My Barcelona '92

View of Barcelona from Montjuïc.

I can't imagine another combination that would ignite a passion for foreign travel like the one I experienced during my first journey abroad in August of 1992. This wasn't just a trip abroad—I was going there to live!

Upon arrival at the airport in Barcelona, excitement prevailed the second we departed the airplane. The Chinese women's volleyball team and the Italian rowing team arrived at the same time as us. It was all a fog and unexpected, but I remember them wearing their national colors and being tall. When we descended the escalators, I looked out the giant glass windows and saw palm trees. Humidity flowed across my face, and for the first time, I considered that Spain could have a tropical climate. At the bottom of the escalators, a television crew pointed their cameras straight at us. We smiled as we walked past them, noticing that they were really pointed at the Olympic team right behind us.

Oh! Did I mention that we landed in Barcelona, Spain, just three days before the Summer Olympics?

Armed guards during the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona.

I should back up and briefly explain why I had even more reason to be thrilled to be here. I am a wrestler. In Junior High, I "knew" that I would become an Olympic wrestler someday. I was that good. I had it all planned out. I also knew that I would serve a mission for my church when I turned nineteen, but if I were to delay that mission just a few months, then I could wrestle in the Olympics (in 1992). At that time, the location of the games were unknown.

Years passed, and I became aware that I was not Olympic material. During the early part of 1992 the hype of Barcelona began, and so did the anticipation of receiving my mission call. In hopeful fashion, I made a prediction of where I would be called: Barcelona, Spain. When I opened up the letter and read those exact words, elation filled my soul, and a sense of destiny came echoing within. 

Now, here I was, half a world away, in a city of nearly two million, swarming with motorcycles and mopeds. The Barcelona that I first witnessed was not the true Barcelona. The blend of faces that I saw were not the Catalan, the Castillian and a sprinkle of South American. It was also the German, the Russian, the British, the American.

Our apartment (with windows wide open) on the seventeenth story in Cornellà.

I will admit that not everything was centered around the Olympics during those three weeks. I met my new companion and we hauled my luggage onto the blue line of the subway and were whisked forty-five minutes away to Cornellà, a suburb of Barcelona. There life was normal, at a slower pace than the bigger city, and perhaps slower than normal due to the fact that half the town was gone on summer vacation.

Those days in Cornellà were filled with learning. We lived atop the highest building in town, on the 17^th story. We faced away from downtown Barcelona, but after an exceptional rainstorm, the smog cleared, and I learned that we could see the Mediterranean Sea from our window!

Our opportunities to preach the gospel proved difficult. We knocked on doors and also contacted people on the street. Occasionally, we would get invited inside an apartment. I remember my first attempt to teach. We sat in the living room of Juan, a Peruvian, and I trembled as I delivered a memorized lesson in Spanish. I don't know if he understood me, and I know that I didn't understand him.

Olympic Stadium.

Olympic diving pool overlooks the city.

We took any available opportunity to take the metro back to Barcelona and partake of the excitement. We ascended Montjuïc, the crowning hill of Olympic festivities. We walked past Olympic Stadium, not going inside, but still able to see the burning caldron. On the television a few nights earlier, we had watched the opening ceremonies and witnessed an archer who flung a burning arrow from the stadium floor, high into the air, arching and dropping perfectly into the center of the caldron, igniting it and officially commencing the games. 

We also strolled passed the diving pool, uniquely outdoors and open-faced so as to look upon the entire city. After dark, a large fountain of water danced with movement and color to the song Barcelona, by Freddie Mercury and Montserrat Caballé. The choreographed show attracted hundreds of spectators and went off every half hour or so.

Olympic Village.

On another day, we slipped into Barcelona again, this time with the excuse that we were going to hand out pamphlets on the Rambla, the most famous pedestrian street in the city. I remember the Rambla being very busy. People were there from everywhere. Suddenly, we noticed a gathering of an unusually large group of people along a side-street. Curiously, we moved to where they were. They waited alongside a large bus with tinted windows. The bus sat outside an old hotel in the city center.

I should remind the reader, if he hasn't already remembered, that 1992 was the year of the Dream Team. Not Dream Team II or Dream Team III. The original Dream Team! Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan. That Dream Team!

