What Not: August 15, 1945; Frigid Conditions

"Ya' know, I've only ever swam in the river one time my whole life."

"Yea?" 

Our former neighbor, Bob, breaking a bit from his foundation landscape weeding chores, seeing us servicing a few river boats in the back yard, walks over and leans against the nearest fence post. This a few years back. At the time he's well into his eighties in age. He's since passed along...

"Yea. That was durin' World War II at the time. "Chisel' [an old pal of his], a few other buddies, and me were down at Flat Rock. I was only around ten years old and had never been in the river. Those guys convinced me to swim with 'em over to the old stone pier. We swam out and were sitting on top of the pier. We're within an hour out, and all of a sudden the fire and air raid sirens started going off in town. Then cars start blowing their horns. Police, fire and ambulance vehicles are circling the city streets, sirens blaring. Church bells were resounding.... It was big news that the U.S. had just days before dropped atomic bombs on Japan. No one even knew what an atomic bomb was. Top secret until then. As far as we knew one bomb could blow up the whole world. We're stuck out alone on the pier expecting to any second get blasted to kingdom come by who knows what. A short time later we found out that Japan had just surrendered to the U.S. It was all celebration."

Google mapping with annotation identifying 

Flat Rock and Pier... and, 'Fabians Swim'

_______________

So what is (or was) Fabian's Swim as mapped?...

Not your modern day "polar plunge". No briefly dipping toes in the frigid shoreline then quickly turning tail to girly-run squealing back onto the beach. Back in the day there was a guy in town who carried out an annual New Year's Day SWIM. Not for attention or publicity. Not a sideshow (although it usually attracted spectators). A personal endeavor. This guy was the real deal. Dave Fabian. Always on New Year's Day. There was no cancellation or postponement for better weather or conditions. We personally witnessed his swim only once. Late 1960's. Temperature 22ºF. He plunged in off of Flat Rock. Catching the down flow current, he swam swift and effortless diagonally cross-river to exit an old river access path low end of what is now Yough River Park. Go with the flow. Let the current do the work. Maybe a minute total time. Two minutes at best. He exited the water, walked up the path, got in his car and left. Mapped distance we scaled at around 580 feet. Let's say 600 feet considering drift.

Sadly, he drowned a year or two later repeating his annual swim. The circumstance was always vague. One conjecture was that he was repeatedly pelted with snowballs from a group of shoreline miscreants which led to his "accident". 

_______________

"Paddlin' Rob" checkin' out the thickness of 

the ice pack after a late winter surge

(Note the ice encrusted large drift wood)

A few years back we were doin' quite a bit of local creek paddling with our buddy, paddlin' Rob (as opposed to our other buddy, climbin' Rob). Usually always during late fall/winter/early spring when the creeks were running. We caught quite a few frigid days.

Rob in a casual environment

Rob at the time worked daily eight hour shifts in the freezer section of a local food distribution warehouse. We asked 'em once how cold they kept the freezers. He said by regulation that they had to maintain 0ºF for the large freezers and that they typically maintained -10ºF (or colder). Cold paddling days were typically in the low 30's. Although, a check of the thermometer registered as low as 25ºF a few, rare freezing cold days we were out. No dry suits - wet suits, paddling jackets and neoprene gloves and boots. 

The freezer work apparently had 'em well acclimated to the cold. Never, ever once heard 'em complain. Never mentioned the cold, nor weather for that matter. Subsequently, we couldn't either. If he ain't complaining, we ain't. Quite often we got back to the vehicle near dark. [At least our] fingers and toes too frozen to even remove gloves and boots. Rob's first step was an impromptu grab of an ice cold Budweiser from the ice packed beer cooler... "Ya' want one?"

Creekside with Strongman Matt, no slouch for the 

cold himself, and Rob, on a balmy forty degree day

_______________

Is this water really that cold?...

Strongman Matt at lower Colorado River boat launch, 

viewing Hoover Dam and then under construction

Interstate 11/U.S. Route 93 bypass bridge

Black Canyon, lower Colorado River

Cold, but brief, swim

... or maybe it just feels "chilling to the bone" considering the abrupt transition from 102ºF dry desert heat to the 50ºF river. We did a bit of research and found that water is discharged from below the dam at a maximum depth of roughly 300 feet depending on reservoir water surface level. Deep water/bottom temperature (behind the dam) stays stable and cold at roughly 50ºF to 55ºF. As we recall from dive training, lake thermoclines typically form at roughly forty foot depth, with water temperature roughly around 40ºF down to the bottom. Added research indicated a Colorado river depth of 90 feet the reach of the Black Canyon section with water temperature typically between 50ºF to 53ºF.

Don't know. But given 2-3 minutes immersion we were ready to hop back on shore. Can't recall when we were in colder (feeling) water.

Panther

 Undeniably not a Disney tale...

'Panther' by R.L. Haig-Brown, Collins, 1957 (first publishing 1934)

In Panther [Haig-Brown] writes of a great American panther in the island ranges of Vancouver... while the panther's story has all the elements of tragedy and excitement, he has too much honesty to sentimentalize it, or to impose on an animals blind instincts any human feelings or thoughts. His panther is pure animal - biting, snarling, hunting, mating, killing and dying. A fine, plain tale, with all the vitality and beauty of nature beneath its surface. 

