Thursday was, admittedly, another day of fishing...and on this we shall not dwell. (Except to say that Thursday brought in the big un' — 15" of rainbow trout.
Ye Olde Fishing Hole
Friday we tasted what else this Green River had to offer: namely, rafting. AKA river runnning. Rapid charging. Whitewater rafting. River kayaking. We jumped in.
John, our fish master friend over at Flaming Gorge Recreation Services, hooked us up with a couple of inflatable, two-person kayaks. We decided to get two after he let on that when loaded up with two pax, the rafter in the aft position had all the control, and he in the bow position just got real wet. Seeing as the water temp this time of year is just shy of 40 degrees, and we wouldn't even Ro-Sham-Bo for positions, we just got two kayaks. He gave us a few instructions, ("if the point of the V of the rapids is pointing away from you, head towards it. It's called the tongue of the rapid. If the point of the V of the rapids is pointing at you, it's a rock."), a curfew, and some paddles and sent us off to wage war with the river.
Fishmaster John, setting us up.
We dropped the kayaks off at the entry point just below the dam, then parked the truck and trailer at the end of the river route, a spot called Little Hole. Then, donned in O'Neill's finest, we pushed our kayaks out into the flow of water and settled our neoprene-clad bodies in the center of the craft.
One of our trusty steeds.
The initial challenge had naught to do with rapids. Rather, it was a pole position-type of strategically maneuvering to avoid fishermen-like obstacles. Fly fishermen riddled the river; some were in rubber waders thigh-deep, some traveling in triplicate in boats crafted for just such a purpose, and yet others zipping around in kick-boats, an inflatable personal watercraft that you half-wear, half float. And from each individual flew thin line in delicate S-curves. Beautiful to watch, but having the effect of a human weed-eater should an errant kayaker cross paths with it.
We made it through the obstacle course unscathed, and were immediately stunned by the majestic beauty of the 1000-foot red cliffs rising up on either side of us, one side speckled with snow. And below, thousands of trout moved placidly about their territory.
The vista continued unbroken for the seven-mile stretch of river down to Little Hole. Of the dozen or so rapids, the toughest one was Mother-In-Law, which required a bit of maneuvering. But for the most part, the three-hour ride was more relaxing than pulse-racing. (Apparently in the summer the river runs much faster and this stretch can be a bit more challenging.)
Hauling the craft homeward.
As we pulled out at Little Hole, we traded a few Cliff bars for a photo shoot from a gentlemen who was off to a Ranger Service meeting. He took one look at our kayaks and declared, "Ah, you two are a couple of duckie veterans!" We nodded agreeably, hoping that our grins would mask our complete ignorance of what he just said. Of course, contextual extraction and some further evidence revealed "duckie" to be the common term for the kayaks. Yep, we're veterans all right.
Just a couple of duckie veterans.
