One of my greatest pleasures of life has been solo wilderness tripping in my canoe. The Buffalo National River in Northwest Arkansas has been my prefered spot for many, many years. At times in late spring, it can resemble a water ride at an amusement park, canoes full of kids and adults stretching as far in front and behind as the eye can take in, and the twisting, winding mountain river allows.
America's First National River
The Buffalo National River flows free over swift running rapids and quiet pools for its 135-mile length. One of the few remaining rivers in the lower 48 states without dams, the Buffalo cuts its way through massive limestone bluffs traveling eastward through the Arkansas Ozarks and into the White River. Explore the river by canoe or take the back roads into the pioneer history of the Buffalo River region or enjoy a hike in one of the three designated wilderness areas.
This 135 mile length does not include the headwaters, code named by us early enthusiasts "The Hailstone" river to keep outclassed recreational canoists away. It adds another 13 1/2 miles of hairy class II-III whitewater as it drops on an average gradient of 33 fpm with a 55 fpm maximum drop rate. Narrow slot runs around frequent large boulders, through a deep gorge canyon.
The Buffalo rises in the Boston Mountains of the Ozark Mountain range, and was declared a protected wild river, free of dams and impoundments in the early 1970's. Senic setbacks preclude any development within sight of the river for most of it's length. A few highway bridges, and unimproved fords are the only signs of civilization one sees from the river.
My favorite time of year for my fourteen day excursions in in late December to mid January. I own the river then, and often complete my trip without seeing another living soul.
Patience, I'm getting there!!
Back in the early 1980's, on one such trip I ran into some difficulty on my last day before takeout at the abandoned mining town of Rush.
Early morning began as usual, with a quick breakfast and cowboy coffee, tent packed and gear loaded while the coffee brewed. By the time the fire was buried and cook kit packed, it was light enough to see almost across the river. The river had frozen over in the night, at least in the pool I had camped by. I recorded below zero temps on my tent thermometer, so it was not unexpected. I launched the 17' canoe backwards, actually with myself seated in the bow seat, but facing the bow instead of toward the stern as I usually do when soloing the big tandem. I used a rocking motion to break the ice in front of the boat, leaving a "snail trail" behind me of flowing water and crushed ice. I knew from experience that if I piloted my canoe in the normal fashion, it would slide the bow up on the ice sheet and I would either be stuck, or I would have to "go with the flow", riding the ice sheet into the rapids with no control over my course or destiny.
As the morning progressed, the ice broke up from the warmer river water flowing below, and my progress improved. I still had to wait out the ice sheets preceeding me into the rapids between pools, but the river was once more navigable. Late morning a light skiff of snow began to fall. Soon the trees, rocks and bluffs took on a winter-wonderland look.
By noon, the light snowfall had become a blizzard of half-dollar sized flakes, dissapearing when they hit the water, except for a thin slush that formed on the surface. The problem began when the snow fell in the canoe, and immediately melted, as it did on my clothes. By then I was "power-stroking" the canoe, steam rising from my clothing. I got soaked. And before I realized it, started stage one hypothermia as the water evaporated. I noticed it when I couldn't switch paddle strokes because my fingers refused to respond. And my thinking became fuzzy.
When it dawned on me I had a problem, I made for the nearest blank, retrieved my rainfly, and set about trying to build a fire. DId I mention that my hands didn't work? Consider that when you are selecting your emergency firemaking apparatus. Before I could gather materials for a fire and light them, the tremors started. I could not make sense of the sticks and twigs, could not light them. I finally lit a trioxane bar. Two in fact. And thawed my hands while holding a sierra cup of water over the small blaze.
I had thought to make coffee, but the tremors got worse, and I was sloshing luke warm water out of the cup onto my hands. Decision time...stay and get worse, or get back in the boat and power stroke until I reached the takeout, a "do-or-die" dash. The snow made up my mind for me. It was coming down so thick I couldn't see the far end of my red canoe, twenty feet away. I dumped a box of cherry jello in the lukewarm water and downed it, wadded my shelter into the boat, and shoved off.
I don't remember how long it took me to reach Rush, but I quickly set my shelter, stripped, toweled dry, put on dry clothes, and built a nice cheery fire in the lee of a thick cedar, using fat cedarwood to get it going with a trioxane booster, added "dry" driftwood once it was going.
My tent I pitched beneath the cedar, hoping to keep the snow weight off of it. My shuttle never did come. I had prearranged with a guide service for their truck to pick me up at Rush Landing. Rush is in a very narrow, steep valley leading down to the river, and of course it was blocked by snow. I awoke the next morning with my tent almost in my face. The tree had blocked the snow alright, but the snow was so heavy, I was in a cedar lined snow cave.
The calvary...er...the National Forrest Service Ranger's truck arrived just as I had repacked my duffle. Snowtires, 4wd, chains, and some tricky driving got me out of there.
Codger
The best you can hope for is to have one side steaming you like a fish and the other side taking a bath.
. If I can find an old soda can cut the bottom out making a small cup, pour a bit of my alcohol in the cup it will burn long enough to get a serious blaze going. Chris
