![]() ![]() ![]() In fact, we just heard that Steamboat Springs got dumped with nearly 2 feet of fresh powder a couple of days ago on the first day of summer. Winter, it appears, isn’t quite over in Colorado mountain country. Exiting the far side of the lofty Eisenhower Tunnel at the Continental Divide, we’re suddenly in a snowstorm at 11,158 feet. In fact, downright freezing with heavy winds and increasingly limited visibility.īarely an hour ago, as we rolled out of Denver along Interstate 70, it was a cloudless 80-degree day. “How cool is this?” Jackson says during our scenic westward drive through the Colorado Rockies en route to Steamboat Springs. The one ulterior motive: subjecting my college-bound kid to at least one more Wild West thrill ride with his old man before he whooshes off in all those other heart-rending directions. Both are perfectly timed, in the wake of an epic winter, for some of the biggest water either of these snowmelt-fed rivers has seen in years. The two highlights: a couple of rafting trips down some white-water beauties, Steamboat’s Elk River and Fort Collins’ Cache la Poudre River (more on that last name later). The five-day plan: Touch down in Denver and drive a big, beautiful loop through the mountains and high plains of northern Colorado via Steamboat Springs and Fort Collins. A mere 3,000 miles from his shell-shocked parents back home in California wondering how all this happened so fast. In a couple short months, he’d be paddling off on his own to some faraway land called Connecticut. Or consult my then 17-year-old son, Jackson, who agreed to run a pair of carefully chosen Colorado rivers with me last June before heading off to college. Nothing kicks off summer quite like a splashy river adventure in the perfect place at the perfect time with the perfect company. “That’s called ‘Killer Bridge.’ We need to avoid the middle post on that bridge. “OK, see that bridge ahead?” Kylie says, a few rapids later. Never mind that little hiccup back there. “Forward paddle!” Kylie barks as we all dig into the river, pushing to a bumpy gallop like the brave Western expeditionary force we’re not. ![]() “So where’s everybody from?” our buoyant guide asks us.īrief timeout and light riverside chit-chat dispensed with, we push off again, heading back onto the field. After a rough start on the Poudre, order has been restored and the world appears to be reasonably afloat again.īobbing off on the sidelines by the far bank, our own drenched, wide-eyed crew members are busy catching our breath, bailing excess adrenaline, and quietly determining if we’re all having fun yet. Meanwhile, amidst a volley of whistles, hand signals, and various other efficient rescue ops above the blaring rapids, a hustling team of guides positioned down-river has almost as quickly recovered the upended boat and plucked its lost crew out of the current. Yanking our ejected passenger out of the water and back into the boat like a 180-pound stray kitten while barking naval-officer-style paddling commands at the rest of us, Kylie manages to free our stuck vessel and steer us to the opposite bank, out of harm’s way. What occurs next, thankfully, is a testament to the sort of quick chaos-quelling river-guide choreography one can only hope was included somewhere in that liability waiver. Then - whump! A raft from behind plows into our stalled vehicle, loses its own footing in the relentless current, flips over, and turns its entire crew of neoprene warriors into scattered swimmers down a frigid, not-so-lazy river.Īll just like that, in a matter of seconds. Splash! - a crew member tumbles out of our listing vessel and into the drink while the rest of us barely hang on to our suddenly vertical-ish seats. Our boat highsides, rearing up on one end. So what exactly happens when you hit the post on Colorado’s capricious Cache la Poudre River? The usual chaos. The side of our raft grinds into one of the dreaded craggy uprights. When the whirling current swings us slightly off course and then, uh-oh, backward - squoonch! - the inevitable occurs. Less so, it turns out, for a half-dozen helmeted humans clutching paddles aboard a raft hurtling down a tilted stretch of white-water nicknamed “The Quarter Mile of Chaos” booby-trapped with a pair of fast-approaching, game-deciding goal post boulders. It’s a simple enough directive - for, say, a hockey player or field-goal kicker on flat, delineated terra firma. Kylie, our river rafting guide, lets the sentence hang before our first rapid this morning like an errant barrel on the edge of Niagara Falls. If we hit either of those two goal posts . ” “See those two scary-looking rocks down there on the right? Those are what we call the ‘goal posts.’ We need to go between them. When he takes his son rafting out west before sending him off to college back east, a father learns to let it flow. ![]()
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