As we waited with the rest of the crowd, we learned that the Dream Team was about to enter the bus and drive away for their game against Spain. We waited and waited and soon, Chuck Daily walked down the steps of the hotel and onto the bus. The bus closed its doors and slowly began to drive away. Little did we know that the team was already inside the bus, but out of view because of the tinted windows. As it drove within feet of us, I was able to peer through the windows and catch a glance of three players: Larry Bird, John Stockton, and Scotty Pippen.

My "little friends" on a street in Cornellà.

Back in Cornellà, we continued our work. Slowly, but surely, I immersed myself in Spanish culture. I learned that Spaniards buy their milk in a box and that you will find cured pig legs hanging up in every meat shop. I learned that Ranch Dressing does not exist in Spain and that paella is a wonderful rice dish with seafood and chicken and whatever else you want on it.

As we knocked doors one afternoon, we unexpectedly had a somber, almost spiritual experience. As I remember, no one in that building was answering their door, although we knew that some were home because we could hear their televisions. We began at the top (probably five or seven stories high), and worked our way down. About half way through, we heard a familiar sweet tune waft from beyond the door. It was the Star Spangled Banner. An American had won gold. I don't know who, but I know they did. We sat on a step in the hallway, and quietly listened to that beautiful song until the very last note. We were happy to be where we were, but felt a twinge of homesickness, as well as pride.

Water polo game at the '92 Olympics.

We still hadn't watched any event in person. It was our goal to say we had. And I knew what I wanted to watch: wrestling. I was determined to watch my childhood heroes, John Smith and Kenny Monday, win gold. I was also convinced that destiny was to be played out on this day, fulfilling my Junior High premonition. It is true that I was not wrestling in the Olympics myself, but watching them in person had to be the next best thing. 

It was, however, not to be. The ticket office told us they were sold out. We decided to walk toward the venue to see if any scalpers were selling. As chance would have it, we passed scalpers who offered us tickets, but they were before we got to the wrestling venue and were water polo tickets. We gave in, deciding it was better to watch water polo, than to risk finding nothing at the wrestling venue and get stuck watching nothing at all.

So we watched two water polo games: Italy vs. Cuba and Germany vs. Czechoslovakia. We enjoyed them both. I remember being impressed at how well they could tread water and laughing at the German girl who flicked her hair at the exact moment I clicked my picture of the pool.

Three weeks after arriving in the city, our Olympic experience was about to end. We returned to our apartment after a long day of work. I don't remember if we had a radio, or if one of us missionaries had taken a very good guess of when the firework display would take place. It was the night of the closing ceremony and we were determined that in someway, we were going to watch a part of it. My companion (Elder Harpham) had found a way to unlock the door that led to the roof of our seventeen-story building. We brought a few snacks with us and dressed in sweats. Once on the roof, we admired the view. Below us people walked around like ants, and Peugeots and Volvos moved around like matchbox cars. The population of Barcelona with all its suburbs is six million. We could probably see most of that spread. Like a giant abyss, the city lights abruptly ended at the edge of the sea. Our focus was Montjuïc, the sight of the Olympic Stadium and firework display. We knew it would be big. We waited and watched, hoping at any time that the show would begin. Nothing. I don't know if we were too early, or too late, but we never did experience our firework display. Disappointed, we descended the steps back to our apartment.

We didn't allow the let-down from one evening destroy our memory of the rest of the three weeks. Like I wrote earlier, this is how I began my first “trip abroad.” I loved it! My passion for travel began during those days, and evolved into what it is now. Even though I have traveled to other cities with just as much charisma as Barcelona, I still hold this Mediterranean jewel my most beloved. ♠

P-Day excursion in Barcelona, with the Palau Nacional as background.

Green River, Day Four—To Mineral Bottom

Last night was the worst sleep I've had in a long time! For starters, the ground was harder than it looked, with an inconspicuous hump beneath my back. Then, during the night, it was either like a sweat lodge inside my sleeping bag, or a mosquito fest if I was poking out. Even if I went a few minutes without any pesky bugs, without fail, one would soon be buzzing at my ear or sucking blood from my arm.

Somehow I survived, and this morning we all awoke at our usual time, just as it was light enough to see. (No one brought any kind of chronometer on this trip, so telling time was always a guess.)

