An Ode to the Escalante River

There’s a stiff, cold wind blowing up out of the canyon.

The Knockers are waiting for us at the trailhead when we roll up. It’s high noon. The sun is shining and the temperature is pleasant, but that wind. The Diggers and I flop out of the 4Runner. After a road like that, you always flop out of the vehicle. Soon there is a yard sale of stuff as we finish readying our packs for the hike down. I start smashing pitas into my face for lunch while getting ready. The wind catches spinach as it falls out of the pita hurling it all over the place. Soon it looks like a house salad was murdered in the vicinity.

There isn’t really any reason to rush, but we’re all excited and excitement is just positive anxiety. We want to get to the river, see what the flow is, find out if this thing is going to happen. Personally, I’m also concerned about the weather. This day and the next are forecasted to be a bit chilly and I brought my new self-bailing boat meaning I will be sitting in water. I’ve got my dry suit, but still, I’m pretty sure it’s going to be cold. After about 20 minutes and a salad murder, we hoist our packs and walk to the edge of a cliff that opens to the sandstone expanse below us. We are dropping in.

The Lickers and Ballers are ahead of us. They got a head start as they thought we would be waiting for them. The wind continues to gust as we descend the slickrock. On occasion, catching me and almost blowing me over as my giant, oversized pack works as a sail. The barndoor effect hits each of us differently, but the gusts are unmistakable. The lower into the canyon we get, their strength diminishes.

There is one last descent through a cliff band to drop down to the river. I round a switchback at the top of the cliff band and wave hello to the Ballers a few switchbacks below us.

I’ve been here a few times, but it takes me a minute to recognize what is different. Despite it being April, the Cottonwoods aren’t green. Some have begun to bud, but most are just their dormant, gray selves.

I’m excited to see the river and push on dropping the last section into the canyon and then moving toward the confluence with the river corridor. The willows are in the same condition as the cottonwoods. The water coming down the canyon is clear and flowing. I catch the Lickers at the river just a few minutes after they set their packs down. The group shows up and then it’s another yard sale of boats and gear and food and booze. Shelby walks out into the river. It’s freezing cold, but there is about the same amount of water as when we were last here. A little lower than we would like, but floatable. We’re a go.

The excitement is flowing through the group. Soon everyone has transformed from bipedal mode to boater rocking dry suits, skirts, PFDs and walking around with paddles. There’s a lot of us, nine to be exact, so putting in has to be done in succession. A few float down to the next sandbar and eddy out and then a few more and then we are all on the water. It always surprises me how quickly one can surrender to the speed of the river. It’s minutes and we are all just leaves floating downstream.

We have little to fret about at this point. The river is mellow, but lively and we have 3.5 days to get to our takeout.

When I say lively, I mean there are a lot of obstacles. The river is narrow, sinuous and surrounded by a lot of vegetation. It’s not moving fast and there isn’t much in the way of white water at this level, but you have to pay attention. It only takes a few seconds of distraction and you’ll quickly find yourself in the weeds. And it’s incredibly easy to be distracted. The river corridor is tall, red cliffs that slowly wind their way toward the reservoir. It’s stunning, by far one of the most beautiful canyons even if it is “just another fucking sandstone canyon…”

Within the first few miles of our put in, is the Golden Cathedral. It’s a mandatory stop especially seeing that a few of the group had not seen it yet. Not that those of us who have seen it were interested in missing it. It’s a side canyon. From the river, it’s a short walk to the pour over. This particular waterfall has dug out an overhang and then drilled two holes into the roof of that overhang leaving tunnels to the canyon above the pour over. The lighting is also all over the place. The canyon walls always cast shade, but the sun seems to find ways to blast the area at the same time.

Back on the river and we are quickly approaching the 2nd side hike, Ringtail Canyon. Every other time we’ve been here, we end up missing or just floating on past this one. Having nine of us did not make it any easier to find a place to eddy out, but we sorted it and got all of us up the river bank and into the canyon.

Ringtail is barely more than a crack in the canyon wall. After scampering up the bank, we walk toward the canyon wall, there is a hole with a crack rising upward. You walk into the hole and immediately the walls completely surround you. It is barely wide enough for one person to walk through. Kenny takes the lead but within seconds of walking into the freezing cold water turns around to avoid losing his feet. He does not have a dry suit on. I’m carrying my camera and take the lead. The water is so cold that even through the dry suit, my feet begin to ache and are starting to delve into numbness. The floor is dropping out from under us and I’m worried about losing my camera and/or toes to the water. I also turn around.

