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From: Steve Jernigan <jernigan_at_chester.uccs.edu> subject: [Paddlewise] Trip Report: Monday Morning at Chatfield Date: Wed, 20 Oct 1999 17:11:55 -0600 · This archive was generated by hypermail 2.4.0 : Thu Aug 21 2025 - 16:33:04 PDT

	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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