We ate oatmeal and bagels, which is the same breakfast we have eaten all week. Then we rolled up our bags and packed away the food to load on the boats for our final sojourn along the river.

I think that most of the group was anxious to get home, so no one (except me) wanted to stop anywhere. My one wish was to visit the other inscription from 1836 of the French trapper, Denis Julian, located in Hell Roaring Canyon, which was near the end of our route.

Finally on the stand-up (or sit-down) paddleboard.

Today was my day on the stand-up paddleboard. It was my first time on it, and I liked it from the beginning. It floated lightly on the river, barely piercing the water more than a few inches. The lack of friction helped it glide easily. Rather than stand up, I sat down and used it like a kayak.

At early morning, the sun still bent low in the sky. The ocher hue of the cliffs reflected in the water. I would paddle for a while, then stop for a moment and let the current slowly carry me while I searched as far as I could along the cliffs for anything compelling. I found a few arches and interesting pinnacles.

We passed Two-mile Canyon where I had walked yesterday, then Horseshoe Canyon, which was much wider and open than I had expected. We had settled into two groups, with one canoe and the raft well behind us.

Sometimes while on the SUP, I would drag a paddle so that it turned the board, leaving me to spin in a slow circle. This gave me a panoramic view from behind.

Other times I just laid down on the board and closed my eyes. I bobbed gently like on a water bed. I could hear the subtle wake behind me, and birds chirping in the willows. If I didn't have to keep looking up to see where I was drifting, I could have fallen asleep.

As for the Denis Julian inscription, I was disappointed. Dave wasn't able to spot the right canyon and we floated past it, completely unaware. I guess I'll have to return another day.

Dave and Christian in placid water.

Coming around a bend, we spotted the small launching site of Mineral Bottom. For the last time we paddled our vessels to the bank of the river and pulled them ashore. A short time later, the rest of the group caught up. Now came the busy time of loading things back onto the truck.

Today we traveled 10 miles, bringing our total trip mileage to 68.

While we were busy strapping the canoes to the T-rack, we heard a heavy clap in the air, and then a loud voice, either hollering in panic or excitement. I walked up the small slope to see what it was and saw what looked like a para-glider in the air. Then, just a few seconds later, I hear another yell, and then near the top of a tall cliff, I heard another heavy clap and watched a parachute come out. These were base-jumpers! They swirled around in the air for less than a minute, then landed in the same graveled parking lot where we stood. Looking at the top of the 1,000 foot cliff, we could see other people. Two more jumped down within the next two minutes.

Sinuous and steep is the road coming from Mineral Bottom.

The road out of Mineral Bottom is steep and sinuous. It is picturesque to the photographer, but wary to those scared of heights. There are no guard rails and many places that are wide enough for only one car. Just for the fun of it I chose to run up from Mineral Bottom. It was well worth it. I got passed by three cars, who kicked up small amounts of dust.

One of our dilemmas of shuffling the vehicles is that we knew that Dave's truck only had six seat belts for our seven people. I volunteered to ride in the back of the truck until we got back to my vehicle in Green River.

Once I completed my trot up the hill, I climbed into the bed of the truck and laid back on bags, with a rolled up foam pad to rest my head. I had a cool breeze blow across, and best of all, no mosquitoes! This was the most comfortable bed I had had in four days. ♠


The Standup Paddleboard
Green River Trip, Day 1
Green River Trip, Day 2
Green River Trip, Day 3

Green River, Day Three—Through the Great Bow-knot

We watched the sky last night, hoping the storm wouldn't carry into today. It hasn't. This day has been our best weather yet on the river. No rain, only mild winds, and just a handful of clouds. Of course, the sun has cooked us.

This morning the river was a placid sheet, interrupted only by subtle ripples and the dip of our oars. Random whirlpools bubbled to the surface as if from an underground vent, then fizzled away and disappeared.

Dave on the canoe.

The river seemed to meander endlessly past cliffs and canyons. In some places an old dirt road suddenly appeared beyond the bank of the river, undoubtedly a bygone uranium track. It would be interesting to see where the roads come from and how they descend the steep declivities to the river. High on a ledge we saw an old piece of mining equipment that had been abandoned for decades.

Near the mouth of a canyon there is a slide of large rocks next to a cliff with dozens of names etched into them. None of them are ancient, but many are interesting, including a couple artistic drawings.

