Rafting and Roughing It on the Black Canyon of the Gunnison: Part Four

My Happy River Companions: Steve, Jen, Andrew, Ryan and Glenn

Only a handful of experiences in life—at least ones that occur over a forty-eight hour period—may be considered transformative.  The below is part four of one of mine.  My journey on the Gunnison River gripped me with so much passion and awe that I’ve chosen to share it with you in its unabbreviated version.  I’ve posted this story in four parts.  I hope you’ll be with me and enjoy it throughout.  You can read all parts in (reverse) sequence in the category Outdoor Adventures.

From Smith Fork on, the waters flattened out some three miles to the take-out. The canyon opens wide to pink sandstone walls here, a gentle float that doesn’t require the wearing of life preservers or much attention paid toward the river’s movements. Now it was time for us all to just loll about on the raft. We looked back at Ryan in the gear boat, no longer worried that he’d make it through the turbulent waters without a hitch; he rowed along calmly just like us. By now we had all downshifted into supreme relax mode, the kind of lulling feeling you have after having gone through something fairly intense and completely stimulating.

The Dudes

Talk of showers was beginning by now although I believe it was Jen who initiated it first. I quietly scoffed at the idea of using a blow dryer. I had been transformed in less than forty-eight hours. My skin glowed with a golden, bronze-y tone and although I hadn’t bathed much, the river kept me feeling cool and fresh. I even forgot about my grey hairs and was actually beginning to enjoy “peeing in the woods.” But it was the canyon walls, the bobbing in the raft and the riverside meals I had enjoyed the most. I also had become very endeared to my fellow campers and guides and felt delighted that we had all shared such conviviality and affection toward each other in such an inspiring setting. Camping and rafting do bring you better in touch with nature and your fellow man. And certainly one of the best places to do it is in the Black Canyon of the Gunnison River.

Epilogue

I experienced the above adventure just over a year ago and wrote most of the story shortly thereafter. Steve, Glenn, Jen and I returned a month ago for a second time around. This time Jen’s slightly younger brother Andrew (who happens to work for Martha Stewart!), flew in from New York to join us. Ryan headed up the journey as lead guide. Rick had left Black Canyon Anglers during the year to start a new life in environmental work in the Pacific Northwest. Josh, another expert river runner and most affable guy, teamed up with Ryan as the second guide. Josh has been “riding rivers” for years in addition to working his day job as a realtor. We came to know Ryan better on this trip and enjoyed goofing around with him and Josh, both on the water and off: Although forever professional, both approached most of our doings with a more laid back attitude, setting the tone for a more relaxed trip overall. With the two of them, we even got into some kid-like shenanigans such as jumping off cliffs into the river, something that Rick surely would have discouraged.

Our Big Kid Ryan

Ryan and Josh

Josh Manning the Gear Boat, the Heavier Raft

Andrew complemented our cozy, already formed group very well. And in the end, it was he who furnished us with the best camping poop story of all. Indeed our fascination with the groover continued and this time around, we went so far as to ask the guys who’s job it was to take care of it upon return to the lodge. (Like all duties, they share that one with the same whoever-gets-to-it-first attitude that’s applied to the rest of the numerous river trip chores.)

So how was it for me second time around? Totally awesome, once again. I rarely do the same trip twice unless it’s to Paris or to ski in T-ride, but this one is truly super special. I didn’t feel the same sense of wonder I felt first time around since I was no longer a virgin rafter/camper on the Gunnison River. But it still felt extraordinary to me and this time I had the added sensation of “coming home.” It has definitely helped me to be less of a Parisian princess as well. This time I experienced less separation anxiety over my dry bag being tossed in the gear boat, but then again I got smart and brought a mini dry bag as a “purse.” (No one snickered about this either since most everyone asked me to hold something of theirs in my little ditty bag as we traveled along the river.) This time I had my hair colored shortly before the trip (hence, no need for mascara touch ups) but I did experience a big breakthrough in not looking at myself in a mirror at any time during the trip. I actually had forgotten my compact—but I’ll take kudos whenever possible.

Moi, au Naturel!