The group consensus is that it’s too cold. Cami and John think otherwise and forge forward while the rest of us retreat to the mouth of the crack. While we are warming up in the sun, we can hear them inside, splashing and talking. After 10 minutes or so, they emerge. Cold and stoked they kept going as far as they could.

Then it was back on the water and looking for a place to camp.

I lift my boat out of the water and carry my boat up onto the sandy bank. The red cliffs are glowing in the fading sun and I’m tired. I walk until I find a relatively flat spot that looks like a place I could sleep and drop my boat. Everyone else is more or less doing the same thing. As the one person without a partner, my picking seems to be a bit easier as I need no one else’s approval to drop my boat.

Once my spot is chosen, there’s a bit of vacillation. There’s a breeze cutting across the bank that has me concerned. It’s already a bit chilly. I walk around my boat several times like a dog getting ready to make a bed. Then I finally commit and unscrew the air cap on my packraft. The air bellows out of the boat as it quickly deflates. Once the pressure is off, I pull the zipper and begin the process of extracting my gear from the float tubes while doing my best not to get any sand in the zipper teeth.

With my small yard sale scattered around my boat, I once again start to circle. The breeze is still blowing and it has a chill to it. It’s stiff enough that I don’t feel comfortable rolling out my bedroll which leaves me a little confused about what to do next. I settle on eating.

As quickly as we had settled onto the river, it isn’t until this moment that I truly feel like I am inside this place.

The Escalante River Corridor runs from Highway 12 all the way into and through Lake Powel, it just happens to be under water at that point. It’s been home to thousands of years of humans with their marks left in different places and in different ways. I’m clearly not the first homo sapien to be drawn to this place. The ancient ones left their drawings, granaries, arrowheads and potshards. Then the Mormons came and left the marks of bovine that are still wandering around this desert. And then Dominy came and left water over much of it.

Like most other places I’m drawn to, the Escalante’s magnetism is partially due to the lack of ways through. You can drive over the trickle that is the river on Highway 12, but after that, the only way in is on foot or horseback and foot is much easier in most places. In a world almost entirely dominated and controlled by cars, the few places that exist like fortresses keeping them out are truly incredible. They remind us of what being a human is as the cyborgs are left on the roads.

Maybe it’s an amount of time, but I would say it has to do with being. When you pull out your bedroll and throw down your gear committed to a location overnight, there is a small sense of permanence. Taking out that gear signals the moment when you have arrived and you are just being in that place.

I pull out my stove and dehydrated meal. The water boils and I fill the bag, stir and wait. As the breeze blows over me, I shiver, but I can’t stop smiling.

I’m here.

Cold.

By the time morning breaks, I’m wearing my puffy inside my sleeping bag and have near zero desire to leave the safe, cocoon that is protecting me from the outside air. I can’t hear or see any early birds rising to meet the early morning rays, but as the sun begins to crest, the group is moving. I see no rush to get on the water. The end of the day is likely going to be pretty warm, but it is fucking cold right now.

I roll over in my bed and light the stove. The water is already in the pot and within a few minutes, I have a hot cup of coffee warming my hands and insides. This makes emerging a bit easier and I finally get up to tinkle, but quickly retreat back into my bag as I begin making my ramen.

As these things go, you kind of keep tabs on the group because no one wants to be the last one ready even when you don’t see any rush in taking off. The peeps that I can see are pretty much in the same situation I am so again, I feel safe in my morning pace. I eat my noodles and fire up the stove for a 2nd cup of coffee. My hands and feet are cold even semi-wrapped in my sleeping bag. As I begin sipping on my 2nd cup, I notice the Ballers are in dry suits and doing jumping jacks. Maybe they didn’t get the memo that it was cold.

Soon the group is in motion, the Ballers say they are putting in and will wait for us on the first sunny eddy. Well, shit, I guess we’re moving.

I quickly roll up of my gear. The Knockers are on the water, then the Lickers. As I’m about ready, the Diggers are just about there, so I figure it’s best to wait.

Then we are all floating.

As predicted, it’s fucking cold. The air temperature is one thing, but being on the river, at water level getting wet and in motion, is a whole nother thing. My feet wrapped in the dry suit but sitting in water are the first to go. They go through the stages of cold and end at the point where they don’t hurt anymore but are actually numb. The point where you dread them warming up because it will hurt. Then my hands go. Being out and exposed, but not submerged, they don’t reach numbness residing squarely in the place where they just hurt. I blow on them, tuck them into the hand warmer pocket on my PFD, smack them together as often as I can while remaining alert and pointed in the right direction.

