San Juanderful!

The First Great Wayne Robinson Memorial San Juan River Trip

“We never get to go anywhere…”

On Sunday, the 8^th of June, in the year 2003, 16 souls and one spirit, united under the combined banners of the Dallas Downriver Club and the North Texas River Runners, departed Mexican Hat, Utah, bound for seven days of glory in the lower canyon of the San Juan, one of Wayne’s most cherished rivers. In four rafts, three solo canoes, and two tandem canoes, we undertook what must surely be one of the best river trips in the entire catalog of waterborne adventures.

The river was friendly, the company congenial, and the scenery so mind-wrenchingly magnificent that occasionally one was forced to close one’s eyes just to keep one’s brain from overloading! Really, the San Juan is a most amiable water-course. The current flowed pleasantly along – in the absence of a headwind we could make 3.5 – 4+ miles per hour without hitting a stroke. There were, perhaps, 2 class III rapids worthy of note, but neither was excessively threatening. (I was hardly even scared!) There were sufficient riffles and rocks to engage one’s attention and preclude complacency, but the overall character of the river was welcoming and amiable. Of course, the rocks had cleverly camouflaged themselves by adopting the same color as the heavily silted river water, occasionally eliciting a surprised exclamation from a day dreaming boater, but it was all such great sport. In keeping with the brisk current and the multitude of rocks, there were hundreds of eddies with vigorous current differentials. The canoeists quickly discovered, however, that their heavily laden craft lumbered rather than danced through playful maneuvers!

Daytime temperatures were warm, in the 90’s and topping 100 on our final day, but the humidity was so low that we were not unduly discomforted, and rarely aware of sweating. Our experienced western river trippers and Manny Forkowitz, the floating urologist, constantly admonished us to drink more water, as dehydration is an ever lurking threat in such conditions. Hyperthermia was easily countered, since the San Juan is fed by snowmelt from the Animas River in Colorado. A quick submergence in the stream and you’d have to stand in the sun to keep from freezing! Nighttime temperatures were quite pleasant, in the upper 60’s I would guess, encouraging the sleepy paddler to break out a blanket, under a moon so bright that you wanted to wear shades.

The scenery was, truly, top shelf – Grand Canyon like, but on a slightly smaller, more intimate, and, shall we say, comprehensible scale. For some 50 miles we floated through, experienced, and were enthralled by a narrow canyon, 1000 – 1600 feet deep, with dramatically chiseled and layered walls of sandstone, shale, and limestone; with sculpted side canyons and washes dropping down to river level in huge undercut and hollowed steps. Mule deer with lovely velveteen antlers, prairie chickens with facial markings like running mascara, families of Canadian geese making eddy turns and peel outs in perfect unison, collared lizards doing pushups to prove their prowess, soaring peregrine falcons, eerily intelligent ravens, and evening bats flitting erratically about added motion and life to the harshly beautiful landscape.

We traveled under the auspices of Weldon Sander’s permit. (You will see me at next year’s permit application party, for I must return to the San Juan!) Weldon oversaw and coordinated the planning and logistics, somehow managing to get 16 people and a freight train load of boats and gear to the put-in at the appointed time. He also struggled valiantly, while on the river, to keep us all in compliance with the Bureau of Land Management’s rules, since the BLM views the permit holder as responsible for any sins of the group. (On second thought…maybe one of y’all could get a permit and just invite me to come along!)

Aboard the rafts, we had Rich Grayson (who carried a load in his raft that would have stalled a locomotive), Jack and Yolanda Deatherage (Jack, a former SeaBee, proved to be one of the most animated and entertaining story tellers I’ve ever met), Cathy Curtis and her sweetheart, Bruce Cade (Cathy and Yolanda planned, purchased, assembled and organized the menu, and, bless their hearts, what a wonderful job they did!), the irrepressible Manny Forkowitz and his sister Ester, from Brooklyn (Yep, that is in New York City!), and our friends, the ever adventurous George Wilhelm and Linda Shields. Manning the solo boats were our esteemed leader, Weldon, Big John Simmons, and Radio San Juan himself, Ted “Dr. Danger” Drake. The tandem teams were “Master” Diana McCown (a.k.a. “She Who Must Be Obeyed”), her amazingly able 14 year old niece, Caitlin, everybody’s Boy Scout - Curtis Boerner , and your humble reporter, “Uncle Ronnie” Ash. It was a most cooperative and agreeable group – Weldon did an amazing job of human resources management in assembling such a harmonious bunch of boaters.

