LEFT “Heeding nature’s call is an important endeavor when you’re in a sensitive desert environment. We found this washed up in a back eddy in Colorado’s Gunnison Gorge during high water. No doubt somebody was missing it at some point during the trip.” Photo: Copi Vojta I grabbed the gunwale to steady it and before I could give any thought as to technique, Charlie went in head-first, flopping onto the floor in front of the rower’s seat. A rod snapped. Charlie made unnatural sounds. Blood mixed with water. Charlie lay on the anchor cleat, so I slipped into the backseat and pulled the anchor line hand-over-hand. This was just wasting time. I pulled the line taut and cut it. The boat slid free. I tried not to step on Charlie as I took the oars. The current took us down. My phone showed no signal. I took a picture of Charlie. He looked bad. Minor Bridge was just above where Willow Creek flowed into the main stem. It’s a good spot to anchor when the water is high. Fish love the big eddy that forms. I’d beach us on the gravel bar, pull the boat high and scramble up the riprap to the road. They’d probably need a rescue team to evac Charlie, but at least a medic could get down to him quickly. There was less gravel bar at the bridge than I re-membered. Maybe the water had come up or my mem-ory was wrong. I hopped out and led the boat from the current. Leaning hard, I pulled it up onto the bank as far as I could. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. The road to the north was empty. Southbound, the road disappeared at a bend. Beyond the bend, I heard the whine of tires on pavement. The man pulled the brown delivery truck to the side. Charlie’s blood on my clothes explained the look he gave me. He understood my short explanation and reached for his phone. I hadn’t checked for a signal. I was about to launch into my long explanation when movement at the river caught my eye. Charlie was try-ing to sit up and had rocked the boat off the bar. It wasn’t in the current, but it would be soon. I skipped down the rocks to the gravel. The boat was just at the seam. The current grabbed the far oar. I ran, splashing. The gravel dropped off sharply. I swam. A yard from the boat, my hand found the anchor line. I grabbed it and searched for purchase. I knelt at the water’s edge. The boat swayed and bumped below me. Charlie lay quietly. My tears mixed with crystal clear snowpack. I looked west to the mountains. That storm would be in the valley soon. THE FLYFISH JOURNAL 039
The Flyfish Journal Volume Eight, Issue Four: Page 39