Somewhere around the hour mark, I ask for a break. I just need some relief and a chance to let my extremities regain some sensation. We find a sandy beach and everyone warms up for a few minutes. Being in the sun feels spectacular. My hands are aching, my feet are too far gone to care about a little warmth, but a few minutes is enough to feel good about getting back on the water. With the sun now filtering into the canyon, we slowly warm up as we continue.

As predicted, a couple hours later when we stop for lunch, I strip down to my skivvies before re-entering my dry suit. It’s fucking hot.

The Escalante only gets better.

When we finally catch the Ballers (it may have taken them a while to find a sunny eddy), Dave says something about how amazing this is. I immediately agree and respond that it only gets better. He looks at me and asks, “How?”

From the moment we put in, the river has been flanked by red sandstone walls, lined with cottonwoods, willows and Russian olives as it slowly winds its way to the Abomination of Dominy. As it does this, the walls get bigger. They come on slow, but it’s always surprising when you realize how big they have gotten. As the cliffs tower hundreds of feet above the trickle of water we call a river, they begin to become overhung and you are paddling through alcoves. The height creates shade at almost every point during the day and the sandstone glows an effervescent red any time you enter a shadow.

This goes on for miles. Each turn a little deeper, a little bigger, a little more stunning, a little better each minute.

Of course, better should always reach best. Our float culminates in what has become my favorite river bend.

The red walls have reached heights that make seeing the top difficult from the seat of our rafts. The river is rowdy and then peaceful as it floats through giant overhanging walls. Having experienced this a couple times already, I’ve recognized the anticipation that builds, at least for me, knowing that the bend is coming. While every trip has a build up of anticipation at the end, this is different. I am not even thinking about the end, I’m thinking about that arch.

After several bends that I’m sure are it, we round into an alcove and it pops up in its glory. It’s solid and weathered and makes you want to stop and admire it, but at the same time, the beauty of the scene is best admired while in motion leaving me trying to paddle with one hand and snap photos with the other. For photo’s sake, I should just step out of my boat and capture the moment, but I just want to experience it as well. The two at opposition and the experience wins out. The boats float on, the arch slowly rounds the bend and then is at our back and we know the end is near.

We eddy out at the bottom of Coyote Gulch and drag our exhausted but fully satiated bodies out of the river and onto dry land for the last time on this trip. It’s crazy to think that this beach was under water at high pool. The silt deposits are still visible in a couple of spots. Even more so, is the fact that there are many more miles below us before you hit the current stagnant pool and that this canyon, this river corridor, continues for miles under that. Eventually, it would have made it to Glen Canyon where you wouldn’t have taken out, you would have just kept floating, kept enjoying the beauty and peacefulness of the surroundings.

And it would have just kept getting better.

Entering the Gulch early, the entire canyon is in the shade. Due to the amount of precipitation that has dropped on So’Tah this spring, the canyon has water pretty much wall to wall. The view is spectacular but the cold quickly wreaks havoc on my feet and all I want to do is get to the moment when we exit the canyon. This comes quickly enough.

Our exit is more or less straight up. It starts up a sandy embankment in the Gulch that is sketchy enough. Then some cliff walking. This ends at a sandstone ramp. Without a pack, it is possible to quickly scramble to the top. With a pack, it’s a four-wheel drive situation. You move fast and on all fours. If you can keep momentum to the top, you’re fine. If you stop or lose traction or momentum, it’s a bit sketchy.

The ramp is followed by the sand dune.

We are fully packed, with boats (the Planner carrying two), paddles, PFDs in addition to our regular camp gear. We have eaten most of our food, but I’d guess that we are all still pushing 40+ pounds. The sand works like a slow escalator going down. Each step’s typical forward motion is truncated as you simply slide backward about half of the distance. Luckily, this Sisyphian level hike out is surrounded by some of the most amazing country in the world. The higher you get the better the views. The arch is at your back and the fins of the canyon border the dune. It’s red rock as far as you can see with the green of the cottonwoods indicating where the river continued and we got off. (Yes, the gray cottonwoods essentially bloomed while we were on the river)

All of this up is punctuated by the Crack. At the top of the dune, there is a cliff band. The only way up to the sandstone sea above is through said crack. This means dragging packs up the cliff band and then scrambling through the crack to the top. This is a process, especially with nine of us.

Once on the sandstone cap, we hoist our packs, take one more look at the river corridor before turning our backs and returning to society. We all know we are leaving a part of us down there. A piece that will only live in our memories. Rivers, particularly this one, tend to change humans. As much as you can’t step into the same river twice, you cannot float the same river as the same person twice.

We turn our backs as a way to say goodbye and scurry across the rock back to the cars.

Embrace Chaos. Seek Discomfort.