Our year-end weekend trip to the upper Sacramento organized by my friend John got off to a great start. Sure, a two-hour traffic jam near Cottonwood ended any hope of fishing on Friday afternoon, but four fly fishers — Mike, Anne-Marie, Sue, and me — all arrived (driving separately, following Covid travel guidelines) in good spirits and met John at the house he’d rented just south of Dunsmuir. It overlooked a beautiful stretch of the upper Sacramento. The forecast called for snow and continued cold, which was fine. It would keep most anglers off the water, leaving more room for us hardy types.
After a great breakfast on Saturday morning, courtesy of Sue, we wadered up for the hike to a spot where John had caught a couple of fish the day before. It was a cold, clear morning, so we all dressed warmly. Although the altitude wasn’t too high (approximately twenty- three hundred feet), the cold made it somewhat difficult to breathe when you were exerting yourself. I think it was bothering me more than the others, because at 71, I was the oldest person in the group. I paced myself on the hike along the railroad tracks that parallel the river. There was a lot of snow and lots of different kinds of water to fish. This stretch also involves a fairly steep scramble from the railroad tracks to the river.
John and Mike moved down to the water first, spreading out among some nice pools. Anne-Marie and Sue went to an area about a hundred yards downstream of them. I stayed in the middle, where I found an access where I could easily get to the river from the tracks and, more importantly, get back out.
I spotted an eddy next to the bank coming off a tailout that emptied into a plunge pool before moving into a fast, wide, deep run. The eddy was three to four feet deep with slack water that I was comfortable in. I felt very safe and stayed away from the eddy’s front edge, where the water moved faster coming off the tailout. I got one solid grab casting my Euro rig into the tailout so my nymphs could drop into the plunge pool. After ten or so more casts, I switched to a streamer with a small Perdigon on a tag. After another dozen casts with no action, I decided to move.
I reeled in my flies, secured them on my hook keeper, and using my wading staff, turned around to face the bank. As I took a step, I got hit with a surge of water that was far heavier than I expected. I’ve seen strong hydraulic surges in this kind of slacklooking eddy water from time to time in tailwaters close to dams after unexpected releases. Thinking about this later, I wondered if a large snowbank might have loosened and fallen into the river upstream from me, creating the surge.
Suddenly, I was underwater, tumbling. I had been knocked off my feet into the plunge pool and was being carried along a shelf into the deep, fast, rocky run. The water was instantly and shockingly cold — cold beyond belief. I held on to my rod and staff. After a tumble or two, I managed to get myself turned around, facing downstream with feet up, and tried to evaluate what to do. I hit a few rocks and boulders that were protruding from the river, but nothing hurt at this point. I was numb from the cold, and these felt like only glancing blows. I thought about riding the river to a place where I could easily get out, because my wader belt was holding, keeping water out of my waders, and it was (surprisingly) not too difficult to stay oriented. But the cold water was exhausting me very quickly, and I didn’t think I’d have any strength left to pull myself out of even a shallow riffle. This was not a mind-overmatter situation. The cold was physically debilitating to the point that it was distracting me from contemplating my precarious situation.
I saw a slight protrusion twenty or thirty yards in front of me that looked like the tip of a boulder. I made the decision to try to use it to stop my descent and managed to hit it with my butt. I held on to the rock, but felt like I was slipping, though it was difficult to tell without any feeling in any of my limbs. Thankfully, I was able to wedge my wading staff behind me, just behind my butt, to keep me in place.
I felt a little more secure, but I was almost completely submerged, with only my boot tips and face above the surface. Every time I tried to get my upper body out of the water so I could sit on the rock, the water pressure behind me built up and started to push me off. There are no words to describe the intensity of the cold.
I quickly looked behind me to see if either of the boys had seen me take the plunge. No one was coming that I could see. Fortunately, I saw Anne-Marie casting from a rock when I turned and looked downstream. I called out, and she and Sue heard my first call. They both hightailed it to where I was.
After they arrived, it looked to me as if they were taking off their fishing vests to get into the water to rescue me. I hollered to them not to do that, but to call John and Mike so they could figure out as a group what to do.