Jen asked me halfway through this last trip if I was coming back next year, an almost inconceivable thought since I rarely do any travels twice, let alone three times. I’m thinking about it though since experiencing this stunningly beautiful remote wilderness location with the expertise of two top-notch guides and a fun group of fellow campers makes for a most memorable getaway. Next time though I’ll be sure to outfit myself with a good pair of river shoes (first time around it was sneakers, then this time Teva flip flops—what am I thinking?) Progress has been made though since this last time I hardly thought twice about an eventual scorpion in my tent and actually didn’t ponder the pygmy rattlesnake once. And peeing outside beneath the stars appeared almost romantic. Wow, maybe I should go again. Am I becoming more Rocky Mountain girl than Parisian sophisticate? Whoah, whoah, not so fast, my dear.

Black Canyon Anglers, 970-835-5050, BlackCanyonAnglers.com
River trips are typically conducted May through early October; float trips tend to be best from July on. Day trips are also possible.

Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, 970-641-2337

Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park

This part of the Black Canyon, just outside of Montrose is the widest, tallest and perhaps the most awe-inspiring. (Experienced riders and rafters run the lower canyon in the Gunnison Gorge National Conservation Area as we did.) Open year-round, the Visitor Center here is an excellent place to begin your visit to this relatively little-known National Park. Then drive the South Rim Road to various lookout points where you’ll find great places to hike and picnic. I’ll be writing more about the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park in the not-too-distant future.

“Our surroundings were of the wildest possible description. The roar of the water…was constantly in our ears, and the walls of the canyon, towering half mile in height above us, were seemingly vertical. Occasionally a rock would fall from one side or the other, with a roar and crash, exploding like a ton of dynamite when it struck bottom, making us think our last day had come.”
Abraham Lincoln Fellow, 1901

In 1901 Abraham Lincoln Fellows and William Torrence floated the Gunnison River (named in honor of Captain John W. Gunnison who lead an expedition here in 1873-74, but bypassed the gorge in search of a river crossing). They traveled thirty-three miles on a rubber mattress in nine days and determined that construction of an irrigation tunnel was feasible. Despite a handful of installations, the Black Canyon of the Gunnison has remained amazingly unspoiled today. A true gem of southwestern Colorado, a wonder of the United States.

Latest dispatch from Josh ten days after our last trip:

There was a tremendous storm that hit the Gunnison Gorge last Thursday. Several of the washes turned into torrents of water and boulders. Caddis Camp, where we stayed the night, is no longer a camping spot. Alll the sand was washed away and it is now a pile of debris and rocks. You have to respect mother nature!

Thank you to the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park for the above image.

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Rafting and Roughing It on the Black Canyon of the Gunnison: Part Three

Day Two: The Bigger Rapids Day

Only a handful of experiences in life—at least ones that occur over a forty-eight hour period—may be considered transformative.  The below is part three of one of mine.  My journey on the Gunnison River gripped me with so much passion and awe that I’ve chosen to share it with you in its unabbreviated version.  I’m posting this story in four parts.  I hope you’ll be with me and enjoy it throughout.  You can read all parts in (reverse) sequence in the category Outdoor Adventures.

The cowboy coffee tasted all the more delicious the next morning, grounds and all.  I relished this in my tin cup along with a plate of blueberry pancakes and ham as well as a slice of chocolate cake from the night before while gazing out onto the shimmering Gunnison.

This being morning, talk of “the groover” increased tenfold. I had already been cautioned that use of the groover was technically mostly reserved for Number Two. (Just like everything else, the groover was also pack in/pack out. Wow.) “Why do you call it the groover?” I ventured.

Decamping: Could that be the Groover?

“It’s actually an old army rocket box,” Rick replied. “Steel tight. In the old days people would sit on it and get well you know, grooves in their butt. We have ours set up though with a toilet seat.”

