Canoeing in the Canyonlands, Part 2

*click the title to go to the 400-photo gallery or continue with my ramblings and personal pic picks*

Our second day begins with virga-burdened overcast but there is no rain expected--only wind, which arrives mid-day on a front that sweeps the clouds away.  A fair trade; the river turns enough that it's not much of a bother.  Now comes the part the geology nerd in me has been waiting for; the rising of the White Rim sandstone.  From viewpoints in the Island in the Sky district high above the river, the White Rim is a distinctive and intricate lining of the canyons and tributaries of the Green and Colorado Rivers.  Indeed, my first interest in the area was the White Rim Trail, a 4x4 route traversing dozens of miles across those ledges.  I've yet to add that adventure to the list, though my companions of this trip are certainly more favorable to this non-mechanized mode.  Can't say I blame them.

Swallows, too, favor the White Rim, as they have built hundreds of their mud nests under the overhanging slabs.  By the time we reach camp at Anderson Bottom, the sandstone ledges are soaring 200 feet above the river.

Tonight we must climb a steep bank and go back on a short path to a campsite under a large cottonwood tree.  I am pleased that we have chosen Anderson Bottom, an abandoned meander of the river.  The flat grassy area between our campsite and the wall of sandstone is the old river channel.  The guidebook mentions a panel of "cowboy glyphs" about a mile down the meander and so we set off in search of.  It's a nice walk, but the panel looks like recent graffiti reminiscent of cow brands.  Nearby is a more curious and poorly-scratched panel appearing to be some sort of commemoration, but with a date of A.D. 2864!  Time-traveling cowboys?

Mmmm, the Wisconsin boys brought beer and bratwurst!!  Did I mention that we ate well?  In the deep-darkening sky, a seeming armada of satellites cruise silently overhead as the Milky Way brightens into a glowing river of light.  The continuing breeze will keep the air mixed and warmer for the next few nights.

Our third day will be our greatest effort, not that we planned it that way.  Before noon, we stop above Turks Head to hike a mile over some tablelands to a large boulder covered in petroglyphs; really, quite an impressive site.  Much of the rest of our day is that quest for the perfect campsite; perhaps the sought for 'lay-over' camp that would allow us a day of recuperation and shore-bound exploration.  Deadhorse Canyon comes up short, in that we all vote to go farther and knowing it commits us to another five miles to Horse Canyon. (I guess that one lived.)  Alas, anything near the mouth of Horse Canyon has the ambience of a recently drained wash.

And so, after 17 miles, we settle on a large sandbar-island camp just below Horse Canyon.  For all of our wind-weary muscles, there will be no layover here.  But the island does make a nice camp; clean dry sand and thickets of young willows provide a myriad hidey-spots for tents and groover alike.

Day 4.  Still gorgeous and the wind has abated.  Stoked on Ibuprofen, w set off on an expectedly shorter day of paddling.  In just two hours we've reached the ruin at Jasper Canyon and halfway to our goal at Water Canyon, where we have delayed lunch to arrive early in the afternoon.  Another canoe is tied up at the campsite but there is no gear above to call dibs...and so we move in.  This site is a series of benches and platforms a few dozen feet above the river with some fallen rocks providing a natural seating area.  The owner of the canoe returns later and gives us a report on hiking up Water Canyon, but hadn't been planning to camp here.

Next day I am chef.  We start with three skillets of hearty corn beef hash; a mixture that I'd prepared before the trip for easy pan-frying.  Of course, I'd had to make extra to leave at home for Kirsteen, lest I'd filled our home with the aroma of roasting corn beef for a day with no reward for her.  It's cloudy again this morning and a handful of raindrops have touched skin.  It will clear later, but not before a judicious use of the satellite phone confirms that a rumored storm before we had left has passed north of us and will not be a bother.

The only plan today is an exploration of Water Canyon, which turns out to be a bonanza of fossils!  Chrinoids mostly, and other shallow-sea beasties are packed into the bedrock shelves which line the lower portions of the canyon. Half a mile up the canyon splits; both routes continue steeply among a conglomerate of house-sized boulders.  Lynn and I opt to explore the fossil beds while the guys spend most of the day climbing to the head of Water Canyon.

On my return, I choose the well-trodden path on the opposite side of the canyon below a dramatic undercut.  The path deteriorates as I approach the river, the reason becoming obvious as I find myself trapped on a bench with no way down.  I can see Lynn relaxing back at camp 200 yards away and call over my need to backtrack.

Chicken fajitas are on the menu for dinner.  Discovering the proper use and benefits of dry ice has created the unusual issue of ensuring that the meat is thawed for preparation.

Continued in Part 3...

Canoeing in the Canyonlands, Part 1

*click the title to go to the 400-photo gallery or continue with my ramblings and personal pic picks*

Rumors of my impending demise notwithstanding, for seven days last October I paddled a canoe down the Green River through Canyonlands National Park in Utah.  Lynn, who I worked with at Steward, was in on planning the trip with a group of folks from Wisconsin and California.  It sounded like a great addition to the bucket list so I convinced them to take a chance with me.  I've been canoeing and done a few rafting trips in my life, I figured I could handle that part of it...anything more would be optional icing on the adventure.

