| The Cache la Poudre River (French
for "powder store"), according to hydrologists who carefully study the
issue, begins as a small creek in the Never Summer Range inside Rocky Mountain
National Park just north of Cascade Mt. The area receives the heaviest
snowfall of any place in Colorado, and although I’ve never seen them personally,
the largest spruce trees in the state are said to still reside in the deep
cool draws of this remote wilderness. The water flows north through the
Kawuneeche Valley that lies in the afternoon shadow of Mt Richtofen, then
carries on between the Mummy Range and the Never Summer Range, picking
up numerous creeks and seasonal trickles as it progresses. The path of
the river is hidden from view by immense tracts of lodgepole pine, dark
blue spruce, nimble subalpine fir and airy stands of fluttering aspen that
spend more than half the year under a deep blanket of snow. The river forms
Long Draw Reservoir in this valley, an increasingly popular tourist destination
and site of a memorable camping trip with Dave and Matt in the fall of
our junior year of college. It’s also the place where I learned the hard
way that in cold weather, a sleeping pad is essential camping equipment.
After 30 miles, the current veers around to the east and begins coursing
through a deep canyon. Near this turning point lies the Big South trail,
starting at the junction of the river and State Hwy 14. For the next 40
miles it charges downhill through narrow gorges and wide, smooth-surface
glens, all the while closely bordered by a narrow, windy road. Along its
sprint to the plains it passes by Profile Rock and Sleeping Elephant, through
the sinewy curves of The Narrows, past Grey Rock and Red Mountain, fed
during the springtime by Young’s Gulch, Steven’s Gulch, Dadd’s Gulch, Roaring
Creek, Hewlett Gulch and the hidden mouth of the South Fork. As it descends,
the subalpine forest gives way to open stands of red-trunked Ponderosa
on northern slopes, and cactus, wheatgrass and juniper on the southern
slopes where the sun bakes away moisture in the long summer days. In the
springtime the river flows with a heavy volume that tapers off in July
and becomes only a trickle, not even deep enough to float a raft on, by
September. I’ve rafted the river twice, once in a wet year and once in
a dry. In an average year, the Poudre River carries 288,000 acre feet of
water (an acre foot equals about 326,000 gallons). During the dust bowl
years it carried an average of 120,000 acre feet. In 2002 it carried only
89,000 acre feet, which was about 30% normal flow. WOW! Whata drought!
In drought years, especially 2002, the water that finally reaches the mouth
of the canyon is only centimeters deep and a few feet wide. Of course,
that’s after the numerous municipal "water-improvement" projects upstream
that divert and trap water for the greedy cancerous civilization on yonder
parched and plowed plains. A spider’s web of irrigation canals and ditches,
most larger than the natural river, criss-cross the area with glamorous
names like Greeley No.2 and Eaton Canal, and feed the hundreds of stagnant
reservoirs that rise and fall several feet every year as farmers pour water
on their fields of corn and onions. Over 90% of the water in the Poudre
River basin is used for agriculture. Looking at a map, I found it difficult
to discern the path of the river what with all the canals and ditches.
There are proposals in committee as I write to expand Halligan Reservoir
on the North Fork of the Poudre from 6400 acre feet to 40,000 acre feet
(600% increase) at a financial cost of $30 million, to expand Seaman Reservoir
on the North Fork, and to create Glade Reservoir, a 220,000 acre foot,
$200 million basin that would require the rerouting of State Hwy 287 north
of Fort Collins from Ted's Place to Owl Canyon near Laramie. The people
floating these proposals don't (or won't?) recognize that water holding
capacity in the region already outstrips water availability from rain and
snowmelt. Building more dams will not magically make it snow more, so you're
left with more empty reservoirs. Either they're crazy or I am. The demands
on the Poudre are not sustainable, and it's getting worse. The average
Fort Collins resident uses 199 gallons of water a day, and I'm sure less
than 1/2% of that is being drunk. What is left of the river when it joins
the Big Thompson just east of Greeley, CO becomes the South Platte which
flows off over the eastern horizon of yellow hayfields and corn megamonocultures
and out of interest.
