This story, “When Time Stopped,” appeared in the May 1954 issue of Outdoor Life.
Floyd was lying on the bank of Cottonwood Creek where he’d fallen after he’d dragged himself clear of the water only moments before. He was retching from fright and exhaustion. His clothes were in rags and his hands were bloody. He had just saved my life.
Besides being my brother, Floyd has been my partner in the outdoors since we were boys together in Wisconsin. A great part of our lives has been devoted to hunting, fishing, and canoeing. He’s 28 now and I’m 31. Our business is color photoggraphy and we sp~cialize in sports pictures, traveling about 40,000 miles each year.
With the summer fishing season slowing down, we had set out from Wisconsin in mid-July, 1953, towing our canoe behind on a flat-top, custom-made trailer, to do what we’d long wanted to do — shoot the rapids of some great Western river like the Snake or Yellowstone. We settled on this part of Wyoming because it seemed to offer a real challenge — fast current, wild rapids, turns, bends, and falls. We wanted a tough river, but little did we know just how tough it would be.
Upon arriving in the Jackson Hole country in Wyoming, we set up camp on the bank of the Snake-at the foot of the Grand Teton. The towering, jagged. snow-capped Teton range, which runs north from Jackson Hole into Yellowstone National Park, more or less paralleling the Continental Divide, is one of the most impressive ranges that I’ve seen in the United States.
After completing our camp, we had an hour of daylight left to look over our river. The Snake originates just south of Yellowstone Park, bubbling out of springs at 10,000 feet, and becomes a substantial stream within a few miles. Where we were located, it was a full-fledged river some 200 feet wide, with a swift current that foretold of many rough rapids and intricate barriers down.
Bright and early the next morning we were on the bank of the river ready for our first run. The day was crisp and the air was so clear it crackled. All we had packed was enough food for our noon meal. We’d found long ago, through boating thousands of miles, that first runs are often hazardous and sometimes costly if expensive equipment is aboard. We’d wait until later for the pleasures of camping and fishing; now we were eager to get started exploring the river.
As I look back. I can’t remember any more pleasant hours than those we spent on the Snake those first five days. The weather held perfect, and the river seemed to like us — and we grew to love her. She was wild and mad, but she was also lonely and beautiful.
Probably every game animal or bird native to Wyoming drinks from her at some time, eats her food, or bathes in the coolness of her waters. Several times we passed within a few feet of large bull elk-standing like statues with their massive antlers silhouetted against the sky. The comical marmot was there too, to play hide-and-seek with us around every bend. And occasionally a bear would interrupt his fishing to take a nearsighted look at us as we rode swiftly by.
We’d heard of a smaller stream in our area, Cottonwood Creek, that sounded like a further challenge to our canoeing prowess. It ran a course diagonal to the Snake, and we were told that if we put in at a specific point, we’d have a pleasant 15-mile run to the junction of the Cottonwood and the Snake. From there we could make an easy run down the Snake to our camp. It sounded ideal.
This is where we made our first mistake. We knew there were rangers in the area who could give us reliable answers, but it seemed easier to get our information from a local tourist establishment. Ask the average man for advice, and he’ll do his level best to please; but in this case the advice was unreliable.
There’s always anxiety attached to the prospect of a new adventure. As darkness settled over our camp on the evening before our Cottonwood trip, the hours lagged terribly and sleep was fitful. But, as always, morning came. At the crack of dawn, after a hurried breakfast, we were off toward our putting- in point on the Cottonwood.
At first look the stream didn’t appear imposing, but the current was swift — perhaps 10 miles per hour — which meant high activity beyond. But as we let the canoe slip into the stream, we expected nothing more than a fast turbulent ride. Named after the cottonwood trees which border its banks, with their limbs dipping down into the water, the stream seemed intimate and friendly.
We’d traveled about a mile when we came upon a beaver dam. As we approached it, we worked the canoe toward the right bank to prepare for the: portage around. Unlike our rivers in Wisconsin, where a beaver dam slows the flow and causes the river to widen out, the current was so strong that it tunneled beneath the dam without seeming to slow down at all.
As we set our canoes in on the other side of the big pile we wondered why no one had mentioned beaver dams. It wasn’t more than 200 yards when another dam appeared, this time more abruptly. We barely managed to beach the canoe before colliding with its jutting logs. Fast current and rapids we were used to, but this was a new twist and we didn’t like it. We considered pulling out, but in the end decided to keep on.