A late start and 12 hours on the road put me into Moab with only a few hours sleep before meeting up with Lynn and five strangers over the stale motel standard of a continental breakfast and really bad coffee. (Why can't they make good coffee in Utah?)  Leon is the unofficial leader of the trip and has done an awesome job of coordinating the canoe rentals and everyone's contributions of gear and meal offerings.  He's also a nuclear physicist at Lawrence Livermore.  Coool.  His brother Burke lives in Wisconsin and is to be my partner...presumably because he knows what he's doing and they're not sure what this stranger can do.  Joe's an old friend of theirs from Wisconsin...turns out he makes medical equipment, including a new machine used in radiation oncology that could help me some day.  Thanks, Joe!  Rounding out the gang are Jon, who reminds me of David Yetman of Tucson fame; and Dan, the world traveler of the group with an affinity for kayaking in polar waters.  Throw a dart at the globe and he's probably been there.

Yeah, they're all pretty much outdoor nerds.  Awesome.

It's barely twilight, clear and a crisp 35 degrees...and we have to load all of our gear and take it a couple of miles over to Tex's, where we have to reload it into the van and canoe-trailer.  Before 7:30.  This is the part of these trips I hate.  But the guys at Tex's are good and with everyone helping out it went fast, minus the guy from another canoeing party yakking into his phone like an addict on his last fix.  After the obligatory "groover" lesson in solid-waste etiquette, we're off for an hours drive to the launch at Mineral Bottom, including the exciting 4x4 Horsethief Trail, corkscrewing 1000 feet down orange cliffs of Wingate sandstone.

There are four parties launching here this morning so we have to wait a bit for our turn.  Two guys on pontoon rafts will be going all the way down Cataract Canyon to Lake Powell...that'll be a great adventure.  We chat and confer with the other parties on their schedules and such, getting a better handle on what campsites to aim for.  You'd be surprised how much stuff you can get into three canoes and a kayak; and how much stuff seven people need for a week--including 400 pounds of fresh water!  I took the back of the canoe with Burke and was riding decidedly low in the water, making us a bit wobbly but it didn't feel like we would tip.

And then we're off, an hour before noon, gliding across the smooth water of the Green River in Labyrinth Canyon.  The flat inside river-corners are ubiquitously overgrown with thickets of willow, tamarisk, grasses and other shrubbery.  Elsewhere, steep slopes of the Moenkopi formation plunge directly into the water, overlain with millennia of cobbles fallen from the great cliffs above.  Little seems to grow above the high water line; the river is stingy in its desert way.

The current carries us along about 2 miles an hour, so not much effort is needed unless we get a head wind. (Aw, what'd you have to go and say that for?)  We hadn't eaten much since that stale breakfast so we soon stopped on a sandbar for lunch; wrap-sealed deli subs with squeeze packets of condiments--instant satisfaction.  Afterward I take the front of the canoe, which has a balancing effect on our waterline if not still a bit wobbly.  I also realize that the front of the canoe is the ideal photo position.  The nice camera is stowed safely in a dry bag on the river, but I wear the old three-megapixel around my neck...plenty good for documentation without having to obsess over an accidental dunking.

The sun warms the day nicely as we paddle another four hours and a total of ten miles to find a nice beach campsite waiting for us at Fort Bottom, named for an ancient Moki dwelling prominently perched on a bluff in the middle of this horseshoe bend in the river.  There's also an old cabin nearby, roofless and jack-knifed with decades-old names and initials.

In the morning we wake to frosted tent-flys and hot french-pressed coffee; there have been reports of java-snobs among us.  I'm not up for scrambling up the butte, so I suggest I get a group photo with the Moki Fort from camp.  The air is so clear we can still talk while stumbling over a second of sound-travel lag.  Say cheese.

To be continued...

"Daddy, are you going to be died?"

Yes.

“Me and Mommy will both cry after your are died.”

Awwww.

“But I don’t know when…it won’t be while you are four. It could be when you’re five or even after you’re six. But mommy’s not sick, and you’re not sick, and you’re both going to live for a long time and take care of each other. Somebody who loves you will always be there for you.”

It’s a bit creepy talking to your four-year old son about your terminal cancer diagnosis. We told him about the ‘owies’ and the medicine and how it made Daddy feel sick. We never lied to him but we didn’t tell him everything. He figured it out. How long before he asked the question? I’m not sure.

I was driving him to preschool last week when an ambulance drove by. This event, of course, prompted his inquisitive four-year old routine:
“What’s that Daddy? Is that a fire truck?”
No, it’s an ambulance.
“What is it doing? Why? Where are they going. Why?”
Someone hurt…sick…blah…hospital…doctors….
“And the doctors at the ‘hopsital’ will make them all better?”
Most of the time but not always; sometimes they are hurt too badly.
“Ooooh.”
Following a digression of ‘whys’ we round the corner onto Broadway; no longer having to dodge the coffee fiends lining up in traffic since the establishment put up a polite sign.

“Daddy, are you going to be died?”

Yeah, he knows. And now he knows it’s called cancer, which is different than getting sick from a germ. He tells me he will make me feel better by playing ‘musics’ for me; Animusic videos, which are kinda cool, actually. He ‘zoops’ me with his magic wand. He does other things too. And it does make me feel better. But it won’t make my cancer go away. And he knows that too.

January 16th, 2009