                                                                                    - The News Chronicle 

Image and blurb (we couldn't have phrased it any better) from jacket of the 1957 edition.

Osprey Encounter

Had a recent and second interesting encounter, this time an osprey, which flew in for (our opinion) close examination of our river boat. Near identical circumstance as with our eagle encounter of a few weeks back. Both birds subsist in part on a regular fare of (regularly stocked) golden rainbow trout (aka palomino trout). Our yellow OC1 and the yellow-hued trout are pretty much a matching set. We're convinced that a distant first sight of the vibrant yellow boat, at least at first encounter, locked the birds into immediate predatory response mode. 

We'd been out for a few hours doin' a bit of light play boating interspersed with a short session of casting for rainbows within a bit swift, river side-channel. Afterward, back at the boat launch, we spotted a familiar pair of ospreys. Both low circling the river gorge at near treetop level. Obviously fishing. Always a pair. Been sharing the river with 'em for quite a few years. Bet we've seen 'em a hundred times. Always long distance. Typically never venture nearer than a quarter mile. Maybe an occasional eighth mile. 

As they passed one bird stayed high overhead. Its shadow crossed the ground a few feet away. The second bird remained treetop level, far bank. Once directly opposite shore line, the bird makes a swift turn our direction and comes in rapidly, swooping low to within maybe thirty feet before banking left to down river. Maybe ten feet above water level. It then makes a swift circling cross river return ascent and alights in a large sycamore tree opposite river bank. It sat there perched while rapidly calling for a following half to full minute. Appeared to be a bit agitated. 

Yellow OC1. The osprey's subsequent perch location circled.

This is the best zoom image we could muster totin' a 

compact camera. The osprey circled in image.

(Internet Image)

Osprey plumage

Earlier in the afternoon casting for rainbows. Hooked only one this 

day, that appeared to be a native considering the size. 

Caught 'em on some midge-looking dry fly.

We're stickin' with our yellow river boat theory. This in part after years of additionally observing a type of blue dragonfly (Blue Dasher?) constantly be attracted to each blue trimmed SUP we own. Both on river and lake. They land on and hang out or follow the blue trim craft for miles. 

I, Robot

"God looked upon the world and called it good, but man was not content. He

looked for ways to make it better and built machines to do the work. But in vain

we build the world, unless the builder also grows."

                                                                     - 'I, Robot', 'Outer Limits' S2E9, 1964

"Go on... to the gallows... run... to the gallows!"

                                                                - Samson Shillitoe (Sean Connery)

                                                              'A Fine Madness', 1966 (Film)

Let's just call 'em a "delivery man"...

Just over a brief rise and around a short curve in the narrow, a bit rugged, rocky, single lane dirt road. A few hundred feet ahead sets a parked van. Route blocking. No way around 'em. Just outside the drivers door stands the lone occupant for whatever reason. He spots us, quickly flicks his cigarette into the adjacent woods, and bee lines it back to his vehicle. He's got several hundred feet of reverse backtracking to a narrow pull off to let us pass. We have maybe a third of that distance to similar. He takes the initiative. Responding in kind, we give 'em a toot of the horn, shift to reverse and wave 'em on thru. In very tight passing he stops and offers his condolence for blocking the path...

"Sorry... I stopped to take a quick smoke break. Didn't expect anyone to be passing by this early. They [his company] have this !!##'n van so rigged with AI that I can't do anything. Follows me with GPS. Monitors speed, time and every stop I make. Has an interior headliner sensor that detects any smoke so ya' can't smoke inside. Even has an eye tracking sensor that monitors where you're lookin', your pupils and how often ya' blink. Along with an interior video camera. I guess that they think that we're out ridin' around party'n all day... so I gotta' stop and get out if I want a smoke!"

"F*k that!" we respond, and part ways. 

Our destination a little over an hour later...

call it good...

Eagle Encounter

"Perhaps fishing is, for me, only an excuse to be

near rivers. If so, I'm glad I thought of it."

                                        - Roderick Haig-Brown

Early afternoon. A hot ninety-five degrees and humid. Typical summer water level - low. Tossed a rod in the boat and a small assortment of flies and accessories in the river bag. Usually reserve early morning or late afternoon thru evening for fishing the open river. Not bright, sunny midday. The primary objective was paddling. Our circuitous "river trail" route. Considering that we'd purchased our fishing license for the current season just a few days earlier, we figured that we'd hit up an en route and interesting looking, large rivers edge sandstone rock slab. If not decent fishing, at least a hangout spot as the flat surface of the sun baked boulder sported a one-shot natural log bench of driftwood sycamore. 

The facing riverfront was shoal (darn near wet rocks) and a bit swift. A merger of shallow runs and micro pockets. Not our favorite angling waters. Gonna' be nothing but slack, short drifts. Seldom fished conditions for us. Repetitive, constant motion. But more work equals more fun we figure. 