Arriving in Mexican Hat the day before our scheduled put-in, we repaired to Goosenecks State Park, where, from the overlook, we could gaze dizzyingly downward at the river, over a thousand feet below, as it snaked through a series of huge loops, “entrenched meanders.” Hearts beat happily in awestruck anticipation, knowing that we ourselves would soon be navigating those monumental bends of the river. Obviously, this wasn’t Village Creek! We camped in the Park that night, and, once the waxing moon finally set, I was dumbfounded by the multitude of stars. I behold the full extent of the celestial spectacle so infrequently that I had quite forgotten how incredible the night sky can be. The sad fact that modern man has become so estranged from the infinite wonder of the heavens makes me think that we’ve paid a terrible price for the comforts and conveniences of the industrial world. (Just what is a Luddite, anyway?)

After the appropriate confusion at the put-in, rigging rafts, sorting gear, and apportioning loads, we climbed aboard our respective craft and committed our fate to the river. A mere half mile downstream, we encountered one of the San Juan’s more frisky rapids, Gypsum Creek. A parking lot size downstream V lead us right into a rather boisterous breaking wave. Some of us claimed it to be as much as six feet high! Needless to say, the canoeists were all exercising their bailers in the first available eddy, and realigning their notions about the correct line to take when paddling heavily loaded canoes!

One mile later, we entered the canyon. At the entrance, the strata of the canyon walls angled upward as they went downstream, but our eyes perceived them as level, giving the impression that the river slid off downhill at an alarming rate. (I expected to see a yellow sign on the riverbank – “Warning, steep grade ahead – rafts use lower gear!”) It was like paddling into the AntiGravity house on the midway, a disorienting optical illusion, but a terrific introduction to the adventures which awaited us.

As we drifted deeper into the canyon, the walls grew higher, the geology ever more overwhelming and wonderful. At Mendenhall loop we scanned the cliffs, searching for the prospector’s 110 year old rock cabin. After following a false lead on river left (Mendenhall’s summer cottage?), Weldon found and ascended a trail up to a flat saddle some 100 feet above the river and Mendenhall’s home was revealed, it’s roof beams still quite sound after so many seasons. The climate is so doggone dry that nothing rots! Although the ascent to the cabin was easy enough, we discovered a disturbing truth when we looked over the edge at the boats down below. The descent was a dern sight more difficult! This apparent inequality would reassert itself several times in the days to come!

Against increasing headwinds we looped around the Tabernacle, a massive geological edifice, and established our first camp in the Second Narrows. As the gear was unloaded and the camp constructed, the canoeists were struck dumb by the amount of equipment that the rafters carried and the luxury in which it permitted us to abide. (If you ever see an ad in the personals that reads, “Single male canoeist with low income and large sense of humor seeking single female with raft. Unshaven armpits OK,” you’ll know who wrote it!) As dinner developed, our admiration for the planning and culinary abilities of Cathy and Yolanda blossomed. Indeed, some of us would come to virtually worship them before the trip was over!

The morning of day two (Manny’s birthday!) rewarded us with sightings of mule deer, prairie chickens, and Canadian geese. Then we navigated the Goosenecks. Peering up towards the overlook, we could see a single individual silhouetted against the sky, looking incredibly tiny and distant. After transiting the Goosenecks, we eddied out for a short scramble up a dramatic side wash, then the canoes forged ahead to scout the location of the Honaker trail, another legacy of the short lived “gold rush” of the 1890’s. Curtis’ sharp eyes spotted an unnatural stack of rocks, and the trail’s location was a mystery no more. The group stopped near the trail base for lunch, and, as it was a very acceptable campsite, we determined to remain there for the duration of the day.

After a refreshing swim that turned into a river rapid swimming and throw rope school for Caitlin, some of us gathered for an assault on the trail, a treacherous path rising 1200 vertical feet from the river up to the rim. (I must note that Caitlin is a really good sport, graciously enduring the endless efforts of all the adults to educate and advise her!) I made it up about 200 vertical feet before the 10 inch wide trail on the crumbling edge of a 200 foot drop engaged my phobias so fully that I could not carry on! (We all know that visualization can help us improve our skills and chances of success, but the only image my mind’s eye could conjure up was of me falling off that foolish trail!) I suspect that the apparently fearless Caitlin later told her parents that grown men turned back in tears but she carried on!

