Conrad Foote When I was a lad I had a good friend named Conrad Foote. A good-natured, lovable giant of a man, his stature and strength were legendary in the area where we lived. He and I shared many adventures, the following is one of many which I witnessed firsthand.

      We were both involved in surfing at the time, using the massive, cumbersome surfboards that were the predecessors of the modern, lightweight ones.  One Spring morning Conrad commented that ocean surfing was too tame.  Instead, he suggested we try riding the crest of the waves on one of the California rivers that was then in flood stage from the snow melt caused by the previous winter’s heavy snow pack.  I tried to convince him he was crazy to even think of trying such a stunt but he was adamant.  As I didn’t wish him to be by himself when he tried to commit suicide I agreed to accompany him.

      We drove to an area on the Kings River we were familiar with from some of our fishing expeditions.  My wishes the river flow would be moderate and would make the scheme plausible were soon dashed to pieces.  The river was not only in flood stage, it was a boiling cauldron.  We were told that the flow had been measured at 10,000 cubic feet per second.  At that there were no restrictions imposed to prevent people from trying to kill themselves as there are nowadays.

      When we saw the maelstrom I was aghast, but not Conrad.  He stood there rubbing his hands together in gleeful anticipation.  Once again I tried to convince him he was crazy, with no effect.  He agreed to only one of my many suggestions; I would drive along the road that paralleled the river and he would surf only those sections where he could be seen from the road.  In this way, if rescue was necessary I would be there to help with a rope and a life preserver.  He also agreed to wear a life vest, one of the Mae West types that was then in vogue. 

      After a worrisome night on my part, at a nearby campground, we were up early for a day on the river.  I was quite concerned that the next event I attended with Conrad would be his funeral.  We arrived at a put-in point four miles upstream from the campground after a bone jarring ride on the potholed road that followed the river.  One item only was in Conrad’s favor; although the river water was icy cold the air temperature was in the high eighties and would be a factor to help warm Conrad each time he was dunked.  And we were both sure there would be many dunkings.

      As soon as Conrad waded into the water to make his first run I could almost see the goose bumps form on his body.  I could feel them on mine and I wasn’t near the water.  At the very first white water of any consequence Conrad was dumped almost immediately.  Somehow, he retained a grip on his surf board as the current washed him downstream to a more quiet section.  Here he quickly climbed back on the board and paddled his way to the next foaming section.  His luck, or perhaps his skill, was better here.  He managed to stay in an upright position on his board throughout the entire stretch, whooping and hollering each time he crested a wave and dipped into the hollow below.

      This went on for more than two miles on the river.  Conrad was frequently dunked but there were also several difficult looking passages where he stayed on his feet.  After an hour Conrad paddled to the river’s edge and indicated he needed a time out.

      W returned to camp and built a fire.  The warmth of the fire and some hot coffee helped Conrad restore some of the body heat he had lost during his outing.  We sat next to the fire for the rest of the morning with Conrad chattering constantly bout his exhilarating experience and berating me for not joining him on the river.

      Following a hearty lunch Conrad was ready to make a second run.  He again tried, unsuccessfully, to talk me into joining him.  I’m certain whatever esteem Conrad had for me was lowered considerably because of my refusal. 

      It was during this afternoon session that the event occurred that was the highlight of our trip and, perhaps, Conrad’s life.  He had been in the water about a half hour when he called my attention to a disturbance taking place on the far side of the river.  Apparently a young deer had attempted to swim across and had been swept downstream by the tremendous force of the current.  The deer had then become entangled in a brush pile and was periodically swept under water as the branches moved back and forth with the current.

      Conrad pushed his board to shore and informed me he was going to try releasing the deer from its trap.  Before I had a chance to comment and perhaps talk him out of it he pushed off and was soon half way across the river.  When he reached the other side, about 50 yards downstream from where the deer was imprisoned, he stowed his board between rocks and walked up stream to where he was in line with the deer.  Here he jumped in and swam out to the obstruction.

      I watched with horror as Conrad dived repeatedly, each time re-surfacing each time with a look of keen disappointment on his face to indicate he had not succeeded.  I’m certain his body temperature must have plummeted many degrees during those attempts but he refused to give up.  After what must have been at least 15 minutes of bone-chilling temperature Conrad was successful.  The deer swam a short distance downstream and then bounded to shore, in the process dislodging Conrad’s surf board and causing it to be swept away with the current.

      During the rescue other vehicles had stopped along the road and a number of spectators had gathered to cheer Conrad on, shouting words of encouragement.  When the deer was released the crowd responded with a loud cheer, then a groan as the surf board disappeared downstream.  Conrad swam back across the river and hopped into the car, shivering uncontrollably.  Back at camp a hot fire warm clothes and several bowls of hot soup were required to control the shivering.

      This was my last escapade with Conrad.  The next winter he was killed when he fell trying to climb an ice covered El Capitan in Yosemite National Park.  You can be sure he was sorely missed by those who knew and loved him

by Frederick Laird.