I was beginning to be more intrigued. They had it positioned up beyond the back of camp, but there was no way I was going to hike up there during the night even though my hunny had lined the path with glow sticks.  (You’re supposed to pee in the river, but I had ruled that out during the night as well.) I saw the roll of toilet paper (a true luxury in the wild!) placed at the foot of the path and knew that if it was missing, it signaled that the groover was occupied. More giggles followed until it was finally my turn to check out the set up. The T.P. was there, so I was good to go. I followed the rocky path fifty yards up to nearly the base of the canyon wall where I turned to see, beautifully poised beneath a box elder, the groover. A copy of American Angler, a fishing magazine, had been carefully sealed within a Ziploc bag beside it. Unlike at the outhouses furnished at the put-in and at a few other locations in the canyon, no nauseating smells emanated from this tranquil spot situated beneath this lovely shade tree. O.K., I sat down and all I’ll tell you is that from there—high up on the river’s banks—I saw one of the most sensational views of the journey. I felt truly on a throne overlooking a kingdom.

More chuckles followed when it came time to load the groover onto the raft along with our enormous mound of BCA-emblazoned dry bags.  Rick and Ryan took care of this and every other detail with the utmost of professionalism, a task they had clearly carried out innumerable times before. Steve and I folded up our encampment without much effort. He commended me on my adventuresome spirit. (Surely he was most impressed by my delightful reaction to the groover.) But then he stupidly pointed out a scorpion scrambling from beneath our bedding.  I, of course, then let out an annoying shriek. (I later learned that they’re apparently harmless, but still.)

At least I didn’t need to make any wardrobe choices since by now we were all on day two of the same bathing suit and PFD (personal flotation device). I brushed my teeth in the bush, ran a brush through my hair and another towelette over my face, applied layers of sunscreen and declared it good.

We sailed off as though we were all experienced rafters by now. Once on the water, Rick informed us that today would be “a bigger day,” that most of yesterday’s rapids were Class IIs and today there’d be some Class IIIs. Parts of the canyon walls gleamed brightly this early in the day. Alternating layers of Neapolitan ice cream were served up in front of us: This is how we came to know the mighty grey-black walls of the canyon and their creamy pink and beige fillings, referred to as intrusions. (These diagonal stripes were actually formed by molten rock that had forced itself in between other rock formations a gazillion years ago.) Even more so than in other parts of the West, here we floated down a geologist’s dream. We all traveled once again in Rick’s raft while Ryan manned the heavy load of gear.

A Gunnison Gorge Big Horn Sheep in the Shadow of the Canyon

Clearly Rick knew every nook and cranny of this geological wonder, pointing out rainbow and brown trout darting beneath the surface and cliff swallows and king fishers soaring above our heads. We got supremely lucky at one point when we spotted two big horn sheep grazing at the river’s edge. Farther down in the canyon, we gazed open-mouthed at a golden eagle soaring above us; indeed the craggy cliffs of this mountain gulf provide excellent nesting and hiding places for a great variety of wildlife. We longed to see a mountain lion basking on one of the rocky outcroppings but were told we’d spot a much smaller creature, a ringtail cat, at best and even those typically only come around the campsite at night in search of food.

The mood shifted from tranquil to uproarious as soon as we hit the rapids. I almost fell out of the boat at one point only to be yanked back in by Steve, an expert boatsman who was careful to keep his eye on his duties as well as me from the get-go. We all took turns being tossed about as Rick cautioned one side than the other to “look out for the rock wall!”

“Maintain your center of gravity,” I advised my fellow rafters during a lull in the activity. I learned this in ski training, a skill that I sensed definitely applied to rafting, particularly when launched through whitewater. Balance in any activity reigns supreme. Everyone looked at me in an affirming manner but no one seemed to want to give me any credit for any solid sporting advice. Why spoil my reputation as a super softy?

The raft cavorted and bucked through the Class IIIs distinguished by names such as Boulder Garden, Feather and Cable. “O.K., give it all you got,” hollered our oarsman as we all paddled furtively on command, careful not “to rock the boat” in any manner. “O.K., now three forward. One. Two. Three. Good. Now two back. One. Two,” Rick continued. By now we were all fairly good about staying in sync, everyone pretty much paddling in unison.