Here we met a group of three adventurists from Fort Collins who had camped here and were packing to leave. They wore no shirts and carried a case of beer. They seemed in no hurry to head down the river. They were only the second group of people we'd encountered on the trip.

We stopped here to look at the writings and to eat another round of PB&J for lunch. I will admit that our food supply is becoming mushed and mangled. All the bread is smashed. Anything in a box, like oatmeal packets, have long fallen from their torn covers. A bag of hostess donuts was nothing but crumbs.

Dave and I were together on the canoe again, and by the time we pushed off from lunch, we were far behind the others. Somewhere on the left bank is an inscription by a French trapper named Denis Julien. It is dated 1836. In search for this inscription, we pulled our canoe up to a small opening in the tamarisk, with a trail leading further ashore. We docked there and pulled the canoe aground. We followed the trail until it met an old mining road, leading to nowhere obvious.

I was disappointed that we didn't find the inscription, but knew we didn't have much time. We turned back to our canoes. By the time we pushed off, we had mosquitoes around us everywhere. Dave said I had at least 200 on my back! We swatted, splashed, and hit, which nearly caused us to capsize. I had blood smeared all over my arm. The bugs didn't leave us until we had been back on the water and were going at a good pace.

By the time we caught up with the group, we learned that most of them were anxious to keep moving and to find a spot down-river to camp. But Dave and I had other plans: to hike to the saddle of Bow-knot Bend.

Bow-knot Bend.

Looking south from the saddle of Bow-knot Bend.

Named by John Wesley Powell in 1869, Bow-knot Bend is a vast loop in the river, that after seven miles of curling around high sandstone cliffs, returns withing 1,000 feet from where it began. Combining that with another large loop in the river, it is reminiscent of a bow-knot.

A short, but steep trail winds up a rock slide on the hill and at the top is a sweeping panorama of both sides of the loop. The view from the top is fascinating, as it shows a different perspective than the choke-filled banks of the river, beyond which are bare shelfs and slopes. Far below on the opposite side of the bank, we spotted three riders on horseback.

About a mile past Bow-knot Bend, we rejoined our group who had found a great camping spot with oak trees and skunk brush, next to some short cliffs. Today we traveled 25 miles, bringing our total trip mileage to 58.

We had the rest of the evening to relax and eat supper. We fried up the last package of brats and poured in cans of chili. We topped it with a small bag of cheese and crumbled saltines. I think for all of us, it was the best tasting meal we had eaten. I'm not sure if it was the great flavor, or the fact that anything could have been savory after three days on the river.

Tason leaps off the cliff.

The boys found a spot to go cliff diving. The jump landed them into a deep, but slow portion of the river, just beyond a growth of willows. Jayden didn't jump because of the staples in his head. Christian was very hesitant to jump, but eventually got pressured from the other boys. After that, he was hooked, and was anxious to go again.

The rest of the evening was spent lazily passing the time. Christian etched his name into the rock. Jordan caught lizards. Tason and Jayden slept.

Dave returns from a spiritual journey up the river.

Our campsite as seen from above.

Dave went back out on the SUP and paddled at least a mile up-river to Bow-knot Bend. We didn't see him for two hours. I later learned that he was paddling in memory of his father, with whom he spent considerable hours on this river. Paddling up-current was a difficult task. Many times he considered giving up, but then gained courage when he thought of his dad. He would set a goal of a landmark, and not rest until he reached it. His journey was quiet and peaceful, and gave him ample time to think and reminisce.

I did my own thing and hiked up on the bench away from the trees and along a small trail that led to Two-mile Canyon. I didn't see anything earth-shattering other than great views and interesting geological formations. It is amazing how once you get away from choking riparian section of the river, that the view opens up and there is very little growth.

On my way back, I found a small ledge where I could overlook our camp. The low angle of the sun began to bring the hues of sunset, transforming the walls of the cliffs into a magical ocher, and casting a shimmering reflection across the water. From here I had a long view of the river. I watched Dave on the paddleboard, slowly moving with the current, until he pulled ashore directly below me.

Once again it is dark and we have been blessed with good weather. But the mosquitoes are relentless, taking the edge off of any aesthetic pleasure we may be feeling. I can hear cicadas, and the flow of the river just below us.

