I've always loved spending time on the river, but until last year had never done an expedition rafting trip. We finally got around to applying for permits and spent six days in Hell's Canyon in late June. I felt so completely at home at the oars and slept peacefully with the sound of the river rushing by. So when I got the call from the Cattertons that they had a San Juan permit and I was invited, I had to say yes.
We met Mike and Cindy when we lived in Cody and used to do day runs down the Shoshone River with Mike. We also spent three days on the Snake in the Tetons and a long weekend on the Montana Boat Float down the Yellowstone River with Mike in his old raft. He now has a nice NRS self-bailer that he rigs with cooler and dry box for long weeks on scenic rivers.
Since I squeezed in a trip to Georgia for my nephew's high school graduation, including three days at Jekyll Island with him, time was tight. I flew home for one day, then Saturday morning boarded a flight to Denver with nothing but Scott's yellow Bill's Bag (designed to keep your gear dry on the river) containing tent, camp mattress, sleeping bag, plate, bowl, mug and utensils, plus clothes and toiletries for a week.
I was met at the airport by Jean Anderson, until now a complete stranger. She, her husband and their son Devin met the Cattertons on a trip two years ago and would be joining us this week. With mutual friends and an upcoming adventure, we greeted each other with hugs and I hit it off with the whole family right away.
The journey to Bluff was long: we spent the night in Grand Junction where I bought groceries and a sufficient supply of beer, wine and bourbon to ensure that I would not become a "Shreder" (the name of the last guy who ran out of beer on a trip and dipped into Mike's suppy, citing much ire). A tropical depression had centered itself on Utah by Sunday, its 30-50 mph winds ensconcing the desert in a haze of sand and dust and blowing the raft trailer vigorously from side to side. It forced Jim to drive slow and lowered the gas mileage well into the single digits, a painful hit to the wallet at $4/gallon. We finally arrived at the boat launch after 3 pm to find some of the more eager members of the party already well into the rigging process.
Back in town for lunch and a beer, we ran into Mike and Cindy, whose raft I would be sharing. Fortified and determined, we took a deep breath and got out of the vehicles at the Sand Island boat launch. The fierc wind and blowing sand forced us to make quick work of inflating the rafts, securing straps and loading dry boxes. One group went to set a shuttle while others retreated to town for the last pre-river meal. The Cattertons and I set up camp and grilled burgers and brats. Nestled in a grove of Cottonwood trees below a petroglyph panel, it didn't seem so bad.
The wind didn't let up until after midnight and the mesh of my tent filtered the dust to a fine powder that coated the floor and all contents. In the morning, I beat the dust off as best I could and shook the tent inside out. Coco was responsible for breakfast, but not being "a breakfast guy" himself, neglected to include provisions. We made coffee in camp while he drove the mile into town for pastries.
The cast:
Mike and Cindy Catterton (Cody, WY)
Jean, Jim and Devin Anderson (Denver)
"Coco" Colson Schaab and sons Lucas and Simon (Denver)
Serg (Silverthorne, CO)
Scott and sons Brett and Evan (Denver)
Brian and daughter Kendall, her friend Chelsea (Albuquerque, and friend/business associate Christian (Amarillo, TX)
Barrett and Carmen ("The Hippies") (Cody, WY) and Barrett's sister (Grand Junction, CO)
And of course, me
The 85 miles of San Juan River that winds through southern Utah is a secret land surrounded by famous pre-historic, historical and scenic sites, but mostly hidden from sight from above and largely inaccessible by road.
Eight rafts, 13 adults (kind of), seven kids and copious amounts of food and alcohol pushed off into the current around noon on Memorial Day. The low pressure system left the day cooler than the rest, topping out around 70 with a decent breeze (there's a rule somewhere that says all river winds must blow upstream). The afternoon's destination was just seven miles down stream to a sand bar below River House, an Anasazi ruin protected by the BLM. The short day meant plenty of time for hiking and visiting the ruin. Once we set up camp, Cindy and I set off for a couple hours hike before we had to prepare dinner.
Each day brought grand views of painted canyons with a deep blue sky backdrop. We floated past petroglyph panels, moki steps and wild burrows into Glen Canyon and the upper reaches of Lake Powell. The night at River House chilled considerably after dark, but the rest of the week was warm. No moon meant ink-black skies splashed with brilliant stars visible through the narrow canyon walls. All but the last night's camp were sandy beaches, so no rocks under hips.
We feasted on shrimp cocktail and grilled salmon, Serg's homemade white lasagna, tacos, flank steak and dutch oven chocolate cake. One camp featured a swimmable rapid which thrilled the kids and younger adults. The parents even trusted me to lead the young troops out into the current and usher them safely back to shore. We took a mid-day break at Slickhorn Canyon to hike up to a cool, fresh swimming hole--a nice reprieve from the silty river (the one day I washed my hair, it ended up dirtier than before).
In the Goosenecks, the river curves so tightly back on itself that it takes 3 river miles to travel 1/4 mile over land. This meant that non-oar wielders could get out and hike over a ridge to the Mendenhall cabin site and meet us for lunch on the other side.
The one downside to the trip was the inevitable "groover" (portable toilet). Since river rules require you to pack out ALL waste, this is a necessary evil of all trips. And the longer the trip, the more evil it becomes. The one morning I awoke with a touch of a hangover, I foolishly assigned myself groover duty (packing it up to load onto the raft) which resulted in a series of dry heaves. I was fairly certain that the next one might not be so dry. One night after dinner and probably too many drinks, the conversation turned to the groover and I discovered that Jean had been cheating. She was taking Immodium in hopes of avoiding "grooving" the last two days of the trip!
Groover aside, most of us were sad to see Clay Hills Crossing come into sight. Not only did it mean the end of the trip, it bode of hours of derigging, deflating and loading, with nothing to anticipate except a long journey home.
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