Leaving the Rapids

Finally we plummeted into Grand Finale, the last rapid of this fourteen-mile stretch of the river known as the Gunnison Gorge Natural Conservation Area. We floated through tranquil waters, craning our necks up the canyon walls a short distance more before arriving at a sandy beach, a well-known site called Smith Fork. Here we all piled out, left our life preservers behind and filled our water bottles up for a hike up into a tight, side canyon. Glenn had decided to stay back and cool off in the icy waters of the river while we headed out on our adventure. We climbed over rocks that varied in size from tiny pebbles to enormous boulders way bigger than our raft, passed cascading pools of pristine water lined with ochre-colored slabs to find our way to the biggest and most inviting basins of them all, deep lagoons fed by a series of charging waterfalls. I hopped right in and felt instantly delighted by the freshness, purity and inviting temperature of the water. Steve grabbed my hand and lead me beneath one of the pelting falls. Here we sat and enjoyed an exhilarating hydrotherapy experience like none I had ever sampled before. Then the guys wormed their way behind the falls, caving between the rocks, while Jen and I luxuriated in our open-air jetted tub. Beneath the brilliant blue skies of this hot and sunny Rocky Mountain day, the moments passed here felt beyond idyllic.

Glenn: Our River Bather

We rock scrambled back only to find Glenn soaking in the chilly river, seated in a camp chair with the water lapping at his shoulders. (He later declared that he had plenty of body insulation that allowed him to tolerate such frigid water.) By now we were all ravenous, so we hit the Pringles (good camping chips) and lemonade while Rick and Ryan prepared lunch. That was to be the last of the many memorable and most delicious meals we shared together; our trip was drawing to an end.

Thank you to Ryan Gluek for some of the above images.

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Rafting and Roughing It on the Black Canyon of the Gunnison: Part Two

The Blackened Walls of the Black Canyon

Only a handful of experiences in life—at least ones that occur over a forty-eight hour period—may be considered transformative.  The below is part two of one of mine.  My journey on the Gunnison River gripped me with so much passion and awe that I’ve chosen to share it with you in its unabbreviated version.  I’m posting this story in four parts.  I hope you’ll be with me and enjoy it throughout.  You can read all parts in (reverse) sequence in the category Outdoor Adventures.

The steep walls of the canyon towered over us. Rick explained that the Black Canyon of the Gunnison got its name from the blackness of the canyon walls, a darkness that’s largely attributed to the depth and narrowness of the canyon. Indeed the shadows cast on the steep canyon walls at times appear foreboding. Yet the crystal-clear waters that splice through this impressive channel were already providing ample sunny moments for me, especially from my vantage point perched high up on the edge of the raft. We felt instantly in awe of the raw beauty and remoteness of this site, one of the jewels of the BLM’s (Bureau of Land Management) system. Rick talked about how the canyon is managed for wildlife; the preservation of the solitude and wilderness of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison is well guarded. Only twenty-four people are allowed to enter the canyon on commercial boats per day and only twenty-three camping sites are provided for hikers and boaters. And many of those sites go unclaimed since it requires such an effort to hike down into the canyon. (Imagine schlepping all your gear down yourself!)

We felt like kids floating along the river, laughing and shrieking as the whitewater splashed and tossed us about. We drifted a little farther and stopped to have lunch beneath a perfectly-shaped shade tree where Ryan had rowed ahead and set up a camp table and chairs. This is how it would be for the next two days: We’d paddle along and then stop at some idyllic place to for lunch, dinner and an overnight and breakfast and then lunch again until finally the trip would come to a close. The guys rowed and navigated the river with the utmost of expertise. They knew every rock, every dip, every rapid, every possible quirk of the river for every season. (This all changed greatly, of course, from early spring to late fall depending on the flow of the mighty Gunnison.)

Thank Goodness for the Oarsmen!

We were called upon to paddle throughout much of the trip, a welcome assignment that prevented us from feeling like bobbing blobs in a rubber raft. “One forward, and then another forward, now back one,” Rick yelled, as we helped him to propel the boat along, especially through the tight spots that bore names such as Upper Pucker, Lower Pucker, Buckaroo and Zig Zag. Our seemingly indestructible boat—an extraordinary invention born out of World War II combat—bounded and bounced its way along the churned up river, squeezing through sections no bigger than the boat’s width, only to plunge safely into calm water where we all laughed and breathed great sighs of relief. I received a big splash on Buttermilk, screamed and heard Rick say “that was your baptism.” Rafting season was officially on for all of us landlubbers aboard.