* * *

One hundred forty-eight years ago, John Wesley Powell and his crew traveled the exact same stretch of the river as us. Back then, the shores were not infested with tamarisk yet, so their view was slightly different than ours. But the tall sandstone cliffs, which haven't changed in millennia, appeared nearly the same to them as it did for us. The expedition even camped on the south side of Bow-know Bend, probably not too far from our camp:

"July 15, 1869—About six miles below noon camp, we go around a great bend to the right, five miles in length, and come back to a point within a quarter of a mile of where we started. Then we sweep around another great bend to the left, making a circuit of nine miles, and come back to a point within six hundred yards of the beginning of the bend. In the two circuits, we describe almost the figure 8. The men call it a bow-knot of the river; so we name it Bow-knot Bend. The line of the figure is fourteen miles in length.

“There is an exquisite charm in our ride today down this beautiful canyon. It gradually grows deeper with every mile of travel; the walls are symmetrically curved, and grandly arched; of a beautiful color, and reflected in the quiet waters in many places, so as to almost deceive the eye, and suggest the thought, to the beholder, that he is looking into profound depths. We are all in fine spirits, feel very gay, and the badinage of the men is echoed from wall to wall. Now and then we whistle, or shout, or discharge a pistol, to listen to the reverberations among the cliffs.

“At night, we camp on the south side of the great Bow-knot, and, as we eat our supper, which is spread on the beach, we name this Labyrinth Canyon.” ♠

The Standup Paddleboard
Green River Trip, Day 1
Green River Trip, Day 2
Green River Trip, Day 4
 

Green River, Day Two—Into Labyrinth Canyon

We pushed off early this morning into a relatively smooth current.  Having learned from our incident last night, we piled more gear onto the inflatable kayak, which I manned.

I found it difficult to steer and the boat dragged from being so heavily-laden. A large cooler sat at my back, and the jumbo food pack at my feet. I used my sleeping bag, which was supposedly in a water-proof bag, as a seat.

After several miles I finally learned how to keep the nose forward without floundering and how to drag the oar to correct my direction.

Jayden at home on the kayak.

Our goal today was to get some distance, and that we did. For miles we pushed along past banks choked with tamarisk and willow, past low-lying hills of rock. Wade spotted a mine shaft. We saw deer coming down to drink from the water. Further down someone spotted a turkey on the bank. Occasionally we would see a blue heron take off and glide over the water. Beneath the overhangs of the rocks the swallows had built their nests of mud.

We passed a prominent rock on our left that had an interesting construction of layers in the shape of a nipple. This is known as Dellenbaugh Butte, named after a young artist on John Wesley Powell's second expedition of 1871.

Dellenbaugh Butte.

Past here the river becomes wide and very still. I thought I could hear some cattle beyond the banks, but wasn't sure.

In one place we attempted to go ashore, but Dave capsized his canoe near the edge. It wasn't as bad as yesterday and he was able to stable himself near the shore and tip the water from the canoe.

The San Rafael River comes in at the right, barely noticeable, punching through the tamarisk.

We found a small sandbar where we pulled ashore and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch. We used a small aluminum table.  This sandbar sat in the middle of the river, with very little vegetation, providing the perfect place to eat. With the high level of the water, islands of sand, such as this one, have been almost non-existent.

Eating PB&J for lunch on a sandbar.

Wade and Jordan on the canoe.

From here the cliffs gradually grow taller as we enter Labyrinth Canyon. Now I moved to the canoe with Dave at my rear and we glided at a quick pace. All I had to do was row and he would do the steering.

When we planned to stop at Trin-Alcove Bend, we told Christian, who was on the inflatable kayak, to hug the right shoulder. He was far behind us, but stayed on the right bank as he should. We had found a small sand bar where the rest of us had already landed and when Christian moved in he did a perfect job steering, landing exactly on the sand bar.

Tason adroitly paddles the stand-up paddleboard.

Trin-Alcove Bend is where three canyons come together. I think it must look more spectacular from the far side, as we were up close. Much of our view was choked off from growth. A small inlet leads toward the canyons, up which Jordan and Tason took a canoe. We could hear people making noise from there, but the rest of us chose to stay at the sandbar. Any walking route to the alcoves was too choked with vegetation.

