Rocky moments break spell of Rogue outing

Text Size: A | A | A

Print this Article Email this Article

Last Sunday was my first time out on the Rogue River all summer. And possibly my last.

Usually by Labor Day I've been up and down my stretch of the river scads of times in my paddle boat or dingy.

You'd think I'd have made a point of taking advantage of my proximity to Savage Lake, seeing how this is the last year to launch either of my vessels out my backyard. But somehow life got in the way this summer. And watery fun got dry-docked.

So when The Englishman suggested bringing over his 1949 Lone Star for the holiday weekend, I gave his suggestion an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Shortly before noon on Sunday, into the cool green water slipped the old aluminum boat. We clambered aboard with a minimum of haste, and even less grace. I sat in the bow. My beau sat at the wheel. The old (type) two-stroke engine started with two tugs of the cord and a satisfying low rumble. Pushing away from my crumbling seawall, we headed upriver at a leisurely cruising speed.

Life always seems a little sweeter when I'm on the water with a cool breeze blowing in my face. We puttered along under blue skies. Fingers trailing in the water. Daydreams floating in my mind.

Although the sun was high in the sky, hardly anyone else was out on the river. Folks along the river smiled and waved to us. A couple of kayakers kept pace with us for awhile. The few other motorized boats outdistanced ours quickly.

I wanted to go as far as the Depot Street Bridge. I covered that story for three long years. I saw the old bridge taken down and the giant hydraulic jacks move the new one 25 feet downriver into its permanent location. But I hadn't seen the new architectural wonder from the water yet.

As we rounded the last bend we were about 200 yards from the new boat launch area, the Rogue Valley's only undercover boat launch. I noticed it scant seconds before we also noticed that the river was too shallow for safety. Turning about, we were sideways in the current when our boat hit a submerged rock with an ominous crunching sound.

"Oh no. We're screwed," said The Englishman.

Not exactly the sort of phrase this first mate wants to hear from her captain.

"What do you mean we're screwed?" I asked, eyeing the approaching shore nervously.

But the Englishman was too busy yanking on the wheel and forcing the complaining old boat into gear to answer. With a mighty heave, the bow scraped through some blackberry bushes as we slipped past sideways, caught the current and came safely back into deeper water.

"Phew! That will wake you up," he said.

Since I don't like rude awakenings, I may have replied with phrases that would make an old salt blush.

A few minutes later, heart rates and bowels again under control, we were back to our Sunday reveries.

"Let's go all the way to the dam," I said.

The Englishman said we'd need to keep an eye on our gas situation, and asked how far we'd traveled to the bridge.

"About five miles?" he speculated.

There and back, I said.

"We should be fine then," he said.

Do I even need to say it? One hundred yards from the Savage Rapids Dam, headed back toward my home, the engine sputtered and died. We'd run out of gas.

Not only was this humiliatingly stupid, it was a pretty bad place to lose power. Grabbing one of the paddles, I began stroking hard against the current which was pushing us towards the dam.

"Row! Or we're really screwed!" I yelled.

My Captain advised me not to worry. He'd have the secondary electric motor running in a flash.

The next words out of his mouth were not encouraging. Blasphemy rarely is.

Apparently electric motors are not what they're cracked up to be — especially if they've been sitting out in the elements too long.

He grabbed the second oar and joined the frenzied paddling as we aimed for shore.

The bow of the boat ended up with a snoot full of blackberry bushes for the second time that afternoon. A half-submerged dead tree made a handy tie-up as The Englishman refilled the gas tank — then discovered what had caused the ominous upriver sound. The shift linkage was broken and we couldn't get the motor into neutral.

Luckily the Lone Star had died in gear. There was more ungraceful clambering as I scrambled back to the wheel, while he shifted back to restart the engine and manipulate the cable.

Back in business, we limped upriver to my place, cutting the engine about 20 feet from the boat launch. As we drifted in, I grabbed a tie-off line dangling from my dock, and swung the boat around.

The Englishman informs me he's repaired the cable and has filled the tank with a goodly supply of gasoline. He is bringing the Lone Star back this weekend.

I think I'll wave to him from my paddleboat.

Reach reporter Sanne Specht at 776-4497 or e-mail sspecht@mailtribune.com.

Print this Article Email this Article