I’m a little too young to have truly experienced outdoor journalism’s pulp period, where every encounter with the wilderness became a Blood-Soaked Brush With Death.

As real outdoor journalism, it’s a joke, but as literature, it’s hugely entertaining high camp, and high camp pretty accurately describes Friday’s trip to the Upper Sacramento River… which became my own Water-Soaked Brush With Death…

Death Stalks Me On The River

I met Wayne Eng on the river for a quick afternoon trip. We were looking for a hatch, and I brought Wally the Wonderdog, who’d been suffering a nasty case of advanced spring fever.

It was cloudy, cold and snowing lightly, and a quick walk up and down the river netted us no risers, no bugs.

Desperation was setting in, so I rigged up a small PT nymph and started nymphing a large, slow pool with a long current tongue running through it

Fly Fishing The Upper Sacramento River
The Wonderdog; as interested in trout as I am? (Wayne Eng photo)

Wayne took my camera, waded across the tailout and started taking pictures of pretty much everything that wasn’t moving.

At that point, my little twist-on indicator popped off and floated just out of reach in the back eddy.

I can get that. Sure. That’s within reach.

The pool gets deep in a hurry, the drop-off capped by a line of rocks. I stepped up on the rocks and leaned… leaned… leaned… got it!

Unfortunately, I was teetering, my arms, body and legs going different directions.  Windmilling my arms like a madman, I got my balance back, finally perching straight — if precariously — on the rock.

Dang. Almost messed that one up. Whew! Safe.

The Reaper’s Icy Touch

Behind me, I heard a splash. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw — to my horror — the ever-vigilant Wally the Wonderdog swimming towards me, his oversized paws driving his buoyant, 85-pounds of gristle and bone with astonishing velocity.

Crap.

Wally has become fascinated with trout, and he thought I’d landed a fish, and naturally, wanted to see it close up.

Too close, as it turns out.

His paws and nose bumped my hip, I pitched forward, and all that was left to do was turn and watch the water rise up to meet me.

Stellar.

The Cold Ripped My Flesh

Scientists call it the “Cold Shock Reaction” — the hyperventilation and loss of coordination you experience when your body is first submerged in cold water. It only lasts a minute or so, and the key is to avoid panic and wait for it to pass.

Fortunately, my Wonderdog-induced swim didn’t expose me to the full effect; my upper body got it first (I was wearing a fleece jacket), with the waders starting to fill after a couple seconds.

I glanced at the far bank, expecting to see my ex-close friend Wayne rushing to help, but he was rooted to the spot and fumbling with the camera (probably thinking he’d sell the pictures to People magazine for their “Cold & Wet Celebs” section).

Apparently, dying an icy death is a lonely endeavor.

Water sucks the heat from your body about 25 times faster than air, a fact that became abundantly clear after I struggled to get back to the shallows, crawled up on land, and stood up.

fallallwet
The Wonderdog shakes it off while I practice my High-Pitched Whine (Eng Photo)

That’s when everything began draining downhill. Toes curled. Lungs inhaled. Turtles hid. Yow.

The Wonderdog — still searching eagerly for the trout I hadn’t caught — circled me with his tail wagging, wondering what all the fuss was about.

I figured the distance to the Bronco (and its atomic-powered heater) and calculated exactly how much whining sloshing cursing walking it would take to get me there.

Thankfully, not that much (nobody wants to see a grown man cry), and after I got my waders off, poured out a couple gallons of ice water, squeezed the water out of my jacket and got behind the wheel, I realized I had escaped death’s icy grip, and yes — I would live another day.

Don’t Walk Towards (the Ironic) Light

Wayne called later — not to ask if I’d seen the bright white light at the end of the tunnel — but to let me know that minutes after I’d left, he’d found BWOs and a few rising fish, and yes — managed to catch a couple.

(UPDATE: The water temperature at the bottom of the river was in the low 40s when the Icy Tentacles of Doom tried to drag me down to Davey Jone’s Locker, so figure a couple degrees colder up where the snow was melting.)

See you in the clothes dryer, Tom Chander.

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