The mountainous stretch of the Poudre River is designated as the only Colorado Wild and Scenic River by the Congress of the United States, a designation that seems to mean nothing except that they put up blue and white signs every mile to remind you of this fact and ironically clutter up the view. Ditto for those damn Adopt a Highway signs that seem to me the most noxious eyesore on the whole road (I could more easily ignore a few paper cups on the roadsides). The designation was made in 1986, but I don’t understand even now what the intention was. Development still seems to be proceeding with robust capitalistic speed, leading me to believe that senators translate "wild and scenic" to mean "tame and comfortable for the wealthy". Thin strips of private property that line the highway for miles and miles successfully prevent access to thousands of acres of the Cache la Poudre Wilderness and other areas of the Arapahoe-Roosevelt National Forest. I once stumbled onto poorly marked private property one summer and was escorted out by two angry men in camouflage and their dog (what were they doing in camouflage-it wasn't hunting season?) Often I have fished the river around a bend only to find myself spitting distance from a CEO’s back deck overlooking the water. Well, this is the price we pay for unlimited market freedom. Capitalism sounds good in theory, but it just doesn’t work. Edward Abbey once reflected that the major flaw in the system is that it puts no cap on individual wealth. Thus, we have 1% of the population controlling 60% of the wealth in this country, and they’re all Republicans. The double whammy. Not that I glorify Democrats. They can be just as crooked and underhanded as anyone, but they have less money with which to successfully bribe elected officials, and are thus less dangerous. I suppose if I could bribe my senator with $20 to stop drilling in my formerly favorite backpacking areas, I would. Who wouldn’t? Money talks, right? That’s the problem. The solution is to somehow institute a national understanding that some things cannot be measured in terms of money. Fish for instance. Fishing is a wonderful activity to pass through
a hot summer day with. I have spent many hours on various stretches of
the river pulling in rainbow and brook trout, occasionally a brown, large
and small. I tried for two years fishing the river with spinners and a
cast reel, with no success. Then I decided to emulate the fly fisherman
with their standard issue tan vest and brown chest waders and I found that
trout go silly for flies floating on the water. I have never gotten my
tan vest, or used my brown waders, but have still managed to catch a load
or two of fish. Among my favorite memories of long summer days are those
when the sun rose over my shoulder as I sought that perfect fishing hole.
For hours I would cast the line in with a sharp wrist jerk, let the fly
ride the riffles downstream and into the deep calm and beyond, then pull
it out sharply and launch it back in upstream. I must
My favorite day fishing was in late June when I arrived along a promising-looking stretch of water before sunrise. It was a cool, damp morning with a clear blue sky, and the water was an inky black in the shadow of the canyon walls. The area I was in had steep grassy banks that led down to a rocky shore, beyond which the water swirled and plunged in and around dozens of gigantic boulders peeking their smooth white heads out of the water. I fished from the left bank to begin with, and quickly caught a medium-sized rainbow in the lee side of one such boulder. I unhooked him and placed him gently back in the water, holding him toward the gentle bankside current until he suddenly woke up and darted off under the rock. The sun came up and hit the water with a yellow gleam, and I bent low as I stalked the bank to avoid casting a shadow on the water. I staked out a small 1' waterfall that proved to be a great find. I pulled in 3 fish from the undertow of that fall. I continued on and was attempting to get into the middle of the river by rockhopping when I slipped in up to my knee. Now, had I crossed straight through the water upstream where it is calm, I would’ve only wet my ankles and no more. But, trying to jump across the narrow channel where the water was deep led to me getting my entire leg wet. I decided what the heck and plunged my other leg in up to the knee and slogged across. The water was very cold at first, but I quickly got used to it. As the sun climbed higher, I began to appreciate it, then even crave it. I soon found myself dragging a hand in the water, then splashing it over my perspiring forehead. I waded from shallow to shallow, bank to bank, casting as I went, and careful not to let the line get caught in an undertow. The sun glazed overhead like a quiet spectator. Now and then I would pull in a fish out of an area that seemed completely devoid of fish. Other times I would fish likely places for half an hour and not get anything. As morning wore on, I stuck to the shaded right bank of the river and tried to avoid tree limbs. I got hooked twice on pine limbs, and had to scramble up the steep bank to reach them and bend them to where I could unhook. Once I simply had to cut the line. I don’t recall how many fish I caught, but it was enough to keep me perpetually interested all morning and most of the afternoon. Towards 2 o’clock, the wind picked up and blew up the canyon strongly, glazing the water in millions of tiny ripples that obscured the view of the deep water and made casting almost impossible. I called it in and went home. I should have more days like that. The Poudre River, although developed quite a lot, is still