The North Fork of the Gunnison murmured quietly, as water only inches deep cascaded gently over its ancient gravel riverbed. The melting snow that gives life to the river each spring was still frozen and densely packed on alpine slopes high in the West Elk Wilderness. A twig snapped; a large dark figure moved through the willows along the south bank. Something was not right, out of place. This massive beast was not supposed to be here, not this morning, not this far downstream.

“There is a cow down here,” I called to local rancher Zach Hotchkiss. The known escape artist was on the wrong side of a 3-foot-high electric fence which spanned a dry portion of the riverbed.

“She’ll be back,” Zach replied. “She’s got a calf over here.” Regardless, he fired up his 4x6 Gator and sped off to retrieve a Border Collie, who would round up the wandering bovine and return her to the upstream pasture.

My relationship with Zach began just under a year ago when I severed the fence which keeps his 100-plus head of cattle confined to their pasture. It was the first time I had cut the fence, but not the first time I had seen it done. As I reached up to slash the electric wire, hovering 2 feet above the river, I was joining a fraternity of river runners who, in the name of boater safety and public access, had felt entitled to rid the river of this electric wire.

On an average year, the North Fork of the Gunnison becomes “raftable” in mid-April and is too low to boat by the end of June. The short season leaves boaters chomping at the bit to paddle through the hidden canyons and world class river features that the North Fork has to offer. After nine months away from this magical watercourse, some local boaters are certain to be pumping up their raft at the Hotchkiss put-in as soon as the gauge reads 450 CFS, or “good to go.” I am usually among them. About 100 feet after launching, this inaugural party will encounter its first obstacle: an 1/8-inch electric wire spanning the length of the river, just at or just above water level.

At this point, the party must make a choice — risk entanglement of boats and people as the river pushes relentlessly into the wire, or cut the wire. For most, the choice is easy. As I brandished my yellow NRS Co-Pilot river knife, which so rarely gets an opportunity for use other than spreading peanut butter or popping the top off a bottle, I felt a small rush. Twang! the wire was gone. I coiled the ends neatly on the bank and paddled on.

The next morning, I received a phone call from Zach. “How is your insurance?” the rancher questioned calmly. “I’ve got four cows missing. I can see their tracks leaving the pasture right where you cut my fence. Can’t find them anywhere.” I don’t know how he knew it was me or how he got my cell number, but I didn’t deny it. “I’ll be right there” was all I could think to say.

Western Slope SUP guides Bekah Scalero and Gordy Long prepare to string one of the fences across the river. PVC pipes, rope, webbing, carabiners, come-alongs and even recycled bike tires were used in the construction of the fences. *Photo by Rebekah Scalero.*

On the way to the river, I made two phone calls. My first call went to the Colorado Parks and Wildlife boating safety coordinator, the person I pay annually for Western Slope SUP’s river outfitter license. I needed an ally, and I wanted my money’s worth. I explained the situation. On the other end of the line, Grant Brown agreed that the fence had posed a hazard, but had no advice for me. He told me he would get right on it. I hung up and dialed the Western Slope Conservation Center. The Paonia based conservation group has played caretaker to the North Fork of the Gunnison for 20 years. Their projects have included building the Paonia River Park, restoring riparian areas, improving habitat for endangered species and removing dangerous man-made structures in the river. I wanted to know if they had dealt with this issue before, and if any precedents had been set. Tanya Henderson answered the phone. Tanya had recently moved to Paonia from the Pacific Northwest to take the WSCC director position. She told me that her organization would help in any way they could, but she could not advise on a course of action.

I knew the fence was a danger to anyone floating the river. I had been introduced to the concept 12 years prior during my raft guide training course. All commercial river guides are required to carry a throw bag in their raft. This is a small canvas bag full of rope, about the size of a football, which can be thrown to a client who has fallen into the river. Ideally, the guide holds on to one end of the rope and throws the bag to the swimmer, who catches the rope and is pulled to shore. My rafting instructors did not like to use the word “throw bag” for this device; they preferred to call it “strangling serpent of death.”