A whole other adventure began when we pulled up to the shore of our designated campsite, Ute 2 in Ute Park, the widest and most shallow part of the Gunnison where the Ute Indians supposedly crossed the river back in the day. Here we settled in for the remainder of our day and night. Rick and Ryan teamed up to unload every last cooler and dry bag from the boats. Steve grabbed our bags, claimed a site and proceeded to set up our tent. Meanwhile the guys installed a full kitchen at the heart of camp, complete with prep table, dishwashing station and gas stove (no campfires allowed in the canyon since little wood is available for scavenging). In front of this chuck wagon tableau, our ever-so efficient guides installed another camp table for dining and dressed it with a blue-and-white checked tablecloth. Later on we’d use a jumble of blue-and-white enamel painted tin cups and plates as our table settings. Martha Stewart eat your heart out. Few people in the world have experienced such a homey table in such a dramatic setting.

I smoothed down our sleeping bags and emptied the last of my belongings from my bottomless dry bag and felt delightfully settled into our new digs. “It seems like you spend a lot of time moving stuff around when camping,” I exclaimed to Steve.

“Yeah, that’s what it’s all about,” he responded. “I guess that’s why they call it camping. Nothing’s permanent.”

By now Jen was calling to see if we wanted to venture out onto a hike, an expedition that would take us way up to the canyon rim where we were guaranteed even more spectacular views. (How much striking scenery could one take in in two days?) Glenn decided to stay back to read as did Ryan since he had some cooking to do. Steve, Jen, Rick and I bounded off with all the enthusiasm of scouts hitting the trail. It was close to four by now, but still I swayed beneath the sweltering, summer sun.

Vision Quest Vision: Perhaps a Totem?

After nearly an hour of hiking I gave up and told the others to go on without me. I had the choice of heading back to camp or sitting at the top of a rise and waiting for them until they headed back down. I chose the latter, a personal experiment of sorts since I had absolutely nothing to do but sit on the rocks and take in the glorious nature that surrounded me. I didn’t read or write or even pay much attention to the thoughts that, of course, occasionally swirled in my head. It was as though I had decided to conduct my own Vision Quest, a personal challenge to myself to see how well I’d fare out in the middle of a rugged land with no sign of civilization anywhere to be seen. Thoughts of the pygmy rattlers popped into my mind a few times, then I chased them away. And of course I felt startled from time to time by a crackling noise behind me but still, I brushed it off, imagining that it was just a harmless little mouse scurrying about in this arid land. The others returned soon enough although I learned that more than an hour had actually passed. We all felt content with our accomplishments and trekked back down to camp, hungry and thirsty but beaming with contentment about having communed with nature in such an exceptional setting.

I sponged myself off with a moist towelette (how French!), changed into warmer, dryer clothes and padded off to the “kitchen area” where I marveled once again at the set up. Ryan seemed to have everything in control at the cook’s station where he had placed a huge pot of water to boil on the portable stove next to a heavy cast iron skillet. Not wanting to bother the master at work, I filled my water bottle with fresh river water that had passed through the gravity water filter hanging from the tree and joined the others at the camp table facing the river. We swilled beers and munched on shrimp quesadillas as the sun slowly slipped behind the high canyon walls.

Cook's Prep Area: BCA Style

Ryan, a real cutie that had it not been for his quiet charm and boy-next-door good looks, would have been over-shadowed by Rick’s presence as lead guide, served up a dinner worthy of three-star glamping (glamour + camping). His guiding experience in Alaska bequeathed him with numerous talents, most notably (at least to us that evening) how to cook salmon. He served up the most exquisite piece of fish, perfectly moist, delicately flavored with hints of lemon and orange and dressed with juicy, ripe mango. Pesto pasta and green beans accompanied this fine dish that we all savored as the sky turned battleship grey and the light drained out of the canyon.

