HikeRaft

April 21 – April 24 2005
240 – 105cfs
At about 2:30 a.m. I was awakened by the sound of heavy rain, so I tried to read my book and fall back asleep but the rain did not let up its pounding and I slept very little. At about 6:30 a.m. I had finally been forced out of my tent by the dripping walls and growing pools of water on the floor and the sound of a small, fast river just outside of my vestibule.

As I emerged…No shit, there I was surrounded by towering canyon walls, and a half dozen blood red waterfalls cascading down the slick rock, one right above me was creating a 3ft deep stream several feet in front of my soggy tent. But that happened on the last day of the trip.

The Dirty Devil River has been on my “Must Do Before I Die” list for many years. And although I have planned the trip a few times, forces outside of my control have conspired to make those trips impossible. I was determined to not let anything stop the trip this year.
Waking up at 4:30 a.m. on Thursday morning, I checked the flow. It read 240 cfs. I picked up Shane “Shnard” Carter at 5:10 a.m. from work and we headed for Hanksville and the Dirty Devil River. I dropped Shnard and the gear off at Dry Valley Wash (just outside of Hanksville, near the landfill) and headed to the Dirty Devil Campground\Cataract takeout.

The plan was for me to leave my truck there and hitchhike back to the put in near Hanksville. There was very little traffic and after an hour of unsuccessfully trying to hitch a ride I gave up, went back to my truck and raced to Hanksville.

When I got to town I left a message on my wife’s cell phone telling her my rough plan. We had decided to kayak the Dirty Devil to Glen Canyon, and could she please meet us there on Sunday to shuttle us back to Hanksville, my hitchhiking karma seemed to have expired. We finally launched after noon and my new boat started having problems immediately.

I had removed the crossbars and seats to conserve on weight—great idea in theory but not field tested, and with a crippling flaw. With my weight and that of the gear in the boat, there was nothing to separate the tubes from folding in on me. I eventually solved this major problem with a spare kayak paddle, paco pad, and cam straps.

Day one was like an event in the Eco Challenge race, in many places the water was two inches deep but you would sink up to your knees and beyond in mud while dragging the boat. I had some thoughts about quitting when we got to the lower sand slide, but then would tap into my masochistic streak and desire to see this river and found I could easily keep inspiring myself.

We eventually hacked our way into a camp, exhausted, below Robbers Roost just a mile or two short of our intended site of Angel Cove. We dined on steak and instant potatoes and were in our bags and snoring directly after by 9pm.

In the morning it was pretty obvious that the river had dropped and it was time for more dragging, but only about half as much as the day before and my body\mind had started to harden to the effort. The weather was very strange today, hardly any wind, warm and very hazy.

Just below Angle Cove we ran into two backpackers crossing the river and chatted with them for a minute before heading on. At Larry’s Canyon we saw the boats of another group but none of the people were in sight, and we did not see any sign of them again.

Our second camp (which we also needed to hack into) was a just upstream of Twin Corral Canyon. Before changing into dry clothes, I cleaned the many scrapes and cuts on my legs with wet wipes and felt assured that at least a couple would scar and turn into proud war wounds. I was a bit concerned with my feet though; my Teva’s were starting to rub some portions raw, and they were swelling. Dinner was dehydrated Dahl with tortillas.

The third day dawned bright and warm. We spent an hour or so poking around camp and taking photos of the many wildflowers. Although the river looked even lower, the canyon and channel seems to really tighten up here. This would turn out to be the best day I have ever spent on a river.

After launching, we soon arrived at the first rapid near Sam’s Mesa. That was quickly followed by another >(class II+), and we encountered a total somewhere near a bakers dozen for the third day. These were mostly swift, rocky little class I-II affairs for which you need to pick the right line, be lightly loaded and dodge a few rocks. I captured some nice video of Shnard running a few of them. By noon it was so warm (80+) that I was paddling in my lifejacket and shorts. Around lunch time we were passed by Noah and his dad floating in an inflatable canoe and kayak.

