Punished by the paddle pigs
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by Mary Thompson, Outpost staff
About this time last year, in the juicy spring snowmelt, I joined a group of friends for an afternoon paddle on the Truckee River.
The water, crowded and crashing together, wrestled into the channel. The river was swollen to the brim of its banks and glassy waves of monstrous proportions formed at every rapid and bend. The spring sun, awakening from a wintry hibernation, stretched its arms and tickled my cheeks.
Clearly, it was an epic day.
All seven of us, with our brand new kayaks, squeezed into our drysuits and prepared ourselves for a day of big-water play.
Before the games could begin, we arranged our shuttle, parking one car in Truckee and taking the other to the put-in at River Ranch, just a few miles downstream from Tahoe City. On the way, we took note of the dangerously low bridges spanning the water, their metal edges dipping into the current. We scouted a safe course through the man-made hazards from the highway.
At River Ranch, we slid into water and paddled furiously, trying to surf on the giant waves as gravity pulled us downstream. Our lips, defying the natural force that moved us along, curled upward toward the blue sky, forming huge smiles.
Until, five miles into the run, an ominous voice appeared from nowhere.
"BEACH YOUR CRAFTS!"
Stumped, we looked around, shrugged our shoulders and kept paddling.
Again the crackling voice sounded: "BEACH YOUR CRAFTS!"
I imagined the grumblings coming from the river, warning us to get off her back. But, out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the situation wasn't that cool &emdash; a Placer County Sheriff's Deputy frantically waved his bull horn from the right bank.
Innocently, we ferried "our crafts" over to the law on the other side of the river, only to discover that we were criminals.
We had just been stopped by a cop on the river. It was a first for all of us.
I was so dumbfounded that I asked the officer for the specific ordinance.
After rattling off a long list of numbers, he said the county closes the river when it rises to 1205 cubic feet per seconds, or cfs. The river opens when it falls below that level and deems the river safe for boaters.
"Safe for boaters?" I asked.
"And you can be cited for kayaking on the Truckee river when it's closed, darlin'," the deputy said.
Kayaking on the Truckee during flood stage is a misdemeanor crime, carrying a penalty of six months in jail and $1,000 fine.
Trying to save myself from a deflating pocketbook and a troublesome trip to the slammer, I zipped my lips, slung my boat over my shoulder and hoofed it to the car.
The incident sparked ample conversation on the drive home.
What's safe for one person is simply a walk in the park to another. To some, the mighty Truckee at flood stage is nothing more than a sure invitation to death. To others, it's a haven of safety when steeper, more difficult runs are gurgling with spring snowmelt.
Besides, some claim that closing a river is
unconstitutional since it prevents access to a navigable
waterway. The issue has escalated into a significant debate
that keeps organizations like the American Whitewater
Association busy in court, defending access rights of
paddlers.
After the incident with the paddle police, I went home and cut my annual dues check to the AWA. I vowed never to return to the Truckee when it's flowing high and fast. Instead, to avoid troubles with the law, I've returned to a closer and more dangerous river. Which one?
If I told you I'd have to kill you.
Posted March 4, 2000
Copyright 2000 Nevada Outpost
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