In perhaps an effort not to be outdone, Rick whipped up a cake, poured it into a dutch oven, placed coals on top of it and left it to bake as we finished off the last morsels of our meal. Just as night had completely fallen, Rick proclaimed that the cake was done and then turned it out onto a large tin plate with great fanfare. He had succeeded at capturing our attention since we all marveled at his German chocolate upside down cake, topped with carmelized pears and walnuts, a true sensation, especially since it had emerged from the campfire.

Completely satiated from the day and such an outstanding meal, we kicked back and took in the shadowy sights and incessant rushing water sounds of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. I found it somewhat odd that a lantern or some other sort of camp light was not illuminated by now, but I didn’t ask why. The reasons seemed fairly obvious: I was in the midst of “a real camping trip” and “real campers” don’t use wimpy lights. Just like the ancients, they were guided by the light of the stars.

By now Rick and Ryan had cleaned up the camp kitchen and lead us to the river’s edge to better take in the glistening glow of the night’s sky. Rick, an expert river guide with BCA for over sixteen years, began to point out the constellations, offering up a little dissertation on each one. Far from city lights or even from the visual interference cast from a small town, we all marveled at the luminosity and wonder of the stars and how little we knew about these celestial points of reference. How greatly our lives had changed from those of our ancestors. Still though, we were adapting nicely: No one seemed to miss their cell phone or their remote. Hey, after a week out here, we’d surely find ourselves looking up at the sky more than ever before.

Yawns set in, Ryan and Rick ambled off to claim their private sleeping spots beneath the stars while the rest of us headed to our tents. I took two Tylenol PM along with another special pain reliever, all with the hope that I wouldn’t have to wake up during the night to pee.

Steve and I slept in until nine, a seemingly ungodly hour for campers but the wee hours of the morning had been restless. (The near-numbing sounds of raging water, crickets and other unidentified odd noises created a soundtrack to nature that proved to be unsettling to neophytes like me.)  And yes, I still stepped out of the tent countless times to pee, scared to death during each and every squat.

Thank you to Ryan Gluek and Rigs Fly Shop & Guide Service (another company that specializes in river trips on the Gunnison) for the above images.

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Rafting and Roughing It on the Black Canyon of the Gunnison: Part One

Black Canyon of the Gunnison River

Only a handful of experiences in life—at least ones that occur over a forty-eight hour period—may be considered transformative. The below is one of mine. My journey on the Gunnison River gripped me with so much passion and awe that I’ve chosen to share it with you in its unabbreviated version. I’m posting this story in four parts. I hope you’ll be with me and enjoy it throughout.

I looked in the mirror and dabbed mascara onto my remaining lashes. I peered at myself and sighed about how much grey belied my younger-than-my-years appearance. Oh, what the heck, I thought. I carefully pulled the mascara wand through the patches of grey at my temples and along my hairline right at my part. I knew this was chance-y. Tomorrow I’d be on the river and I’d surely look ghastly with streaks of brownish-black running down the side of my face. Too bad I didn’t have waterproof mascara. Too bad I hadn’t had time to have my hair colored before it got this bad. Too bad I had to pack vanity along with me on a wilderness adventure.

My boyfriend, Steve, didn’t bother to comment on my appearance when he picked me up for our trip. But that’s fine, I really didn’t require any compliments. I knew that what mattered most to him would be that I’d get through it all O.K. I already told him that I had camped just a handful of nights in my life and that I had gone river rafting—all half-day trips—only twice. This, combined with the fact that I had a propensity for luxury hotels and only stayed with friends or family under the best of circumstances (no couch surfing, thank you very much), indicated to him that chances were I wouldn’t be much of a camper. Steve on the other hand was an expert outdoorsman. (This was revealed to me through many of his stories including one about roughing it on a surf trip in Baja for a month without having taken a single shower.)