Although we knew better, first cast we let a small minnow streamer long drift to straight line and snag in the fissured rock river bottom. We switched to one of three wet flies we carried and similarly lost that and the one to follow before getting our act together. The next solid three-quarter hour of repetitious casting went by quick. Time flies when you're having fun. But we knew that we were merely dawdling in the hot sun. 

Opposite shore line, maybe a football field length distance, we spot a soaring raptor rapidly making his way down river, skirting the tree tops. As we spot him he apparently spots us. He makes an abrupt ninety degree turn and is now flying directly toward our position. Can't quite make 'em out. Appears to be a hawk. He's pretty dark in plumage. Looks to be a lot bigger. Possible Osprey. As quick as we can clear another thought he's coming in fast and low. Practically water level. And directly toward us. We're ready to duck cover. About head level and twenty feet out he makes an aerobatic sixty degree roll back to river north and we get an excellent view of 'em. Wings full splay. At least six foot tip-to-tip. Almost slow motion in his control. Poetry in motion as they say. Could have probably counted the tail feathers. It's a juvenile bald eagle. And gripped in his talons he's carrying an aerodynamic aligned mid-afternoon lunch of golden rainbow trout (aka palomino trout). Pretty good size, too. We know that in the recent stocking the palominos were all on the order of a girthy ten inches plus. At closest range we probably could have reached out and tapped 'em with the tip of our eight foot six inch five weight. Totally silent in his glide until his flapping acceleration once past and return to his downstream heading.

(Internet Image)

Bald Eagle plumage

That's exactly our close range perspective of his soaring turn, with palomino in talon

(Internet Image)

Golden Rainbow Trout (aka Palomino Trout)

We're pretty definite that the young eagle was attracted to our yellow colored OC1. Probably thought that he was locked on to a whale of a palomino. Or, considering the coverage of the whitewash on the rock, maybe we were intruding upon his dinner table. We're stickin' with the former.

Neo-Sisyphus

 

(S. Zagorce Image)

Trial run of the canoe cart. 

Don't be fooled by the gentle appearing upgrade as depicted in the image.

Two miles over a bit rugged terrain was a persistent tug. Midway becoming a slog. Any further beyond our destination we imagine a full blown tug-of-war. Given a fairly level track supporting a paved and compacted crushed gravel surface, such as a hike-bike trail, we could have run the distance. We opted for our standard, unimproved, combination side-hill cut mountain trail and heavy-ballasted railroad grade. Rocks, ruts, mud, puddles, mud puddles, fly ash, bottom ash, slag, crushed small gravel, medium gravel, large gravel... and more gravel. Outside temps in the mid 90's. Potential for hidden, snapping vipers. Minus any serious grade (other than a short steep downhill of several hundred feet) we'll give it a 3 out of 5 on the difficulty scale (at said distance), so it could have been worse. To be honest, given a following day of a bit of rest and recovery, and we're ready to go again.

And we had an end to our toil

Titian's 1548-1549 Renaissance masterpiece as re-imagined thru the wonder of Photoshop by our modern, resident classical master, the mononymous "vonRay". 

Sisyphus' tale is actually pretty good...

(YouTube Video)

Some decent AI - although, we see opportunity for some great stop motion animation.

(We'd like to get a pair of Zeus' electric shades at 4:40)

Shredding

 "Ya' been out on the river?"

Standard greeting that we first heard probably forty+ years ago when we bumped into a fella' in the local hardware store. He apparently recognized us right off the bat. Waved and made his way right over to say hello. Bit of a smaller guy. Impish looking. Friendly as heck. Problem was, we had no recollection of the man. In between casual bantering centered upon the lower Yough river and the current weather and river conditions, we're rackin' our brain trying to place 'em. He was such an amiable fellow and came across as an old friend that we hesitated to ask his name. This scenario played out multiple times throughout the years to follow, either in the hardware or local grocery store. We talked the river a lot with 'em but never once asked his name. He always wore a ball cap embroidered with the logo of a local Ohiopyle rafting outfitter. Once he sported a cap emblazoned with the Mountain River Boat Works logo, at the time a small paddling shop we'd visited out of Scenery Hill, PA (as we recall). Another clue but still no recollect. 

A few years back we came across an on-line obituary and memorial concerning the passing of the inventor of the now legendary Shredder inflatable river boats; 100% manufactured right here in the USA in SWPA along the Yough river in Ohiopyle. We take a look at the photo accompanying the article of the late inventor himself, Tom Love. 

Damned if it ain't our baffling buddy...

(Internet Image/Airtight Inflatables)

Wayback image of Love river testing an early Shredder

We never got around to it, and know several paddlers who own 'em, but unfortunately have never paddled a Shredder. It grieves us to say being settled right here locally.

Coincidentally we'd spoken to him once over the phone years back when trying to track down a few replacement inflatable thwart tubes for an old Campways/Riken river raft. We'd been given his number by Campways out in Los Angeles, CA. Shortly thereafter we blew out a seamed three foot section of the hull of the boat, so wound up not needing the tubes. Still had not (knowingly) ever met him in person.

This year marks the 40th anniversary of Love's brilliant river boat.