I must mention here for persons unfamiliar with canoeing in fast water that there’s only one way to maintain control over your craft, and that’s to paddle, keeping the boat moving faster than the current. This is especially true on small streams where there are many turns and bends. If a canoe is allowed to move with the current, or slower, the water assumes control and the craft will wind up beached and abused almost every time. It’s because of this need to go faster than the current that a stream such as the Cottonwood, with its beaver dams, is so treacherous to negotiate.
Beyond the second dam we again set off downstream at a wild pace. The river became more perilous; partly sunken logs and fallen trees were popping up in our path. We approached another bend — almost a 90 ° turn — and headed toward the inside of the arc with increased speed for best maneuverability.
We had no warning. Traveling at perhaps 15 miles per hour, with the weight of the river at our stern, we rounded the bend — and there, 20 yards ahead was another beaver dam. It was too late to turn out; we were going to ram.
I heard Floyd shout to jump, and then we hit. The next instant I found myself in the water, holding on to an outjutting log. Floyd flew over the dam and was hanging on the other side. The canoe had disappeared.
Never in my life had I felt so helpless, even though I was a good swimmer, as was Floyd. If I let go of the log, I’d be washed beneath the jam. How long I could hold on I didn’t know. But I did know that the water pressure against my body was tremendous and that my arms were already beginning to ache. It was then I felt the first real surge of panic.
I yelled for Floyd, but he was in the same fix across the dam. He couldn’t let go for fear of being washed beneath still another dam just ahead. He was, however, more maneuverable than I. I screamed, begging for help, and he answered. Slowly he worked his way opposite me on the other side of the dam. As he neared a spot where he felt it might be possible to crawl out, I caught a glimpse of his hand through an opening in the logs, reaching for a snag. He closed his fingers around it and released his other hold. There was a sharp crack — and the limb broke loose. He yelled once, then all was quiet, save for the roar of the water.
I felt sure my time had come, and panic gave way to shock. Floyd was gone, perhaps caught under the other beaver dam. Now it was my turn. I couldn’t hang on any longer. Just before I let go, I recalled noticing how the torrent cut under dams like this. This last thought helped save my life.
I took a deep breath and let loose. I felt two sensations — I was falling down a long, dark tunnel with high winds resounding in my ears, and I was being pummeled as if running a gantlet. When I opened my eyes I saw a maze of bubbles shooting by like a snowstorm. Somehow I managed, as though in a dream, to keep working my way deeper. My lungs were on fire, crying for air.
Then, as suddenly as it started, the turmoil abated. I was drifting on a cloud. A hand grasped my arm. Someone was dragging me out of the water and onto the bank of that devil stream. I blacked out.
I’ve often heard that a person, before cashing in his chips, has a momentary flashback of his life. I didn’t. But for a fleeting instant I wished I was back safely in Wisconsin. Then a sudden hate flared up — hate for the misguided informant who’d got us into this.
When I awoke I found Floyd at my side, retching hard. How long we lay there I have no recollection, and we didn’t say a word. We were both too weak, and in a state of shock.
Eventually we began to take stock of our surroundings. Our canoe wasn’t to be seen and we were in no condition to look for it. The Cottonwood travels through a gorge, with about 30 yards of level footing along each bank before the cliffs begin. Knowing the approximate direction we must travel to reach the highway, we started our long climb out.
You may wonder why we had persisted in continuing downstream after encountering those first dams and after realizing the possible dangers ahead. There were reasons. Portaging out was virtually impossible, for the flat banks paralleling the river were an impregnable tangle. But most important, and because Floyd and I are basically optimists, we still had hope that around the next bend, the obstructions would clear, affording us easy travel the rest of the way.
Only after we had reached camp hours later, did I learn what happened to Floyd after he broke loose from the beaver dam. Luckily, between the dam our canoe hit and the one farther down, a shallow sandbar arose in midstream. That bar saved him from an experience such as mine, or worse. It was from this spot that he was able to grab my arm as I was being washed by.
Read Next: A Dozen Times I Should Have Died While Hunting and Fishing
Two days passed before we felt up to retrieving our canoe. We literally had to tear the dam apart, log by log, to dig it out. Both ends were split, a number of ribs were broken, and the seats were gone. It was nearly a total loss.
We learned a grave lesson: Never rely on the word of an untried source when the wrong information could jeopardize your life. Always ask the man who really knows.
Read the full article here