For dinner that evening we had thick grilled pork chops, maple syrup spiced apples, fancy potatoes, bread sticks, Cole slaw, and peach cobbler. These rafters make Martha Stewart look like a piker! (I discovered the downside of this opulent lifestyle when I volunteered to help wash dishes – we had a pile of dirty dishes that could surely have been seen from outer space!)

The radio “active” Dr. Drake (W5TB) was busy that evening as well, stringing a simple wire antenna and setting up a tiny ham radio station on the bank of the San Juan. Sporting his headphones, tapping on his Morse key, and surrounded by a swirl of dits and dahs, he presented a picture that Norman Rockwell himself would have been pleased to paint.

On day 3 we determined to push along for 14 miles in order to accommodate a layover day tomorrow. The rafting gals all commandeered one raft, and their progress was accompanied by constant giggling laughter. Yolanda ascribed their laughter to “rippling humor,” a description which tickled me for the rest of the trip.

We all stopped above Ross rapid for a short walk up the wash whose debris outflow creates the rapid to examine a little rock structure. Some thought it might be a granary, while others suspected a practical joke by a bunch of bored boy scouts! Then we set about scouting the rapid. Under other circumstances, this rapid would have been a lark, but with our laden boats in such a remote location, we were all seriousness, searching for the driest and most conservative route. Although Ted elected to fill his canoe up with water and run it backwards, we all emerged upright and smiling!

That afternoon Caitlin acquired her first command when she soloed in Manny’s little rubber ducky. Showing superior intelligence and excellent boat control, she faithfully followed Diana and Curtis’ line through several marked rapids. From upstream, the upturned and pointed stern of that ducky does look just like a 60lb duck going down the river! We were all very impressed with Caitlin on this trip. She exhibited excellent mechanics in her canoeing strokes (of course, she was taught by one of the most skillful females ever to grasp a T-grip!), paddled on her knees like a higher life form should, kept her map constantly at hand, always knew where she was, and studied Dutch oven desert cooking with Rich and Jack. (Sheesh, if I could find a 40 year old like that, I’d probably propose!)

While Caitlin conned the ducky, Ester joined me in the canoe. We had a grand little float trip, polishing her long dormant canoeing strokes and chatting amiably. That evening in camp, Ester announced that she now found it embarrassing to have to ride around in a raft. That comment caused the rafters to good naturedly accuse the single bladers of elitism!

Thankfully, our desired campsite at John’s Canyon was unoccupied and we established ourselves in the most wonderful of surroundings, with a little rapid just down stream for comforting white noise, and numerous secluded tent sights within the tamarisk groves. I pitched my little Eureka Gossamer in a beautiful spot, a hollowed amphitheater just at the mouth of John’s Canyon. I’d be in trouble if it rained though, for I was right at the base of a potential 200 foot waterfall!

Mindful of the old proverb that “Many hands make light work,” a whole gang of us now grappled with the dishwashing chores, our efforts accomplished with “rippling humor!” We had made such an entertaining sport of it that there was now a waiting list to get on the dishwashing crew!

On day 4 a bunch of us decided to tackle John’s Canyon. The first obstacle we faced was that 200 foot dry waterfall! As we puttered around at river level preparing to depart, we heard a shout from overhead. It was Rich, already at the top of the fall! (I believe that Rich could teach Spiderman a few things about scampering up rocks!) “There’s a swimming hole up here, but you’d better bring a couple of ropes!” Uh oh, that sounded foreboding.

We set off along the trail which led us away from John’s Canyon as it gradually ascended the wall of the main canyon. About a quarter of a mile along, we found Rich perched on a ledge some 15 feet above us. “This is where the rock climbers fish or cut bait,” he grinned. (Oh God, give me a knife and a bucket of squid!) Curtis and George, mountain goats that walk upright, scampered up effortlessly, then rigged an under the armpits belay line to protect the rest of us duffers as we nervously ascended the vertical to slightly overhanging wall.