One of the most dangerous things that can happen on a river is when one of these throw bags becomes loose in the water. If the rope were to uncoil, and someone were to swim into it, the rope could become entangled around the swimmer’s body, or caught on their PFD. As the river pushes the swimmer downstream, the rope holds the victim stationary, possibly underwater. If the rope is wrapped around a part of the body that the swimmer cannot reach, such as an ankle or back of the PFD, or if the swimmer is not carrying a river knife, the situation can lead to drowning. Because of this, all river guides are required to carry a river knife. However, not everyone who floats the river carries a knife. The Arkansas River, where I trained to be a guide, is the most rafted river in the country. There are over 30 rafting companies who put hundreds of commercial rafts on the river each day. However, if a throw bag becomes loose in the water, Colorado Parks and Wildlife will close the Arkansas to boating until the throw bag is retrieved. These closures can cost outfitters on the Arkansas hundreds of thousands of dollars in lost revenue, but it is worth it, because they save lives. To me, there was no difference between a lost throw bag in the river and the electric wire that spanned the North Fork. I felt justified in my decision to cut it.

When I arrived at the Hotchkiss boat ramp, the scene of yesterday’s crime, I was met by a Colorado Parks and Wildlife officer. My phone call had paid off! A representative from the boating world was here to help me solve my problem. After explaining the situation to the officer, I was informed that case law was on the side of the land owner. I was in no way justified to cut the fence. The officer made a phone call to Zach, who agreed to let us raise the fence high enough above the river for a boat to pass underneath. I felt conflicted as I stepped into the cold spring waters of the North Fork to place an entrapment hazard in its path. Once the fence was back in place, the office left me his card and told me to call anytime. I was not happy with the fix but realized that it was the best-case scenario. I was concerned that as the water rose, our new fence would become submerged and clothes-line boaters. I made a trip to Gambles to pick up some flagging and marked the wire as best I could. I spent the rest of Spring 2021 explaining to boaters that there was a fence across the river, and that they should not cut it.

Temporary crisis averted, the WSSUP guides and I started brainstorming better solutions for the river fence. We needed something that could keep cows in, let boats through and have the ability to be raised or lowered as water levels fluctuated. Long time river guide Johnny Dejaynes remembered a fence he had seen on the Slate River outside of Crested Butte. The fence consisted of a wire strung five feet above the river. PVC pipes spaced one foot apart dangled from the wire down to river level. Johnny had once floated under this fence, which he compared to walking through “one of those beaded doorways from the ‘60s.” Cattle are trained to avoid structures like these, as they are usually accompanied by an electric shock. We decided that this would be the long-term solution to our problem, but had no idea how to build it, what it would cost and if it would actually work.

I began explaining the idea to everyone involved and immediately felt overwhelming support. Zach was enthusiastic. He had already been planning to replace the electric wire with that style of fence. Tanya and the Western Slope Conservation center pledged financial support. Most surprisingly, I received a phone call from Delta County commissioner Wendell Koontz. Koontz is an avid boater, often seen on the North Fork and Gunnison Rivers. He also understands the hard work it takes to run a successful cattle operation. He had heard about the fence issue and called to pledge support from Delta County. In a day, the community had come together to solve an issue that none of us seemed to be able to tackle alone. By this point, Zach was busy with cows and calves, and I was busy with daily rafting trips. We had a temporary fix, and there was no time to construct the new fences before the end of the North Fork rafting season. Our goal became getting the new fences installed by next spring. I drew up a design, purchased materials and waited for the quiet winter season to start building the fence.

The first of two river fences are now built. On a crisp April morning this spring, Zach and I met at the river and spent the early hours stringing the fence from bank to bank. My initial design did not include a method to raise and lower the fence as river levels rise and fall, but Zach ingeniously rigged up a come-along which will do just that. I am happy. Zach is happy. Will it work? Time will tell. Next time you find yourself passing through the cattle curtain, remember that it serves the important purpose of keeping cows in the pasture and off the highway. And still, there is one more fence to build.

Learn how you can help at westernslopesup.com.

Originally published in the Summer 2022 of Spoke+Blossom.

Big Enough For The Both Of Us: How Ranchers + Boaters Share The North Fork Of The Gunnison River