From Trin-Alcove Bend, we only had a few more miles to go to reach our camping site. The river makes a large curve. From our perspective on the river we could see canyons coming in and countless miles of cliffs that were essentially blocked off from the average river goer by the thick stands of tamarisk. I wonder what is out there to be discovered? I'll bet that a lot of this area seldom sees a soul.

Christian wanders on the inflatable kayak.

Coming around the bend, the winds began to pick up. As we were within sight of our camping spot, a strong gust blew into our face, leaving our canoe wobbling and turning sideways. We paddled even harder and struggled reaching the shore. At last we made it, but I worried for the others, especially Jordan on the inflatable kayak.

Luckily, we all made it, and just in time. The winds became stronger and I imagined one of our canoes capsizing had we still been on the river. Rain began pelting down as we pulled our vessels onto terra firma, and strapped down anything we didn't want to blow away.

Today we traveled 26 miles, making a total of 33 on this journey.

Taking a break at Trin-Alcove Bend.

Our camping spot is on a long bench of tamarisk and cottonwood. The mosquitoes live close to the shore and are fierce. I immediately killed a couple dozen that had landed on my arms and face. They were even biting through my shirt.

We built a fire to help smoke out the bugs, and began cutting up peppers and onions for dinner. As we unloaded the boats, I was disappointed to learn that my waterproof bag for my sleeping bag wasn't sealed off all the way. My sleeping bag was completely saturated with water! I spent the rest of the evening draping my bag over trees or rope to dry it off.

[As I write, it is now dark and the others are beginning to sleep, and a frog is just now hopping over my sleeping bag. I am shining the light on him and he is moving toward the fire.]

Our campsite is at the foot of a canyon and after dinner I got out to explore a portion of it. It goes back quite a ways and perhaps a person could hike completely out. I climbed onto a shelf where I could double back and get a view of the river.

On my way back I discovered an arch high on the rim of the canyon. I doubt it has a name, so I decided to dub it “Lacy Arch.” I've never had an arch named after me, so I might as well take the opportunity.

Our final adventure of the day came shortly after my hike. Dark storm clouds moved in and for thirty minutes we got pelted with rain. We all huddled beneath our tarps and waited it out. A few small waterfalls cascaded down the cliffs.

It is getting late now. Someone is snoring and occasionally I hear a crackle from the fire. Birds are whistling in the dark distance, some sounding close. Perhaps one is a blue heron. I can hear crickets and sometimes the churning of water on the river.

* * *

John Wesley Powell moved down the river at much the same pace as we did. Just as each bend of the river brought a new panorama for myself, around every corner brought a new vista for Powell and his expedition, who were nearly the first Europeans to explore this river:

“July 14, 1869—This morning, we pass some curious black bluffs on the right, then two or three short canyons, and then we discover the mouth of the San Rafael, a stream which comes down from the distant mountains in the west. Here we stop for an hour or two, and take a short walk up the valley, and find it is a frequent resort for Indians. Arrowheads are scattered about, many of them very beautiful. Flint chips are seen strewn over the ground in great profusion, and the trails are well worn.

“. . . Now, we enter another canyon. Gradually the walls rise higher and higher as we proceed, and the summit of the canyon is formed of the same beds of orange-colored sandstone. Back from the brink, the hollows of the plateau are filled with sands disintegrated from these orange beds. They are of rich cream color, shaded into maroon, everywhere destitute of vegetation, and drifted into long, wave-like ridges.

“The course of the river is tortuous, and it nearly doubles upon itself many times. The water is quiet, and constant rowing is necessary to make much headway. Sometimes, there is a narrow flood plain between the river and the wall, on one side or the other. Where these long, gentle curves are found, the river washes the very foot of the outer wall. A long peninsula of willow-bordered meadow projects within the curve, and the talus, at the foot of the cliff, is usually covered with dwarf oaks. The orange-colored sandstone is very homogenous in structure, and the walls are usually vertical, though not very high. Where the river sweeps around a curve under a cliff, a vast hollow dome may be seen, with many caves and deep alcoves, that are greatly admired by the members of the party, as we go by.

“We camp at night on the left bank.

