(Editor's Note: This is a rather long preamble to David McIntyre's piece, but it begs the question many people have been asking. In fact, the OWC has been in the news a lot lately, being interviewed about water quantity. Anybody can see that the river is really, really low. We'd usually see these levels in a month from now. As I said to the press, no cause for panic.
We had a really low snowpack this year- in fact, we were waiting ages for a "snow event"so that we could scoot out and get some winter footage for our Film Project, #oldmangoestohollywood. When it did snow, we rushed out there, only to have most of it just blow around. Anyway, add very little rain to the equation, and you don't have the "storehouses" full. That's what a watershed IS, after all - a giant storehouse for our water. Snowpack and rain (and a tiny bit of glacier melt) filter through the land, where it percolates and purifies and gathers in marshes and wetlands and bursts into little streams and on she goes til eventually she reaches the Hudson's Bay. Well, actually, I should say HE since we ARE talking about the Oldman!
As you may have read elsewhere, our Film Project got rained out on 6/7 different shoots - all in the headwaters - so that's why the meadows there are lush and ranchers are eyeing that part of the watershed as a place for grazing. Elsewhere it's just dry. Dry as a bone. The flyover we did recently from Lethbridge upstream to The Gap showed full irrigation canals and reservoirs, but a mighty low river.
The upshot? You can turn on your tap and expect clean, clear water as usual. Should we be watering our lawns to lush, verdant, rival-the-English succulence? No. Should we be thinking about where our water comes from, where it goes, and what happens in between? Absolutely. These are questions that will not diminish with time. Our discussions around water will become more and more central to questions about economy, infrastructure, agriculture, water licenses, municipal allotments, and the value of other species - plant, animal or insect - who also call the watershed their home. Our plain carelessness is threatening the very existence of some species.
Is it just "Mother Nature" playing tricks on "The Oldman"? Absolutely not. The uses of water are as diverse as the people and industries who rely on it. It is the ABUSES we need to curtail. Let's start in the headwaters. Give the Oldman a voice and help keep recreational vehicles out of water bodies. Camp away from streams, and take your garbage with you. Clean up your dog poo (yes, I said it!). Stop buying bottled water. And please remember that you are a guest in the nursery of our water - and many animal babies.
Now back to David. He was about to tell us what he saw when he went out for a kayak trip recently. Enjoy!)
The Oldman's last gasp
Times are tough, the land's drying up. Rivers have turned to stone. Well, almost.
Monica (my wife) and I rafted/kayaked the Oldman River recently. Our goal was to grab a little whitewater action before the river dropped to unnavigable levels. As the plan unfolded, we asked Monica's sister (Bissy) and her husband (Bill) to join us. They accepted, then reported that Bissy couldn't kayak due to a knee problem.
Fielding this news, I decided to take our big "cat" (cataraft)—it's affectionately known as Fat Cat—so Bissy, without lifting a finger, could ride down the river in queenly style and, looking regal, and from her floating throne, offer, as she might deem appropriate, fitting, queenly waves to deer and other animals appearing at river's edge.
Fat Cat appears here, loaded to the gills, in preparation for a trip through Montana's celebrated Smith River Canyon. My wife's inflatable kayak, floating at the raft's side, provides a buoyant, bobbing element of rubber-ducky scale. The big raft's cargo includes firewood,100 liters of water, a monster (165 quart) cooler, a similarly sized dry box, an Outfitter Wing (offering foul-weather protection), a tent, a stainless steel kitchen table, large sleeping pads, a propane tank, a water-filled solar shower, two backpacks, camera gear and more … all strapped down and thus held together in the event of an unexpected flip.
I'd checked the Oldman River's water level before we'd made plans, and felt sure there was adequate flow, but when we rendezvoused at our takeout point, I, wide-eyed, did a triple-take. There, almost under our noses, a nasty upstream rapid we'd have to negotiate showed its formidable teeth. Where, I wondered, was the river's reported water?
The bigger problem: It was crystal clear that the raft, unless airborne, wouldn't negotiate the rapid's toothy array of exposed bedrock.
I put that little bombshell behind me as we drove upstream to our planned launch site.
Two hours later, after unloading the raft's heavy rowing frame, inflating its big, green-banana pontoons and assembling gear, we looked at the river. It was disturbingly low.
I bit my lip and launched, trying, unsuccessfully, to ignore the appalling lack of water, and its corollary, the river's shallow, bony bed.
Monica and Bill, in kayaks, were able to dance though the day's unending arrays of boulders and ledges. I wasn't. The result, not always pretty, was somewhat like trying to race a semi over an obstacle course designed for dirt bikes.
Rafters know—and they know it well—that it's impossible to control a raft if you can't get your oars into the water. They also know that you're cruisin' for a bruisin'—destined for double-trouble—if you, caught in the river's flow, don't have room to dart, dance, or make a quick exit.
Trip summary: I likely exceeded anyone's expectations, but was dog-tired before we'd stopped for lunch, double-dog-exhausted when we approached the jaws of the toothy rapid above takeout. There, when unavoidable rocks reached out and grabbed the raft, Bill ducked under my right oar and pounded through a narrow slot of whitewater. Monica, right behind him, did much the same, but almost flipped when her kayak climbed—then spun and fell from—a big pillow of water.
Bissy and I, on the raft, were caught in jaws of bedrock. We sat. Water raced past us, surging through the rapid's rocky teeth.
I looked into the foam and, not knowing what to do, pointed at a sofa-sized boulder. "How about that?" I yelled, showing the perched queen a big boulder comprised of 60-million-year-old cemented oyster shells, and trying, unsuccessfully, to divert our minds from the critical problem at hand.
The real work soon began, a labored dance of sorts in which Queen Bissy and I, in water up to our waists, tried to lever, lift and otherwise move Fat Cat from one obstacle to the next without being swept away, or dragged under the raft.
As we struggled, people at a downstream campground appeared. They, focused on our plight, became unwanted spectators.
Thankfully, the free show—it was relatively short due to some strategically located pry points—ended with Bissy and me on the raft, … and perhaps even more surprisingly, with me able to rise from the riverbed and leap into my designated seat, in some control of the oars.
The queen, christened, climbed back onto her floating throne.
Two hours later, the requisite takedowns and shuttles complete, we arrived at Monica's parents' ranch house, just in time for dinner.
The next morning: I, up early, woke with a stiff neck. My arms felt like spaghetti. When Monica, after sleeping in, appeared at the breakfast table, I, still exhausted from the previous day's effort, told her, "We're not going rafting today."
"That's fine," she announced. "We're going to climb a mountain."
Epilogue: I discovered, the morning after our river trip, that the river,
during the three days that followed my online reading of flow levels,
had dropped significantly before our launch.
