When I started this river-trip-a-month theme last May, I assumed that many of my sojourns would be solo ones. Marypat is still working, many of my friends have obligations that tie them down. I just didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to have company. Now, seven months in, I’ve only managed one solo jaunt, my September agate fest on the lower Yellowstone River, and it looks like I may only have one more on the horizon.
Months ago I vaguely lined my sights on the San Juan River in southern Utah as a November candidate. I knew it could as easily feel like winter as fall, by that time, but I knew people ran the river almost year round and that I’d be able to at least get down it, even if it had potential to be uncomfortable. I thought of my friend, Grant.
In a whimsical text I asked if he’d have any interest in joining me. He said sure, but he couldn’t commit due to some life issues he had to take care of. We left it at that. Then, late in October, after our Green River week, I nudged him again. “I’m in,” he said.
I’ve known Grant for 40 years. We worked together in the Outdoor Ed. Dept. at Northland College. He was my best man. In our time together in Wisconsin, we did a lot of paddling together, in all manner of craft – traditional canoe, Montreal canoe, C-2 . . . We had our noble, memorable moments, and some ignoble ones, but we were a paddling team with rhythm and history together. To share a boat hull again would be a profound benefit of his company.
In early November he flew into Bozeman. We spent a long day in the car driving to the put-in at Sand Island near Bluff, Utah. On November 11th, after taking care of the shuttle details and reorganizing gear, we launched in a cool, clear blue sky day. No one around.
For the next week we meandered down the bends of this storied tributary of the Colorado, through canyons 2,500′ deep, navigating rapids and portages, dealing with low water and frosty nights, seeing only one other person. We had a remarkably stable week of weather – 60 degree days and nights around freezing, very little wind. We had low water that challenged our route-finding abilities, especially at the end, where Lake Powell has backed up sediment miles into the river channel and the flow braids through shallow sand bars that are really hard to read.
Long nights, a rest day with a hike up Honaker Trail, a portage of Government Rapid, where the low river made the rock garden rapid unrunnable, many sweet runs through minor rapids that rekindled our paddling partnership and stand out, for me, as the highlight of the journey. And our last night, camped at the mouth of Steer Gulch, just 5 miles from the end, the one and only song of the canyon wren. Again, at dawn, as we were packing for our final morning, that blessing of descending desert song – joyful and robust.
A week with a friend, on an outstanding piece of river, away from the hubbub and politicking that distracts, embedded deep in silence, and once again making a boat sing through miles of green current.