The sky is grey, and the water is the color of lead. A cold breeze from the north ripples the surface without destroying the leaden illusion. Snow is forecast for later in the day, but as I unload my boat a few flakes begin to sift down. Two fishermen, bundled to their eyebrows, watch in silent disbelief as I climb in and paddle off.
It's Monday morning; the last day of a mini-vacation mostly spent preparing the homestead for the onslaught of winter. My original plan for today was a late season trip around Catamount Reservoir on the North side of Pikes Peak. Alas, the foot or so of snow the Peak received a couple of days ago, the 10,000ft. elevation of the reservoir, the continued cold weather, and the forecast for more-of-the-same caused me to opt for an excursion on Chatfield Reservoir. Located just south-west of Denver, Chatfield would, I hoped, provide a milder climate.
As I paddle clear of the little bay where I had put in, the full force of the wind bites through my jacket, and puts to rest my vague plans of circumnavigating the reservoir. There are 2ft waves out here, but at least there is no chop from the power boats that usually frequent this area. I tack towards the north-east, around a point, then with a stout sweep I come about and duck into a little tree lined inlet. The wind and swell quickly die out, and I find myself threading a path between partially submerged trees. It strikes me that this is probably as close to a swampland as exists in Colorado. The trees are displaying partial fall coloration, arrested and modified by the last few nights of hard frosts. The general greyness of the morning, the light snowfall, and the frostbitten leaves combine to paint the scene with muted pastel greens, reds, browns, and yellows. The water is mirror still. I am paddling through a watercolor painting, the kind you see on the cover of those high-dollar outdoor catalogs. A solitary duck gives me the once-over, decides that I'm not a threat, and goes back to looking for breakfast. Yea, Breakfast! Tucked neatly under my seat is a thermos full of hot coffee, and a bag with a couple of donuts, still warm! Mmmmm! I wedge my canoe between a couple of willows, kick back against my drybag, and prop my feet up on the gunwales. Friends, it just don't get no better than this!
I finish the donuts and light up my pipe. A thin mist gathers, and the light snowfall intensifies; the flakes become large and wet, making small patting sounds as they ripple the surface of the water. A herd of ducks glide by, quietly discussing the fishing prospects; not promising judging by the plaintive tone of their voices. I sit entranced by the beauty surrounding me; a tiny pocket of remote wilderness literally minutes from a major metropolitan area. I reflect upon how many miles I've driven searching for just this sort of place, only to find it here, today, more or less in my own back yard. My pipe is out, and I'm starting to accumulate a white overcoat, so I put down my coffee and pole my way over to a leafy landing. I swap my fleece for a goretex parka and rainpants, and set off to explore the inlet.
I've never paddled on this part of Chatfield before, but this pretty much has to be the Plum Creek inlet, and after working my way thru several bands of trees separated by enchanted watercolor lagoons I find a more or less defined channel leading off generally southward. The water is shallow, and I'm poling as much as paddling. Around each bend is a different painting; the submerged forest gradually giving way to well defined banks. I find myself paddling against a mild current up what appears to be a canal, overhung with willows and cottonwoods, and nearly choked with fallen leaves, all seen through a white-noise static of snowfall. The banks become higher and the canal narrows; becoming obviously man made. The current picks up a bit, pushing the boat around a little, and making it somewhat difficult to duck under and through the frequent sweepers. A couple more bends and a spot wide enough to spin my boat presents it's self. I do so, and allow the current to slowly float me back toward the reservoir.
No longer occupied with working against the current, I have time to observe a huge raptor perched in a dead tree, probably scouting for breakfast as well. It looks big enough to be an eagle. A bit further on I startle a heron into flight, and it majestically departs for other shores. The snow turns into rain, and as I clear the last of the trees the wind and waves again make their presence known. It is starting to rain pretty hard; a cold rain too, paradoxically seeming much colder than the snow. The wind seems stronger as well, and I elect to call it a day. I paddle straight out into the wind and waves as far as prudence allows, come about hard, catch a wave, and surf/tack back across the reservoir to the take out.
Not the long high mileage day I'd planned, not at all, but I'm more than satisfied. These are the days we'll remember . . .
ByeBye! S.
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