,
I certainly would have paid far more heed to
the other warning signs we did, in fact, observe,
but had dismissed. And that was our second
mistake.
“Is it just me, or is the water rising?”
Mike asked about fifteen minutes before my
fateful swim. In fact, I had just had the
same thought cross my mind a few seconds
prior to his question. I stopped fishing
and took a good look around. Perhaps we
were just wading deeper than we had earlier
in the day in the same spot. I checked the
bank. I looked upstream at other anglers who
were still fishing. I saw no one moving toward
the access stairs. I could not tell that the
bank showed signs of rising water.
“Nah, I think we may have just waded deeper
into this hole,” I replied. And we returned
to fishing.
Looking back, we both also recognized that
there seemed to be more moss and stuff
floating downstream than usual. And,
probably the most dangerous sign because
anglers like catching fish, we both began
catching fish as the “bite” picked up…an
almost sure sign of rising water. But we
hadn’t heard a horn and none of the other
anglers were heading for shore. So we kept
on fishing. And that extra trout or two we
picked up in the intervening moments almost
cost me my life.
Indeed, I violated at least three of the
cardinal rules of water safety. I ventured
into waters with which I was particularly
unfamiliar without making any serious effort
to acquaint myself with her eccentricities
first. I hadn’t even made study of a map
that I had picked up that morning in Dale
Fulton’s Blue Ribbon Flies fly shop. And I
had no idea how far downstream of the dam
(and horn) we were fishing. I also ignored
three different known indications of rising water:
the “feeling” that the water is rising is usually
correct and should be heeded, the increase in
debris is a certain indication of rising water,
and when you add to these the sudden increase
in feeding activity of the fish, we should have
realized that the dam had begun to generate power.
Finally, when I knew the water was rising
and we had not received any warning…and I could
see the current picking up and the water
rising a few hundred yards upstream of our position,
I never should have struck out for the opposite
bank. I should have played it safe and remained
on the shore near that big rock that became our
shelter after the incident. But I had put
convenience ahead of safety. I didn’t want to
get stuck over there away from our vehicles and
have to wait out the dam operators and their need
for electricity. Convenience and perceived comfort
should never trump safety, but I suspect many an
outdoorsman has lost his life to this error in judgment.
Well, I’ve certainly learned from my mistakes.
I know Mike has too. I put pen to paper on
this subject in the hope that others may learn
from our errors as well. Lest you think it
cannot happen to you, let me tell you a thing
or two about my background as it relates to
these matters.
I have lived my entire life around rivers and
lakes, boats and canoes, fishing poles and
firearms. I am no stranger to the water. I
am an avid waterfowler and fly-fisherman. As
such, I do a lot of wading and have for many
years. I have fallen once while hunting,
and…prior to this…have never fallen while
fishing. I am a strong swimmer and wader.
I have done more than my share of white water
rafting and canoeing. So I am familiar with
swift water. I used to be an assistant trip
guide on such excursions, and I have been
trained in swift water rescue, basic water
safety, small craft safety, wilderness
emergency medicine, first aid and CPR. I
am a former Red Cross Water Safety Instructor
and Wilderness Survival Instructor. And I have
lived in the Ozarks and fly-fished Ozark tailwater
trout fisheries since 1998.
But I got sloppy and careless. I know that
most of these types of accidents occur when
the victims are unfamiliar with their
surroundings…either new to the activity
or the area in which they are doing it. I
know better than to ignore my instincts and
observations. Yet, I fell victim to precisely
these errors in judgment. I cannot tell you
why. Even if I could, I probably wouldn’t,
because someone else may find themselves in
similar situations but for different reasons.
The message is that when we fail to practice
solid safety, it can happen to anyone…for
any reason.
Speaking of safety, here’s a good tip I’ve
picked up in the few days since the incident
that I think is worth passing along. One
angler told me that he doesn’t trust his
ability to gauge rising water based on its
position on a rock, shoreline, tree, etc.
So he carries a small orange bag…duffel
or knapsack…and drops it on the shore a
foot or two from the water’s edge where he
enters the water. If he moves very far, he
takes it with him. He glances back at the
bag frequently, and if it is in the water,
it’s time to get out. In any event, you
certainly need to make a mental of the water
line in relation to some stationary object
and check it frequently. If you notice the
water starting to rise…especially on a
tailwater fishery…you know it is time to
head for safety. ~ Ken
About Ken:
Ken graduated from Southern Methodist University
in 1988, and spent the next several years serving
in the United States Navy as an intelligence analyst
and Russian Language translator. He is a veteran
of Desert Shield and Desert Storm. Leaving the
nation’s service in 1993.
Ken is also a published outdoor writer and historian,
having penned articles and stories that have appeared
in several national hunting publications like North
American Hunter magazine, on GunMuse.com, in regional
and local newspapers, and historical and literary
journals. He has also provided hunting and dog
training seminars for Bass Pro Shops and other
sporting goods retailers nationwide. He volunteers
his time to Ducks Unlimited and Trout Unlimited,
as well as several local charitable organizations.
He is also a REALTOR with Coldwell Banker in
Branson, Missouri; where he lives with his wife,
Wilma, and their Weimaraner, Smoky Joe.
Originally published June 20th, 2005 on Fly Anglers Online by Ken Morrow.