Winter on the river requires extra care

N.S. NOKKENTVED

Originally published December 18, 2001

I haven't tried it here yet, but in the past canoeing in winter has had its own special attraction for me.

Until the water freezes over, it's not too cold for canoeing -- too windy, perhaps, but never too cold. I used to do it on the Snake River in southern Idaho, where it gets a lot colder than here in Western Washington. Here it mostly means being prepared for rain, I think.

Southern Idaho winter canoeing means long-handled underwear, a warm coat, hat and wool gloves -- in case your hands get wet. The cold water presents a risk, and I would carry a change of clothes in a dry bag in the boat.

A lifejacket is essential, and I take extra care with every move. Falling in the water is a bad idea when the temperature hovers well below freezing.

On a windless winter day, however, the Snake was the perfect place for a quiet paddle. A unique winter quiet settled into the canyon, the walls festooned with icicles -- waterfalls arrested in time -- and the banks covered with snow.

Naked trees stand mute, and once-erect reeds bend toward the water. The low winter sun rides the south canyon rim. It gives little warmth, and it was colder in the shade below the south canyon wall.

I had the river mostly to myself.

But all was not dead here, even in the depth of winter. One day, a couple of winters ago, I was gliding along the mirror-smooth river when suddenly an animal splashed in the water ahead, startling me out of my reverie. The water was too murky to see whether it was a beaver or a muskrat, but a line of bubbles aimed like a torpedo straight toward the starboard bow of the canoe.

It passed beneath me without incident.

I worked upstream, under the highway bridge -- against the current it was easy to stay warm. I tried to keep my fingers out of the water -- gloves help, but sometimes they make it harder to grip the paddle. The cold was sharp on exposed cheeks.

I slipped beneath sheer rocks with their toes in the water -- one looked like a profile of Abraham Lincoln. Basalt layers are stacked, like a layer cake of ancient lava flows, on top of rounded rhyolite rock to make up the spectacular 500-foot-deep canyon.

The only sounds were my breathing and the gurgle of water stirred by the paddle. The canoe slipped silently through the water. A pair of red-tail hawks circle, and a red-shafted flicker disappears in a hole in a snag. A kingfisher left his gnarled branch over the water -- his dry rattling cry echoing along the river.

I startled a coot preening itself in the reeds, paddling furiously to get away. One of this year's fawns -- nearly full grown -- lapped cautiously from the river's edge.

The temperature dropped another degree or two before I got back to the boat ramp.

It requires an extra measure of care -- to say nothing of another layer or two -- but getting out of doors in the winter is well worth that effort.

N.S. Nokkentved covers the outdoors for The Olympian, and he's hoping Santa will bring a nice dry suit. He can be reached at 360-754-5445.

The Olympian Copyright 2001

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