The Peach Farm

After just over two hours of driving from Telluride, we found ourselves surrounded by an odd, lunar-like landscape outside of Delta, Colorado. It was hard to believe there was a deep, coursing river nearby since the landscape here is composed mainly of rocks, sand and barren hills. Nary a tree nor bush sprung forth from this bone-dry terrain. We turned off at the Black Canyon Anglers sign and cavorted along a dirt road a short distance until the orchards came into view. The trees appeared full with fruit. Peaches and nectarines hung from the branches like ornaments on a Christmas tree. The river meandered lazily in the distance. The lodge sat firmly at its edge skirted by flowering bushes, tall, centuries-old cottonwoods and gravely walkways that extended out to a variety of outposts including cabins, sheds and a huge garage where all the river excursions were staged.

Black Canyon Anglers Lodge

Somehow it felt as though we had left the big city trappings of Telluride (Ha! How do New Yorkers feel?) and arrived at a waterside oasis. Steve and I dined with Rick, lead guide of Black Canyon Anglers (BCA), and his companion, Barbara. We exchanged pleasantries throughout the evening commenting on such things as the fine quality of the wine (a local production) and what kind of people took the river trips.

“Texans, lots of Texans,” Rick said. “But really people come from all over, mostly just to get away from it all.”

I learned that most of BCA’s river trips were for fishing, a not-so negligent fact that for me conjured up images of bunches of guys getting down and dirty in the wild. As though he was reading my thoughts, Rick began to debrief me on the upcoming two days we were to be spend on the river. Somehow Rick had been clued in that I wasn’t much of an outdoorswoman. He carefully provided a bit of an orientation, speaking slowly and softly about certain matters that he imagined might be of concern to me.

“No bears,” he quickly replied. And I could tell that with that news, even Steve breathed a sigh of relief.

“How about snakes?” I queried.

“The only one that could harm you would be the pygmy rattlesnakes,” he answered in a seemingly matter-of-fact, supposedly reassuring manner. Then he saw my jaw drop as I imagined a smallish rattler slithering toward me on the riverbanks. Somehow the stunted-growth version appeared even more horrific.

“I’ve only seen two in the sixteen years I’ve been on the river,” Rick quickly added.

Steve and I finished off our perfect evening outside in front of the fire seated on benches made of old wagon wheels with Farm Kitty, the resident fluffy, black and tan tabby, on our laps. The sound of the river whooshed in the distance. I gave little thought to what lay ahead. Tonight we’d sleep in the cabin.

Farm Kitty snuggled in with us for the night and then we all enjoyed breakfast the next morning at the same spot where we’d gazed into the fire the night before. I still felt pretty relaxed. Then it was time to sort out our belongings and pack all that we needed for two days into a dry sack, a large, elongated and totally waterproof duffel bag of sorts that would be carted along on our travels. Panic ensued as to what to bring and what to leave behind. (The idea of spending close to thirty-two hours in the wilderness with just one small bag—with access to little else—seemed daunting.) I put my padded, underwire bra aside but not my makeup case. (I didn’t plan on wearing any makeup but it just seemed too radical to part with it entirely.) Steve folded the plastified canvas bag down for me and hauled it off to the guys who were readying the van that would take us to the put-in way up the river, a distance from the lodge.

By now Glenn, a friend and business contact of Steve’s, and his twenty-something year-old daughter and graduate school student, Jennifer, had arrived. Glenn, an accountant from New Jersey, who had taken the trip eight times, was the motivating force behind our going. The heat was on for me to totally buckle everything up. I did one more bathroom stop, relishing it so much that I even sat on the seat in the public restroom at the lodge. I had already been informed about the toilet habits of the back country and I was quite sure that dealing with the lack of modern facilities would prove to be my biggest challenge. (There had been considerable talk about “the groover,” the camp toilet installation that ended up being a big topic of conversation throughout the trip. More on that later.)

The four of us, Rick, another guide, Ryan, and the driver piled into a large van that had been packed with all our stuff. We chatted convivially and snacked on freeze dried peaches from the orchard as we drove back beyond Delta toward Montrose. Here we turned off at the Gunnison Gorge Wilderness Area. We regained the lunar-like landscape of before, passing by enormous gumdrop-shaped mounds, monolithic anthills scarred with ATV and dirt bike tracks. It could have been the stageset for “Mad Max.” Farther along sage brush, pignon, juniper, cedar, cacti and sunflowers pushed through this sun-scorched earth, leaving me to believe that the river’s edge was nearing.

