Bill's Views on Most Everything

The Grand Valley Canal Near Grand Junction, Mt. Garfield and Grand Mesa in the Background

I am a child of the desert.  Fruita, Colorado has no more than eight inches of annual rainfall.  Growing up in the late 1950’s, we were surfers before the Beach Boys made surfing famous.

The Grand Valley of Western Colorado is irrigated farm country.  Two big canals bring Colorado River water to the valley farms.  One of those canals had a place we called Karp’s Hole, after a nearby farm family.  The hole was created by a concrete flume, narrower than the rest of the ditch, that created turbulence and eddy currents downstream that excavated a deep hole about 50 feet wide that was perfect for swimming.  There was a diving board made from a 2″x12″ plank and an old car spring.  That board was as good as any swimming pool diving board and was there for years.

With plenty of parking spaces, it was a popular summer party spot.  The water, “too thick to drink and too thin to plow”, was good for tag games.  A person could duck under and follow eddy currents to other points in the hole without being seen.  The other side was lined with willows tall enough to provide hiding places.  I had a scare when swimming in an underwater tunnel that surfaced behind the willows.  I got stuck.  My shoulders were a bit too wide, and my hands were in front.  I wriggled and squirmed for what was probably  only a few seconds, but it seemed like a long time to me before I was able to back out.

The road to Karp’s Hole ran alongside the canal for about 1 1/2 miles from the nearest county road.  Built when the canal was dug, it was used for maintenance and by the ditch riders who patrolled the canal, adjusting the head gates that sent water to the farm fields.

For surfboarding, we made 4′ x 2′  plywood boards with two ropes with a handle coming back from the front of the board to the rider standing on a piece of carpet tacked to the back of the board.  Another rope yoke led from to the bottom of the board to the tow rope which ran about 50′ to a post in the bed of a pickup truck.  The driver and a spotter were in the cab and the rest of us rode in the bed.  With the tow rope tied to a stake secured in the bed, the surfer shifted his weight from side to side and swung from one side of the canal to the other and back, sometimes bumping into the bank, and throwing a rooster tail of water onto the road.

We went about 20 miles per hour, any faster increasingly dangerous and less fun.  The sport was illegal, we were trespassing, making it even more fun, but no one ever got arrested.  After my first time at about 16, I came home and told my parents about our new sport.  My father laughed, saying he surfboarded in the 1920’s behind Model T Fords.  We were just keeping a Grand Valley tradition alive.

Our surfboarding parties were usually fueled by Coors 3.2 beer.  There was no other beer for us.  Given the muddy road, the beer, and adolescent hormones, accidents were rare.  One time, the ditch company had mowed the willows lining the canal.  Alan hit the bank with the bottom of his board a little too hard, and flew face down onto the willows.  Bright red stripes.

The worst surfboarding accident was when a girl riding for the first time hit the bank and sort of flopped.  She broke one of the bony processes on a spinal vertebra.  No nerve damage, but she sure was sore for a while.  The worst injury is when Don, my neighbor across the street dived into the shallow sand bar while drunk.   He broke his neck.  He was in a big cast from his chest to his chin and the back of his head.  To drive, he put the top down of his 1955 Chevy convertible (the envy of every guy in town), parked his butt on the seat back, leaned forward, and drove. The cops never said a word.

More than 50 years later I can remember the sensation of speed, of spray in my face, the movement of the board under my feet as I dug one corner in to make a turn, zooming across the canal and digging in the other corner as the bottom of the board bounced on the bank.  Spray flew 20 or more feet as I sped to the other bank and turned to make another run to douse the road.  It was best when I could spray another car meeting us on the ditch road.  It was usually some friends coming for their rides on the surfboard.

Water sports were big, but we had a mechanized winter sport as well.  Two brothers had what we called a toboggan that had been around for years.  It had steel runners at each corner and a deck that could hold four or five people.  After a snow we would haul it out to the desert north of the farm area and tow it behind a pickup truck, preferably four wheel drive.

No going on the road or in a straight line, the driver’s goal was to turn sharp enough to throw everyone off.  Speeds were a bit higher, close to 30 miles per hour.  At night.  There was lots of screaming and laughing as we rolled through the snow and mud.

I don’t remember anyone ever getting hurt, but we would get home tired, cold, wet, and muddy.  Parents would just shake their heads.  After all, they had done it themselves.