From there, the trail took us back toward John’s Canyon. As we entered John’s Canyon, we were confronted by a 25 foot vertical descent to reach the overhanging shelf which formed the roof of the river level amphitheater. Rich had already rigged a line there, and Curtis somehow convinced Diana and Caitlin to descend using a rope around the backside-- friction across the buttocks rappel. We older guys with our greater respect for the forces of gravity weren’t having any of that! We tied loops in the line to form secure hand holds and descended in relative confidence!

We then found ourselves in yet another grand amphitheater, with a “tinaja” at the base of it’s curved and hollowed out overhanging back wall. A tinaja is a pool of water, literally a “bowl of earth,” according to our free climbing linguist, Rich. It was a lovely setting, but the dark green water and the ominous bubbles which arose from its depths dissuaded us from diving in! The view outward was tremendous, and we exposed many a frame of film on the main canyon and our campsite far below. As thrilling as it was, some of us were unable to fully savor the experience, preoccupied as we were with the unsettling thought that we still had to get back down!

Going out, even the imperturbable mountaineers took advantage of our loops to ascend the first hurdle. At the dreaded descent, there was no available rock to which we could make fast a line, so Curtis rigged up a seat harness to belay his increasingly anxious shipmates while George directed our trembling appendages to hand and foot holds from below. Poor George even got clobbered by a rock dislodged by one of us awkward amateurs. He and Curtis certainly earned the eternal gratitude of the John’s Canyon expeditioneers, though. Heck – I’m now afraid to step off the curb without George standing in the street to tell me where to put my foot!

With great relief, the triumphant expedition returned to camp and went for a swim to cool off. It’s amazing how quickly one can go from hyper to hypothermia around here! As we were having lunch, Yolanda said, “Ronnie, I’ve got a proposition for you.” “Uh oh,” Jack muttered, “Run!” She wanted me to play my recorder for the group that evening. Vainly attempting to suppress premonitions of embarrassing and/or potentially terminal stage fright, I alleged that I might be able to do such a thing.

After lunch I snuck off to the most remote end of the camp, where John, Ted, and I had established our lairs, lashed together a tripod of paddles for a music stand, and spent the afternoon practicing. That evening I established an “orchestra pit” behind a tamarisk tree, so nobody could see my quivering digits (!), and played at length while the group socialized and prepared dinner. After the first few shaky songs my fingers and my heart rate settled down, and I rather enjoyed dribbling spit in my lap for the entertainment of the crowd! Nonetheless, I was glad when I could put down the recorder and pick up a dishrag, returning to a task for which I’m much better qualified!

We were all so pleased with our John’s Canyon campsite that we elected to spend yet another layover day there. On day 5 we slept late and enjoyed a delightfully lazy day, reading, writing, observing the lifestyle of lizards and the flight of peregrine falcons, swimming, rewarming ourselves lizard like in the sun, and exercising Manny’s little ducky in the rapid below our camp. Even Ester mustered up her courage and took the ducky down the wave train. It was a spiritual victory for us all to scuttle the Puritan work ethic and pass the day pleasantly in pointless and perfectly guilt free pursuits!

That evening Diana and Curtis demonstrated the toothpick star and the dancing hair trick, suckering Yolanda and Caitlin completely, and showering them vigorously. Yolanda declared that she’d never be able to trust anyone again!

Apparently we were all chock full of feces, if you see what I mean. We had now exceeded the calculated rocket box (holding tank!?) capacity required for a group of our size. When I visited the head that evening, the toilet paper within was tickling my sensitive backside above. Old Sigmund Freud himself might exhibit a tendency towards “retentiveness” in this situation!

On day 6 we splashed through the little rapid at the mouth of John’s Canyon; then set our sights on the San Juan’s most formidable white water, Government Rapid. As George had expressed a desire to canoe for a bit I took up the oars in his raft. There’s nothing like pulling on a pair of 8 foot oars to make a lad feel manly! Entertained by Linda’s pleasant chatter in the bow, we passed Cowboy Hat Rock, sighted Government Bird Rock, and then eddied out to scout the rapid.

Immediately we observed 2 rafts (from other parties) hang up on the guidebook recommended river right route. After studying the situation, we determined that while right was the best route for canoes, the rafts would be better off left of center. Weldon led us off with a perfect run, and I retain an amusing mental image of Diana and Caitlin running the lower part of the rapid with Diana shouting, “Your Other Draw!,” as Caitlin mistook her cross draw command and tried energetically to draw them into a diagonal curling wave. The group all negotiated the rapid in fine form, sitting tall in the saddle and smiling bravely, like proper Lone Star boaters should.

