We finally find a place to camp.
It’s late afternoon. We were only on the river for about three hours and the last hour was mostly spent searching for an acceptable place to sleep for the night. Every sight could have worked, but none of the conditions were great. Unlike most desert rivers, this one has scant little sand. The banks are all made of clay and there has been enough water to make sure that clay has been wet and then dried. And for good measure, the fucking bovine have trampled all over hell while it was wet leaving a less than level, definitely not soft, cow shit mess of a bank.
We round the corner and see the window. The banks are a bit higher making them less bushy. We find a nice eddy and finally a place that was at least campable. The height of the bank does require a bit of boat lifting and what not, but soon we are all up, boats are deflated and we are sipping on beer. Or at least Mama Bear and I are, Dave seemed to have only brought a shot of whiskey.
As we sit and watch the shit show that is river folk on the San Rafael, the window towers above us. It’s not an immediate observation, but after a bit I realize the window is only 20 or 30 feet thick. It’s not at the very top of the wall and that wall is very tall. All suggesting the wall we are facing is very thin, a razor blade of sandstone formed by the river that has gotten us to this point. I’m giddy about it and can’t wait for the next day to float from this side to the next.
The sun sets and we watch as the river folk stop coming down the river. The birds are singing, the crickets are chirping and soon the shit show is gone. We are left to enjoy the evening sitting on our bank and watching as the light fades from our window.
Rewind a couple of weeks to Mama Bear and I standing on the Wedge Overlook. Looking down into the Little Grand Canyon and we can see the small ribbon of water winding its way through. We can see the green tops of the Cottonwoods and the towering walls. It all looks a bit too perfect. The fact that this river has barely even been on our radar feels strange and we commit to return in just a few weeks, flows permitting.
Driving off the Wedge, we stop at the bridge at the bottom of Buckhorn Draw. There’s a solitary packrafter pulling his gear out and looking like he is both well satiated and patiently waiting for his shuttle to return. We ask him how it was and get a few details. Not surprisingly, the river was low. He dragged and walked a bit to get through, but still said it was well worth it.
We roll up on the Bridge and find Dave parked off to the side. The parking lot is full, the sides of the road are packed with vehicles and it feels all a bit like Disneyland. Dave jumps into the 4Runner and we head to the put in. Traffic does not let up. The shuttle is quick and soon we are back at the river trying to find a place to park.
We park and kind of linger. The put in is packed, there is no way we will be able to get on until the two groups that are in front of us get moving. We slowly drag our gear out and start to sort it into inside and outside of the boat piles. Then stuff the boats and get ready to blow them up. After about a half hour, the put in has cleared out and I feel like we’ve given them enough space that we shouldn’t be too crowded. The boats are dragged over to the put in and filled up to be ready to go. We put in.
The river starts with a big horseshoe bend. This is pretty much what this river does, constantly turning to make a sinuous path through the desert. As we round the first bend, I see that there is a 2nd spot to put in. One that is a bit more accessible, if you can get through the crowds, for vehicles. In front of us, already on the water, are about 15 people. On the bank getting ready to put in is the 2nd half of their group, another 15 or so people. We float right into the middle of a giant ass group of people. There are so many of them that they can in no way all stop in the same spot. There are every type of conceivable vessel, 12 foot rafts, packrafts, SUP, hard shell kayaks, and of course, tandem duckies.
We have no choice but to float right into the middle of the pack and then spend the next hour or so jockeying for position.
I’m positive I’ve only seen tandem duckies go down any river in one way.
They are almost never pointed down stream. Instead, they are usually perpendicular to the flow of water and more often than not, they are about to bounce off the bank or have just bounced off the bank. Regardless of whether it’s a before or after situation, there is usually one person not doing anything and the other person is frantically paddling to either right the boat after hitting the bank or keep them from hitting the bank. It never helps and the tandem duckie just cartwheels down the river.
I can only assume that this is less a symptom of the vessel and more caused by those commanding the boat. I’m sure someone, somewhere is an excellent tandem duckie captain and can paddle Class IV rapids with no problem. I just haven’t seen it and on the incredibly easy San Rafael, they were nothing less than a circus act. Overloaded, underprepared and constantly headed toward disaster.
Between dealing with the shit show and our hour or so looking for a suitable campsite, Saturday was mostly a shit show. Luckily, once we pulled our boats up on the bank, there was an almost immediate change to the area. Very few people floated by once we had stopped. The birds and crickets soon were only accompanied by the soft hum of the river. The evening was quiet.
The morning broke with the racket of birds seemingly happier than they had ever been. Even before the stars had faded from the dark sky, they were singing. There is no better way to slowly be awoken then by a cacophony of bird songs.
The morning had a bit of a chill to it and as per the usual, Mama Bear and I were up before Dave. We were working on our second cup of coffee when I got the great idea to check the map. Initially, I was looking for POIs downstream, but quickly realized there was one just around the bluff from where we were camped. I zoomed in and saw that it was for a pictograph panel. Time for a morning adventure.
With our coffee in hand, we walked a few minutes to get around the rocky point jutting out into the canyon. Once around, the terrain changed and a sandstone prominence arose. We scrambled as best we could whilst carrying a cup of coffee and made our way to the base of the sandstone cliff. Sure enough, the typical trapezoidal figures, big horn sheep and geometrical patterns were drawn under the overhang. Both in red and the supposed radioactive yellows.
This told us we should have paid more attention to the map as we were floating the day prior. However, the traffic on the river would have impeded us from wanting to stop so it was a wash.
We made our way back to camp and found Dave emerging from his cave.
Breakfast was made and we spent an hour or so watching the quiet river flow by.
The start of the morning was a precise indicator of how Sunday was going to be. In stark contrast to Saturday, we saw no one on the river. The few camps we passed were quiet and the river folk in them were doing what we had just been doing, watching the river, chilling.
We stopped at one more pictograph panel and then floated our way to the takeout. The river remained calm and tranquil with the exception of some riffles toward the end. This stretch’s only real obstacle is the endless turns the river takes.
We started the river with a million people. The calm of the place was broken by the hordes and the anxiety felt within the group. Mama Bear hasn’t been excited to be on a river and knowing the flow as at a wiping 500+ CFS kept her anxiety high. Luckily, the river was calm, the hordes smoothed out and soon our group was floating in chill mode enjoying the giant walls of the Little Grand Canyon. I knew everything was perfect when KB ended up in front of me and was happily paddling the river.
Perfect.
Embrace Chaos. Seek Discomfort.
