On New Years Day, Steph and I sat down and mapped out an entire year's worth of outdoor trips. We had no illusions that each and every trip would actually happen, but by planning in advance, we gave ourselves the best chance of actually getting out more.
That's the theory, anyways. Between illness, ridiculous windstorms, and random obligations, we managed a grand total of zero backpacking trips in the first third of the year. Ouch. We were both - to put it mildly - a little antsy. Enter: a beautiful weekend where neither of us was sick. Glory be! On tap was a classic packrafting triangle - hike down a canyon to the Green River, float a section, and then hike up a different canyon back to the car.
Our trip began with an ho-hum drive down a sandy dirt road to a nondescript patch of slickrock shortly before the road sketches out. After a utilitarian Friday night cowboy camp under the starts, we awoke on Saturday morning, loaded up our packs, and trotted down a series of desolate dirt roads and motorbike trails. Soon the sandy, featureless landscape dropped away from under our feet as we descended into a short canyon.
We weren't expecting much from such a minor drainage, but soon found flowing water through a short-but-sweet section of narrows. After a little splashy fun, the canyon spit us out onto a broad riparian plain choked by tamarisk. With the help of a few convenient dirtbike trails, we found an inlet to launch our boats. The only thing less fun than bushwhacking is bushwhacking in a packraft, but the whole operation wasn't nearly as bad as I anticipated, and within a few minutes we were ripping along on the Green River.
 |
| Photo: Steph |
And yes, I do mean "ripping". Despite the utterly abysmal winter we've had, the Green's flow was at a healthy 10,000 CFS - on par with peak springtime runoff in a normal year. That's because the Bureau of Reclamation recently approved emergency measures to drain about a third of the Flaming Gorge reservoir to send downstream to Glen Canyon. Glen Canyon is so low that, without this emergency intervention, its ability to generate hydroelectric power would have ceased later this summer. Of course, draining one reservoir to fill another is not exactly a sustainable solution, and no long-term plan has appeared on the horizon to fix the Colorado basin's water woes. I suspect at some point, we'll have to withdraw life-support measures for Lake Powell and bid it a not-altogether-fond adieu.
With such weighty thoughts rattling around in our heads, we paddled a mile downstream to a random side-canyon - one not even afforded the dignity of a proper name. But there, we found a wonderful lunch spot and, ten minutes up from the river, a crystal clear, deep, cold swimming hole, perfect for the hot day. We also filled up our bottles with that perfect water - such luxury!
We've noticed over the years that river trippers - rafters/canoers/kayakers - keep a very different rhythm of life than backpackers do. Backpackers - at least we thru-hikers - get up at dawn, put in a full day of dirt and sweat, and collapse in a make-do campsite surrounded by cow poop. By contrast, 'river people' seem to get up at the crack of nine, linger over delicious breakfast, and get on the river around mid-morning. After a couple hours - lunch time! Float for a couple more hours, drink a beer, and make camp around 3:30. After that, it's time for a swim, followed by some porterhouse steaks on the grill. A very different way of life, indeed!
As packrafters, we have one foot in each world. So yes, we got up early and hiked deep into the evening hours. But we also took a long lunch, stopped at an archeological site to view some cowboy glyphs, and spent more time drifting than actively paddling. And boy, was it nice. Some high cirrus softened the harsh rays of the sun through most of the afternoon and with the occasional intentionally-splashy paddle stroke, we stayed cool enough on our dozen-mile float downstream.
At long last we found the lagoon that marked our exit canyon. Due to the high water, we started paddling up the flooded canyon.
And kept paddling.
And kept paddling.
Each time we though that the water had ended, another bend revealed itself. We glided up the canyon for about a half-mile until we finally found terra firma. That delightful canyon paddle alone made the whole trip worth it.
But the next several miles of hiking were nothing to sneeze at either. A friendly damp wash bottom made for easy travel, and the dark red rock walls twisted in labyrinthine fashion. A true wonder - one shared only with a trio of very lost cows that kept bolting upstream as we approached.
With both of us fading, and the sun taking its toll on my Swedish-complected bride, we found a nice little flat campsite on a bench above the wash bottom, ate a couple tuna packets, and conked out in thirty seconds flat.
We woke up before dawn, eager to get our miles in before the day got too hot. We started upstream, and found that yesterday's idyllic ramble had transmogrified into a sandy slog. Rogue cattle had trampled the entire width of the canyon, and where there wasn't slippery mud, soft sand made for post-holey conditions. Not fun. We found occasional pools of stagnant water, but were both grateful we'd filled up at yesterday's swimming hole.
Right about the time we'd had our fill of Type II fun, we spied a weakness in the canyon wall and climbed up to an ostensibly-closed jeep road. A quick mile back to the car completed our trip.
I'm hopeful that the next few months are going to be a lot more fruitful for outdoor adventures than the past few. Regardless, this was a wonderful way to spend some much-needed time outside.
