Like A River | November 11, 2013

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“…Welcome back….”

The river gently whispers.  The waters of the Escalante usually only speak when spoken to, often much too tired and exhausted to carry on a conversation, hard at work from yet another timeless day. Those tiny water molecules have absolutely no idea where they are going, and certainly not a clue on how to get there, nor why they are even doing so; yet to the river this is all far beyond the point and alas we decide to save this deeper discussion for another day.  Instead we relish of past adventures and catch up on lost time, making small talk about life, birds, cottonwood trees, stars, sand, etc.  Same old stuff really.  Some things never change.

The Grand Staircase of the Escalante, located deep within the tortured deserts of southern Utah, was one of the last places in the United States to be mapped; yet for good reason.  It encompasses perhaps the most wild and remote section of the Great Colorado Plateau, strewn with a dizzying array of deep canyons and sheer-walled plateaus, effectively cutting off access to hundreds of miles of country by means of rope, raft, or foot.  It is common to not see another group for days or weeks at a time.  Cross country travel?  Nearly impossible.  Reliable water sources?  Few and far in between.  Snakes, scorpions, and other scary animals?  Plenty of them.  Indeed, the Escalante has no comparison.  It has no equal.

IMG_1631smWe gather at the river like so many times before.  Our goal: float the seventy-something miles of the Escalante to our takeout just above Lake Powell escaping via the infamous Crack In The Rock exit in ten days.  Our boats: the poor man’s packraft, pool toys by definition, the finest chinese-made PVC chemically bonded together to create the Cadillac of the industry, appropriately named the Explorer 200, conveniently on sale at Big 5 Sporting Goods for $16.99.  The plastic paddles of increasingly questionable quality (we already broke one) are sticking out of our packs in nearly every direction as we manage to fit ten days worth of food and gear into our packs.  I forget to lock the car once again, like it really matters anyway.

After 6 miles of hiking enough water is found to deploy our trusty steeds, as the river reaches a navigable depth near the confluence with Boulder Creek, doubling the size of the Escalante, which currently resembles a creek more than a proper river.  We scrape along for the majority of the first three days, eventually reaching deeper waters as the river begins to pick up strength.  Half our paddles have already broken and by day 4 we have been primarily reduced to canoe style maneuvering in an effort to conserve paddles, constantly getting stuck on rocks and bouncing off the banks.  We dub it river pinball and begin to keep score as we occasionally take breaks to patch our boats.  Carbon-copy camps are made along sandy beaches and under sweeping cottonwood trees, beneath a sky as clear as the river.

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A successful run of the Escalante River is all about timing.  And a bit of luck.  Being one of the few remaining stretches of river in the Unites States not controlled by a dam, the season is short, if there even is one, and is solely dictated by snow-melt and runoff as navigable water levels peak for a few weeks out of the year and is highly unpredictable.  Then there comes the logistical issues associated with spending 10 days in perhaps the most isolated and unforgiving region in the United States.  All these factors combine into a very elusive and seldom completed river run.

Things quickly change as we pass mile 41, just past the midway point of our trip as we reach Fence Canyon and the Golden Cathedral of Neon Canyon, both popular hikes that can be completed in a solid day.  This landmark becomes immediately apparant as we encounter several groups of nicely smelling, desert-drenched, broken English speaking tourists, all clad in shiny REI and other high end apparel with their fancy cameras permanently hung around their necks.  We haven’t seen another group for five days.  They blankly stare at us, probably baffled by our tiny boats along with our weathered faces, as we look back at them with the same bewildered eyes.  Not much to say really.  We carry on our aimless float, and won’t see another soul for another five days.

We begin to take bets, wagers and guesses as to where we are on the map as the terrain around us becoming increasingly difficult to contemplate.  We avoid looking at our maps for a reason; for the only thing greater than being surrounded by such an immensity is getting completely lost in it.  For when you lose yourself entirely all that is left is to be found once again.  The  Escalante winds and wanders for days, like a drunkard, as it becomes increasingly apparent he is lost as well.  Once again this all seems far beyond the point as we all join together in a seemingly aimless drift.  We finally reach our exit just beyond Steven’s Arch, a daunting beacon on the horizon, an absolutely massive piece of rock, looming over 600 feet above the river spanning an impressive gap of nearly 200 feet.  A proper yet bittersweet hoorah.

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As we pack up our boats and finish off our route up and out of the canyon, the same sinking feeling comes over me as it always does.  A reluctant return to reality.  A distant longing to float forever.  For just a brief moment in time we are not bound by a paycheck nor a schedule, thrown to the wind in favor of perhaps the ultimate freedom; the most sacred of rights.  To wander aimlessly and search endlessly, the pursuit of absolutely nothing, getting lost for the sole purpose to be found all over again.  Memories will soon fade into yet another blurred collection of photos and campfires, empty whiskey bottles and endless days beneath crimson sunsets.  Yet before we head out I walk off to chat with the Escalante one final time, biding adieu to my companion, as he quickly carries on in his timeless journey.  Like a river.

The path of a river is one of life’s greatest metaphors.  The depth and beauty of it develops with age and time.  The flow will rise and fall with the changing seasons.  Its path twists and turns, its character calm or turbulent, its faces beautiful or tragic, its demeanor lazy or challenging.  But the life of a river never stops, always on time and not a second sooner, exactly where it is supposed to be at any given moment, following its fate to its bitter end, often completely blind of its true path but nonetheless always seems to make it to exactly where it is supposed to be the whole time.  But really, how could it go anywhere else?