The truth is, she would have signed up for that kayaking trip whether it was August 4 or not. A friend – a fellow writer – who loved the beauty of the great outdoors the same way she did, had organized the trip. It was at least her eighth time on the water that year, but who’s counting? Besides, it was a kind of opened-ended goal for her to touch the Colorado River in as many places as possible.
A few years before, she had hiked beyond the headwaters of the Colorado River in Grand County Colorado – hiked all the way further in to Rocky Mountain National Park where the headwaters were merely snow that was melting and flowing under the ice beneath her feet. It was cold, very cold that April and the paved road had not yet opened for the season. On another trip, she rolled up her pant legs and waded into the river water at Lake Havasu. She visited the Salton Sea and crunched among the heaps of dead sea shells and fish bones. She hiked riverfront trails wherever she could find them and dipped her toes at Glenwood Springs, Rifle and Debeque Canyon; Palisade, Grand Junction, Fruita – and all the way down Highway 128 into Moab Utah. Her love of the Colorado River and its tributaries grew as friends urged her into a kayak on the Gunnison (Escalante to Bridgeport) and a placid-but still Grand – portion of the Colorado from Palisade to Grand Junction.
When you get the chance to paddle, you do. But the fact that it was August 4, made it oh so serendipitous. The part of her that loved history, indeed, the part of her that loved core knowledge and interdisciplinary learning and the way every piece of knowledge connects with another; the interpretive part that is fascinated by reenactments and tribute bands and trips down memory lane; that part of her savored the fact that it was August 4, 2019, exactly 150 years after John Wesley Powell and his expedition crew made their way down this very stretch of river.
On the night of August 3, 1869, Powell and his men camped somewhere near the Crossing of the Fathers (Dominguez and Escalante) on the Grand River. They rose the morning of August 4 and rowed the stretch of river ending at the juncture with the Paria River in Marble Canyon.
On the night of August 3, 2019, she slept in her own bed in Greenehaven, AZ, some 10 miles from the narrow gorge that is the Colorado River in Page, AZ. She rose the morning of August 4, 2019 and drove the 45 miles from Page AZ to what is now Lee’s Ferry just north of Marble Canyon. At Lee’s Ferry, the group caught a backhaul that transferred participants and kayaks just about as far up river as you can go given the presence of Glen Canyon Dam. Once dropped off, some paddled upriver a bit until they could see the power lines and the tunnel where commercial rafts put in just below the dam. When the entire group of eight had gathered on the beach at Fairy Swale, they were underway. Weather wise, it could not have been a more perfect day. The group paddled leisurely down a lazy river, beaching for short hikes to explore petroglyphs; pitied the hoards gathered at the top of Horseshoe bend while the river runners had the river nearly to themselves; caught a current here and there and lounged in kayaks letting the river do the work. The rain clouds rolled in, made the light picture-perfect, but did not rain enough to chill or drench. A pontoon boat passed and then anchored in a cove up ahead and a local musician provided an impromptu concert on the river. Thus, this became Music Canyon, despite being several miles further downriver than the one so named by Powell. The group of eight persons and seven kayaks continued on, exchanging positions, engaging in conversations with different members of the diverse group, getting to know biographies.
With such halcyon circumstances, she forgot all about the stories of paddling against the wind – until it happened. About two miles out from Lee’s Ferry, the wind kicked up. Strong. Blowing up river. Around that same time, she was shunted off to the right by a little eddy, while other members of the group caught a stronger current to the left. Try as she might, she could not catch up. A women more than 5 years her senior outstripped her by 500 meters and disappeared around the bend. This was not her first experience paddling against the wind. Knowing she was in better condition than on any previous trip, she straightened her back, braced her legs, shoved her butt into the seat and began to power paddle – – without effect. Gradually the river carried her downstream. Eventually, she straggled in at Lee’s Ferry, the last of the group to arrive and not the first to exclaim, “Wow! What a trip! What a perfect day!”
She smiled broadly. There was a bit of a lilt, if not a swagger, to her step. She had just added another 15 miles to her Colorado River account.