As we relaxed on the beach below the rapid, Ester exuberantly squirted Curtis with a water cannon, and he surprised us all by mounting a death before dishonor bailer full of water retaliatory attack. (I can see it on the Fox network now: “When Boy Scouts go berserk!) It’s the quiet ones you’ve got to watch out for!

Two and a half miles downstream we pulled in at the mouth of Slickhorn Canyon for lunch and a hike up the canyon to a cool little pool and a swim. Returning to the boats, Ted took up the extreme sport of rock diving when he slipped on a steep descent and dove into the floor of the canyon. Fortunately, the rocks were undamaged, and Ted retained his ability to send Morse code!

Back in the boats, we took it around the corner to our final campsite, Slickhorn E, assigned to us by the BLM. After our little paradise at John’s Canyon, this site seemed pretty disappointing. How jaded we had become!

God may have rested on the seventh day, but we had an appointment with the shuttle drivers and 17 miles to go. No rest for the wicked, eh what? Very soon after getting underway, we realized that the current was slowing and the silted bottom was getting closer to the surface as the river felt the constipating effect of Lake Powell. The float trip was over. We’d be working for our wages today!

Five and a half miles past Grand Gulch, we stopped at Oljeto Wash for lunch and a brief ceremony in remembrance of Wayne, “Poppa Smurf,” as many of us affectionately knew him. Under a magnificent and severely undercut wall where the wash curved in to meet the river, Rich said a few words and scattered a vial of Wayne’s ashes alongside his beloved San Juan. I trust that he’ll always be about, watching over us as we paddle; gently and quietly encouraging us towards the kindness, concern, and charity which he consistently personified. Rest in Peace, our cherished friend.

On the water again, the canyon walls got shorter and the river bottom began to poke above the surface in places. Our path became longer and more circuitous as we strove to follow the channel through the sand bars and silt. (At the end of the day, Jack’s GPS indicated that we’d traveled 22.5 miles in making good our 17!)

George sent word down the line that he need some relief, so I swapped seats with him and was forced to make good on my foolish boast that I could “Portugee (a style of rowing used by Portuguese fishermen) until the cows come home!” Cathy and her crew presented a noble picture of determination. With her facing forward and Bruce facing aft, often with 4 hands on the oars, they stalwartly slogged along. Many weary miles and muscle cramps later, the take out finally came in sight.

At the take out, all was heat, dust as fine as flour, and confusion as 2 commercial groups with semi-truck flat beds, and 3 or 4 private parties tried to unload, derig, load cars, and depart in a space about as big as a basketball half-court. We finally got it all sorted out, and began the surprisingly long trek back to Mexican Hat. Two adventures still awaited us, one enroute, the other in Mexican Hat itself.

On the road, we ascended from river level at 3800 feet to the top of a gargantuan butte at 7200 feet. At the edge of said butte we were presented with a view of the Valley of the Gods and the Goosenecks as seen from heaven itself, gaspingly grand and vast. Then, in a descent as alarming as anything we undertook in John’s Canyon, we dropped down the face of the butte on a precarious and severely switch backed gravel road to the valley over 1000 feet below.

Finally, in what may have been the biggest thrill of the entire outing, after 7 days afloat, afoot, and coated with sand, we got to take a $6 shower at the Navajo Lodge and RV Park! Words fail me! Even now, weeks later, I shiver in sensuous delight at the memory of that event!

It was truly an outstanding trip, and I want to convey my most sincere thanks to all concerned, for everyone contributed, some in large and critical ways, others with a smile in the morning and a willingness to take their place in the chain when we passed gear ashore from the rafts to the campsite. I suspect that we all owe the greatest debt of gratitude to Jack, who volunteered to empty and clean the rocket boxes at the end of the trip. Talk about taking one for the team! SeaBees Rule!!

So, my friends, I believe that the foregoing tale should constitute convincing evidence that in this confusing, confounding, and all too rapidly changing world, there is one comforting constant to which we can cling: “There is nothing, absolutely nothing, half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats!”

Ronnie Ash