I could not help but think of Mike throughout this day, he would have loved this trip and we would have so enjoyed his company. I felt at times that I might turn and see that he was alongside paddling a kayak, that huge grin covering his face. “Right on! Right on!” he would say and I would laugh and agree. It was a bittersweet feeling; when I would turn he was never there, but it seemed he just might be if I looked hard enough.

We pulled in above Happy Canyon and spent nearly two hours exploring the narrows and escaping the sun’s heat in the shadows. I can’t use words or photos to convey how beautiful this place was. The next time I take this trip I will make sure to spend a full day here. We watched the slow change of colors as the rays of the sun penetrated at different angles, a truly spectacular place.

Not far below Happy Canyon we went through another rapid and I got stuck on a rock at the bottom. I sat there waiting for Shnard to come through, then stepped off my boat to shove off the rock and my feet found nothing solid. It seems that I had found the deepest point on the Dirty Devil right there off that rock, and I got a thorough dunking before being able to climb back onto the boat.

For the next hour and a half prior to making camp, we drifted up against many sheer cliff walls that dwarfed our kayaks. I felt great. We spend so much of our lives doing the things we don’t want to do, so we can afford to do the things we do want to do. But at that time, there was nowhere else I would rather have been, and nothing else I would rather have been doing—pure nirvana.

Our last night on the river, we had Stag Chili in the packets with Torengos (tortilla chips) and tortillas. We had our only fire that night and burned much of our trash, watching the flames turn to embers. While lying on my paco pad, I turned my attention upwards to the darkening sky. It was a little after 9 p.m., and the full moon rising was just a vague gray shape against the black clouds that had suddenly rolled in all around. It was still pleasantly warm, and after we secured our things, we put out the fire and went to bed.

The final day we did not get on the river until after 10 a.m. We spent much of the morning recovering from the storm, cleaning the mud off our things, and the water from our tents. Our spirits were seriously dampened along with everything else. The temperature had dropped into the 50’s, and there was a chill wind. At about 11:30 we reached Poison Springs, talked for awhile, weighed our options and came to a decision.

We did not want to try and kayak the rest of the way to the confluence of the Colorado and the Dirty Devil against the cold upstream winds and risk spending another night on the river. We had plenty of food and could have spent another night, but if I did not show up at the Cataract takeout by that night, my wife would have been needlessly distraught and would likely think the worst. Our first thought was that Shnard was a strong hiker and could (somewhat) easily make the 16 mile walk to the pavement, hitch a ride to Hanksville, grab my truck, try to contact my wife and then come get me and the gear.

There was quite a bit of water coming down the wash, so we agreed that if on the hike out he saw the night’s storm had made sections of the road\wash impassable, he would come back and get me. Then we would stash everything and both hike out, retrieving the boats and other things at a later date. Just as he was about to leave, three people in a Toyota Tacoma pulled in. They asked us about the river trip, we answered their questions and asked one of our own: “How about a ride?” “Of course!” was the answer. They rearranged some things, and made room for me in the truck.

If I had known how bad the road was, I might have changed my mind. After making three trips (one out with my new found friends, one back in again alone, and one more out again with Shnard and the gear) I decided I would have done better to have taken my chances with the river. There were sections where the wash was around 3 ft. deep, and at any moment I expected to hear, then see, a rumbling wall of mud and stones coming down the wash at us, or chasing me in my mirror.

Wade, Micha, and Tim dropped me off right at my truck and I thanked them profusely. I called my wife to tell her I was off the river, and then spent 2 more hours back in the wash feeling like I was in a Toyota Tacoma commercial, and racing another storm that was hitting the Henry Mountains. Retrieving Shnard and the gear, we made it out and to the Dirty Devil Bridge and the Hite overlook to get one last look before heading to Blondie’s and then, home. All photos from the trip are located here.