Approaching the Canyon

“We’ve got to climb up to the canyon rim there,” Rick indicated as I gazed out at this spectacular panorama of high desert landscape backdropped by the Uncompahgre Plateau and some of the most majestic peaks of the Rockies. We bumped and jostled more than half the way over the dirt road of this 45-minute drive that lead to the edge of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. Gullies, a foot wide and just as deep, tossed our van from port to starboard, stern to aft. I prayed I didn’t have to cry out for a bathroom break since I sensed that there were surely unsavory critters lurking in this hostile environment. Finally, we arrived.

The Canyon Road---The Smooth Part!

Mules gathered near our drop-off point, ready to descend the steep canyon yet another time so that we would only be taxed by the burden of carrying down our personal belongings, our own dry bags converted into backpacks of sorts. The driver of the van had already dropped off most of the gear for our two-day river trip the day before; this way the beasts were already packed and ready to go upon our arrival.

I switched out of my flip flops and into my sporty Ralph Lauren sneaks. I had to bother Steve with undoing my dry bag so that I could add my last-minute incidentals into the sack. He hoisted the fifty-pound satchel onto my shoulders and gathered up his own, a considerably larger load since he was also carrying our sleeping bags and pads. By now, half the crew was headed down the steep slope. Steve, Glenn and I set out along the rocky trail, a supposed fifteen-minute hike that would lead us to the base of the canyon. I gingerly stepped over, on and between the rocks, careful not to injure myself so early in the game. Steve slowed up as much as he could until I gave him the O.K. to forge forward as Glenn and I teetered along at our own secure pace. I had never hiked with such a charge and beneath the heat of the nearly noon-day sun, it was feeling as though I was lugging a hundred pounds on my back.

Glenn, a 260-pound guy, that was surely in no better shape than I, huffed and puffed the whole way down. Except for the fact that I worried about what to do if he expired, I took solace in this—it was nice to have someone in sync with me.

“There’s no need to go any faster,” he exclaimed wryly. “The sooner we arrive, the more work we’ll have to do.” Boy was I beginning to love this guy. I knew from the get-go that I’d fare O.K. on this trip with Glenn along.

The distant clinking and clanking of the animals finally caught up with us and then we let them pass. These hard-working beasts descended (and ascended!) this rugged trail, loaded down with recreationalists’ wares, two to three times a day. I spotted a neatly folded rubber raft on one of the animal’s backs, the frame for the boat on another’s, while another one of these kind-faced mules was loaded down with coolers and other random supplies. No wonder these river trips were so expensive. The horse packers themselves required a good amount of compensation for their efforts.

“Let’s wait a while for the air to clear,” I yelled to Glenn, as I choked on the stream of gas that trailed the animals down the mountain.

“Good idea,” he shouted back in his thick Jersey accent. “Remember there’s no need to go any faster.”

Glenn told me “it’s right around the corner” at least three times before he, too, seemed frustrated that we weren’t there yet. Rick appeared, offering to carry one of our sacks. Glenn quickly turned his over and gave me a droll smile, saying “age before beauty.” That was fine by me since I didn’t think having Steve see Rick show up with my bag was a good way to start the trip. I knew that Steve would be hoping for more than that from me.

Once at the beach (about a half hour from the start of the hike), we all gathered beneath the shade of a clump of trees while Rick and Ryan proceeded to blow up the rafts, place the frames, load the coolers, dry bags and a plethora of other stuff that was surely essential for two fun and safe days on the river. Squashed into our life vests with paddles in hand, we were finally ready to board the raft. (All four of us traveled with Rick, while Ryan navigated alone with the gear.) I requested one more look into my dry bag and fished out a sunscreen and lip balm that I tucked into the pockets of my quick-dry shorts. I nervously watched as my dry bag was buckled down into Ryan’s boat. Steve and company couldn’t help teasing me about separation anxiety about my stuff. I made a mental note to bring a purse-sized dry bag with me (in my boat) if ever I was to do this trip again.

The Put-In

Thank you to Ryan Gluek and Black Canyon Anglers for the above images.

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