relatively wild compared to many other Colorado Rivers. I often think of its closest cousin, the Big Thompson River, which flows out of Rocky Mountain National Park, through the towns of Estes Park and Loveland and into the South Platte. This river also runs through a deep canyon, even deeper than the Poudre’s, and is just as naturally spectacular. The unfortunate thing is that the tremendous tourism drawn up the canyon by the lure of the National Park has led to massive development, primarily of souvenir stands selling cherry cider and carved bears to set on one’s front porch in greeting. Houses stand in ominous rows behind the shops and parking lots on either side of the highway that parallels the river for much of its length through the canyon. Thousands of people drive the road. There are few places along the entire stretch of road from Loveland to Rocky Mountain National Park where one could have a decent, quiet time hiking or fishing near the river. So, comparatively, the Poudre is still a gem. Last year in Colorado several state congressional leaders proposed reactionary legislation that sought to solve Colorado’s problem of record-low snowpack by damming more rivers, as if having more empty reservoirs than the state already has would somehow induce the gods to send more snow our way. Would damming the Poudre have been a possibility under that new proposition? I don’t know. It was mercifully defeated in the Senate. I wouldn’t put it past some of those politicians to try it. Where most people see a beautiful free-flowing river coursing down pine-covered hills and canyon walls, politicians seem only to see dollar signs. I think it’s a disease. It's in the water they drink up at the capitol. There's rumblimg of damming the Poudre even now, just below the mouth of the canyon. I’ve spent lots of days hiking straight off the highway up the steep canyon walls and peaks on either side of the river. I think most people would be surprised how steep a slope one can walk up without climbing equipment. Whenever I scramble up some of those canyon walls using all four limbs and stop after 10 minutes to look down and see mostly only the TOP of my car below, I too am surprised. Of course, going up is the easy part, as everyone knows. I got into a nice groove of exploring the rough trail-less canyon terrain in 2001, spending many hours tracking ever-upward away from the river. The funny thing was that I never was able to get to anything that I could call "the top". Any peak one sees from the road turns out only to be an outcropping of a mountain three times as high, but out of view from the river. When you get to the top of THAT mountain, you find it is but a swell at the foot of a much larger mountain beyond. Really doesn't matter, though. Hiking and seeing and being there is the real goal, not the top, wherever it may be hiding. There are plenty of bighorn sheep to be seen by the quiet hiker. Several years ago I was driving down the canyon when I spotted two of them perched on a rock outcropping on the north side of the road. I pulled the car over and snapped a couple of photos, then trotted up the hill with my camera and around the back of the outcropping. When I got to the top, they were completely out of sight. They just vanished. On another occasion Frank spotted a couple of young rams as he and I passed a lazy afternoon in a grove of limber pine high up a rocky slope commanding a view for several miles along the river. He growled to herald their approach, and I saw that the game trail they were following would take them right next to us. I decided to let them pass without interference and we left the shaded grove and stepped into the garish afternoon sun in the boulder field. The two rams halted and watched intently for a few moments as Frank and I slowly picked our way down through the boulders and loose tallus. The two rams then started to walk again, straight toward us (faster than before?) and Frank never took his eyes off them, growling just loudly enough to let me know he was aware of them. As we made our way down with labor, the rams made their way over with ease, and the gap was narrowing between us all the while. Frankly, I was a bit worried for a touch there, but they didn't descend when they got to the pine grove, but instead just stood and watched. Curious? Never did get close enough to discover their true intentions, perhaps for the best. I’ve always been on the lookout for mountain lions, hoping to see one in its native state. Never have. I hear they’re around. Maybe someday. Through imprinting during some forgotten summer day, I associate driving in the Poudre Canyon with Bob Segar hits. Just about every place I've gone becomes associated with a particular song or artist. This canyon just seems to be a Bob Segar kind of canyon. For awhile there I owned a Saturn with a sunroof, and really there was no better driving on earth than to cruise up that canyon (never down, because that would be heading the wrong way) with the top down, the windows open and Bob Segar repeating his refrain again and again and again, "Against the wind....Against the wind....Against the wind..." Thinking about it now, I can almost smell the river.
Poudre Links: LandscapeImagery.com has more Poudre River images to browse and buy for your wall. Friends of the Poudre is dedicated to preserving and protecting the Poudre River Poudre Canyon Hiking: Trail descriptions and photos of all Poudre Canyon trails Great
Poudre River text: Evans, Howard and Evans, Mary. 1991. Cache
La Poudre: A natural history of a rocky mountain river. University Press
of Colorado. Niwot, Colorado. 260pp.
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