“A drop in the river” has many meanings. Most commonly it refers to something that is insignificant. For me, on one fateful afternoon last weekend, it was anything but insignificant.

That afternoon reminded me that in the Colorado wild, a simple drop in the river can change everything in an instant.

For someone accustomed to periodically escaping into the wild to unwind, I’ve had surprisingly few brushes with danger. I’ve shooed away a few bears, side-stepped a snake or two, but nothing too terribly bad.

My plans, crazy though they may be, are usually planned out extensively and go pretty well.

Last weekend, my plan was to hike into the Gunnison Gorge, cross the river on my trusty inflatable kayak and find a small patch of grass up the canyon to camp, fish and listen to the sounds of gurgling water for two days.

I hiked down Bobcat Trail with my two pups on a windy but gorgeous sunny day. Upstream, and just around a bend, I could see where my little patch of heaven was waiting.

I would have to hike upstream to get above the rapids to calmer water for the crossing — particularly since flows were triple their usual levels.

With part of my path covered in waist-deep water, I dipped my toe into the river to see if it was warm enough to “wet-wade” upstream.

Yeow! No way! It was cold — like arctic cold — like 42 degrees cold. This water had recently been sitting underneath a frozen layer of ice in Blue Mesa Reservoir and I decided to put my waders on.

Upstream we went to a calm patch of water — the pups gingerly swimming, running and rolling around behind me. I inflated my kayak and set off across the river — luckily I took my waders off for this.

When I got across, I called the pups to swim over. This is where the plan strayed. Instead of jumping in and swimming down and across the river to me, they ran down the opposite bank. When they were exactly opposite of me, they hopped in and started swimming.

By doing this they gave the current a head start and started to get carried downstream toward the rapids.

I paddled back out to help them along. Only this time, in the midst of the river, a non-descript back eddy began to swirl. As I was steadying myself against the water and the wind, which was gusting that weekend, the kayak abruptly flipped over.

In I went. Whoa. Cold. Very cold. Everything I had started downstream. I grabbed what I could, made for the nearest bank and got out with my kayak and my pack.

The problem was what I didn’t have. My shoes were gone. My paddle was gone. Even worse, my water filter was gone.

Funny how things suddenly change with a little gust of wind and swirling water.

Now, the grass, which seemed so pleasant before was sharp as cactus to my bare feet. The sun and wind, which recently felt so spring-like, now felt like an Canadian blizzard on my wet body.

My mouth was completely parched from all the shock and I had no water filter to clean the dirty river water. And worse, with no paddle, getting my kayak back across the river so I could hike out an 800-foot vertical ascent on my bare feet would be no easy task.

I sat in the sun and thought for an hour. No good options. I had to cross the river, get out of this canyon and get some water. The longer I sat there, the less daylight remained.

I went back to the calm water and experimented with swimming across. No good. Too many powerful swirls, too unpredictable and way too cold. Plus, my pups (who were having a blast this whole time) started to look a little worried.

I eventually found a dead piñon tree. It had a lot of branches in odd shapes, one of which I was able to fashion into a paddle.

My hands were numb and collecting splinters as I worked with the wood. It wasn’t much, but it would have to work.

I waited for a while longer, hoping for someone in a raft coming downstream, but that was looking doubtful.

I didn’t want to get caught up in another seam line, so I put the kayak in the current, got in and held on to a boulder to keep me in place. The pups were looking at me with their heads tilted sideways and their ears at full attention.

Off I went. Push. Paddle, paddle, paddle. Cold, cold, cold. The craft didn’t move well without a real paddle, but it moved. That piece of wood got me across and the pups were close in tow.

By now my mouth was so parched and my body so depleted of heat and electrolytes I wondered if I could actually hike out — barefoot or not. Then, I saw the most beautiful thing I had seen in a long time: A man fishing downstream had found my dry-bag in a back eddy, fished it out and brought it back up to me.

Water filter, shoes — amazing how such simple things can make all the difference.

I hiked back to the car and eventually made my way home. I shivered in a hot bath for an hour before fully warming up and then went out and gorged on a prime rib and a beer to celebrate being alive.

The pups thought it was just another day in the woods — just a drop in the wonderful river of their life.

To me it was a poignant reminder of the very fine line that exists between beauty and the grim realities Mother Nature can inflict on you on an innocent fly-fishing trip — just an hour from home.