Uncharted Waters
Snorkeling novelties on the Jefferson.
A cloud of dust billows into the afternoon sun as we bump along the road to the access site. The truck rolls to a stop and the river slides into view, a silky blue carpet meandering through cottonwoods. Mike jumps out of the front seat like a giddy teenager, as does Kent. I follow slowly, and watch as the two of them don fins, masks, and pole spears. “It’s a great day to have a day!” Kent calls as he works his way down to the bank.
Pretty soon, both he and Mike disappear under the surface of the Jefferson and everything goes quiet. Twenty seconds pass and Kent pops up 40 yards downstream. His snorkel geysers water into the air as he motions to me. “Missed by a hair!”
“Really?” I shout back, shocked that he had action on his first dive. Mike rises for a breath and thrusts his spear into the air. Attached on the sharp end is a football of a carp, lifeless. A clean kill. “Nice shot!”
While the Jefferson is more known as a slow river that’s home to the fleeting big brown trout, this stretch is loaded with an invasive omnivore that no one seems to care about. Across the US, carp have demonstrated an uncanny ability to survive in dirty, polluted water. Their association with poor water quality leads many anglers to regard them as a sort of “trash fish.” Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks considers them a nongame species and allows unlimited harvest. Large eradication efforts have even been implemented to keep them from deteriorating clean water and vegetation. I do not yet have an opinion on the matter, and until I get some fins on and take a dive for myself, am reluctant to form one.
My body recoils with the first touch of icy water. I wade out to chest deep and confirm with the pros one last time how to work the spear, which is a six-foot fiberglass shaft with a three-pronged tip on one end and a loop of rubber tubing on the other. This is my first time spearfishing, after all. Mike gives me one final demonstration and I kick into the current. It looks slow from the shore, but I’m moving quicker than I anticipate when I enter the middle of the river. I settle my mask and go under.
But with a swim mask on, you enter a different realm.
Normally when I swim in rivers and lakes, I close my eyes. Periods between breaths are blacked out and foreign, usually hurried. But with a swim mask on, you enter a different realm. The underwater world takes shape that you recognize as similar but also different. Plants, animals, water currents tumbling over submerged rocks––a sinuous ethereal space begging to be explored.
I kick down to the bottom of the riverbed and drift for a couple seconds. Then, I see them. Instantly I become mesmerized by their movements, by how many of them there are. There must be dozens of carp flitting back and forth in one gigantic school.
As I drift over them I realize––too late––that they are in a pocket of slower-moving water than I am, and that if I have any chance of sticking one I’d better act quickly. I hastily take aim and let the spear fly. It misses high and right, disappearing into the murky vastness of the river.
There’s something uniquely fascinating about observing life under water.
My second attempt is more methodical. I swim down to the bottom farther upstream and my ears pop with the pressure change. Apart from a few correction kicks, I float as still as possible, channeling the predator inside me. The group comes into view and again I’m enraptured. There’s something uniquely fascinating about observing life under water. The medium is available only part-time to me––even if I wish to stay, I can’t without resurfacing for a breath. That separation makes entering it all the more captivating.
I pick out a single fish, different from my “flock shoot” the dive prior, and take aim. As I settle the gun, the carp deviates from the school and swims downstream. We float side by side for a few seconds that feel like an eternity. Then, nervous of my presence, he darts away and I fire a shot as he vanishes, missing again.
The three of us continue to dive, but I leave the gun on shore for the rest of the afternoon. Nothing in my first two dives has turned me against spearfishing; in fact, I’m still driven to drill one eventually. But for now, I’m content observing, thrilled by the novelty of fins, masks, and the simplicity of a cold swim on a hot summer’s day. The Jefferson River. A merging of worlds from above and below, terrestrial and aquatic, gills and lungs. All sharing the same space for a temporary time. Indeed, what a day to have a day.