“July 15—Our camp is in a great bend of the canyon. The perimeter of the curve is to the west, and we are on the east side of the river. Just opposite, a little stream comes down through a narrow side canyon. We cross, and go up to explore it. Just at its mouth, another lateral canyon enters, in the angle between the former and the main canyon above. Still another enters in the angle between the canyon below and the side canyon first mentioned, so that three side canyons enter at the same point. These canyons are very tortuous, almost closed in from view, and, seen from the opposite side of the river, they appear like three alcoves; and we name this Trin-Alcove Bend.” ♠

The Standup Paddleboard
Green River Trip, Day 1
Green River Trip, Day 3
Green River Trip, Day 4
 

Green River, Day One—A Wild Beginning

We dipped our oars into the river where the current was gentle. We had lashed the two canoes together using rope and an old paddle. Dave thought it best that we ride side-by-side until we got use to the water.

Jayden and Jordan took the front seats of each canoe, while Wade and I the rear. Tason manned the kayak and Christian the inflatable raft. Dave had the privilege of being the first to ride the stand-up paddleboard.

It was late afternoon when we pushed off, having spent several hours traveling from home and shuttling the pickup truck to Mineral Bottom.

We passed the old truss bridge for the railroad, then glided beneath the freeway. Within ten minutes, all signs of civilization were past.

The old truss bridge near I-70.

The water-flow, as expected, was much higher than normal, moving at 15,900 cubic feet per second. But the high flow didn't seem to affect us. Everyone appeared to have control of their vessel. On the kayak, Tason moved wherever he wished in effortless fashion.

Thick forests of tamarisk and willow, with the occasional Russian Olive tree, grew along the banks, choking out most signs of shore. We were surprised when twice we spotted a deer poking through the salt grass to get a drink.

Beyond the lush banks, hills of cracked gray rock looked as if they could have been on the surface of the moon. They looked perfect for petroglyphs and I wish I could have stopped and explored.

Jayden and Jordan are ready to go.

During our navigation of the wide, muddy river we often encountered islands, and faced the decision of either going to the right, or the left. With a lower water level these islands may have offered soft sandbars, but instead they were enclaves of willow and tamarisk.

We passed old structures that have been long out of use. A cable stretched across the breadth of the river near what appeared to be an old home.

Five miles from our launch point we pulled our boats ashore to explore Crystal Geyser, an interesting geological feature that occasionally shoots water high into the air, but is much less reliable than Old Faithful. The rocks around the dormant geyser are painted orange from mineral deposits. An experimental well was drilled into the ground during the 1930's and if you look down inside the wide conduit you can see bubbling water. Occasionally it erupts, creating the geyser. But today had no such luck.

Tason looks down an exploratory well at Crystal Geyser.

Returning to the water, Christian switched places with Jordan, putting him on the canoe in front of me. The winds had been picking up all evening, making it difficult to row. Gusts blew from the south, creating a headwind. At one time they were so strong that they created white-water over the surface of the river. But we kept plugging along, still able to navigate.

We came to another island and decided to take the left fork. Because of the difficulty of the headwind, we looked for stronger rapids to help pull us along. We aimed for a long string of whitewater and as soon as we hit, the oar that lashed the two canoes together snapped in half.  The two boats folded inward and both capsized! Within a split second, two boys and two men were floundering in the water. Trash bags full of gear floated and began to disperse. A rush of water almost took my glasses off. It was now panic time!

Even though I wore a life jacket, I struggled to breathe with water splashing on my face. The other vessels quickly came and did whatever they could to keep us together.

Luckily, clear minds began to prevail and we all grabbed onto the canoes to help keep them afloat. Both were on their sides and full of water. One canoe had sunk so far into the river that it was vertical, with only the nose poking from the water. Some of my gear, like my little waterproof camera bag, I was sure was gone. Jordan, who was on the inflatable kayak, began plucking bags out of the water and heaving them onto his boat. It was later recalled that he had “superman” strength, showing abilities far beyond that of a fourteen year old. But in spite of his efforts, much of the gear remained in the water, bobbing up and down with the current.

With all our might we grabbed hold of the canoes and pulled as we swam toward shore. We got closer, but the current wouldn't let us completely approach. Once we even started getting further away. The temperature of the water was cold, but bearable.

Although I focused on getting to shore, the prospects of the incident crossed my mind: losing food, water, sleeping bags, and cooking equipment would be devastating to our trip. