Wicked Eddies Read Online Free PDF

Chaffee County Sheriff and the Fire Chief of the Chaffee County Fire Protection District, both of whom she knew by sight. Mandy didn’t recognize the older woman with smartly coiffed gray hair, dressed in a stylish pant suit, who was standing with them.
    The woman rapped her knuckles on the conference table to get people’s attention. “Okay, let’s get the meeting started so you can all go back to your important duties as quickly as possible. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Sandra Sechrest, Chair of the Chaffee County Visitor’s Bureau. The purpose of this meeting is to brief all of you on the upcoming Rocky Mountain Cup fly-fishing tournament and make sure our emergency response plans are in place.”
    The woman went on to introduce her cohorts standing with her at the front of the room and to lay out the schedule. The tournament events would start the next Monday with judge and volunteer training, followed by two days of practice fishing by the competitors and two days of competition. The whole shebang would culminate in an award ceremony Friday night at the Salida SteamPlant, an electrical power plant that had been converted into a performing arts and events center. After Sechrest finished, each of the emergency response chiefs described their plans to support the event and what they expected from their troops.
    When Steve’s turn came, he started off with a question, “What’s one of the most deadly sports in the world?”
    Mandy knew the answer, but stayed quiet. Someone yelled out, “whitewater rafting,” a good guess, but not good enough.
    â€œIt’s fishing,” Steve said, nodding while surprised murmurs filled the room, “usually from the fatal combination of boats, alcohol, and people who don’t know how to swim. Now, given that we have serious competitors participating in this event, I expect that alcohol won’t play a large part until after the award ceremony.”
    A few snorts and chuckles punctuated that remark.
    â€œHowever,” Steve continued, “we still have boats on the float-fishing practice and competition days giving us the same problems whitewater rafting boats do—hitting underwater obstacles and pitching their occupants into the water. And most of these teams are unfamiliar with the upper Arkansas, its rapids, and its hazards. So, I’m increasing river ranger patrols on the river during the competition.
    â€œAnd then there are wading fishermen on the shore fishing days.” Steve shook his head and tsked. “I hate waders. As the old-timers know, we usually have at least one fly-fisherman die each season, from either getting a foot trapped or tripping while standing in the river wearing waders. The fisherman falls in the river, the waders fill up with water, dragging the wearer underwater, and then he drowns.”
    A solemn silence descended on the group. Mandy, and no doubt many others, was remembering the most recent drowning of a local fly-fisherman that spring, leaving a widow and two teenaged children.
    â€œI want all of you river rangers to be on the alert,” Steve said, “for boaters not wearing their personal flotation devices and for standing fishermen wading in too deep. If you see a boater without a PFD, you give them a warning. If you see someone wearing waders without a belt, suggest they put on a belt immediately. Tell them it will stop most of the water from flowing into the waders if they fall and may very well save their life. If they’re standing in moving water past their knees, you give them a warning.”
    One of the river rangers raised a hand. “We’re bound to get complaints.”
    â€œDon’t worry about complaints,” Steve replied. “I’ll deal with them. We want folks going home from this competition with a memory of the big one that got away, not the big guy who passed away.”
    Ouch . Mandy cringed. Had Steve rehearsed