Sue pulled out her whistle to alert the boys. I later learned that Mike hiked back up the hill to the house as fast as he could, somehow found a rope, and rushed back. At some point in these early minutes, Anne-Marie checked her phone and miraculously saw that she had a cell signal. She called 911, knowing that a rescue might be beyond our little group’s ability.
By this time, I was fading fast. I’d been totally submerged for around twenty minutes, and I didn’t think I could hold on to my rock much longer. I could feel my body shutting down, and I was becoming mentally confused.
When John arrived, he saw that I couldn’t make it much longer where I was. He moved upstream and found a safe entry point, climbed in, and half waded, half swam to me. He got to me just as I was slipping off the rock. He planted his feet on the boulder under us and was able to keep most of his torso out of the water while lifting my shoulders out of the water, as well. He took off his wool buff and put it on my freezing head and then pulled me tight to his chest to try and keep me warm until help could come.
That’s where we stayed for the next hour. John rubbed my hands and talked to me throughout, waking me on the multiple occasions when I lost consciousness.
John saved my life.
After what felt like an eternity, I looked bankside and saw a team of men and women coming down the snowy slope in a number of different uniforms. They were search-and-rescue people, but in my delirium, I thought a few looked like they were wearing space suits. I watched as one of these spacemen (actually, they were wearing dry suits) clipped a rope on himself and threw the other end around a tree. One of his teammates held onto the rope as he made his way through the rushing water to us. With John’s help, he was able to lift me high enough to fit me with a sling they use for helicopter pickups. He relayed my weight and some other information through his headgear to what I imagine must have been a helicopter crew. Then he cut open my waders, which were by now full of water, to lighten the lift.
Next thing I knew, a cable appeared in front of my face. They hooked me up, and I was airborne. Surprisingly, after sitting in indescribably freezing cold water for over an hour and a half, it felt much colder as I ascended. I started spinning the closer I got to the helicopter and remember the tough moment when I realized they weren’t bringing me inside the cockpit. After who knows how many spins, the hoist operator positioned me so I was sitting on one of the landing skids.
Needless to say, this was an experience I couldn’t forget if I tried. I didn’t even like roller coasters as a kid or as a parent, and this ride was scarier than any roller coaster, especially since my hands weren’t working, not that there was anything to hold onto anyway. I was at the mercy of that single three-eighths-inch cable hooked to the rings on my sling.
I’m not sure how long I was in the air, but we mercifully came over an open, snowy field where an ambulance was parked with doors open and half a dozen people waiting for me. When we landed, two guys disconnected me and asked if I could stand. (No.) They helped me off the landing skid and asked if I could walk. (No.) They shuffled me to the ambulance, where a gorgeous female supervisor (they know how to wake an old guy up!) and two others helped me into the ambulance.
As soon as I was inside, they cut off my waders and the rest of my clothes. They covered me with heated blankets and started “hot” IVs in each of my hands. The supervisor retrieved my medical card, which is always sealed in the front of my wader pocket, and called ahead to a arrived, I was rushed into an emergency room, where I got new hot blankets and continued hot IVs. They monitored me until my body heat came back to normal. Even after that occurred, it took a long time for me to stop shivering.
Meanwhile, my rescue team was picked up by an engine sent by the railroad, which was one of the organizations involved in the rescue. It turns out the railroad had shut down commercial traffic in the area in both directions. The engine took everyone to where they could get a ride.
After a final examination by the doctor, I was released to the care of my fishing buddies Anne-Marie and Sue. After some heartfelt hugs and a few tears, we headed back to the house.
We had originally planned to make a lasagna for dinner at the house, but I was so happy to be alive that despite being exhausted from the ordeal, I decided we should go out for a celebratory meal, champagne and all, at Café Magdalena in Dunsmuir. We had a wonderful, happy meal celebrating life together. I can’t thank Anne-Marie, Sue, and Mike enough for all they did for me, and of course John, who risked his bacon to save mine. And, of course, a huge thankyou to all the agencies and organizations involved. I am immensely grateful.
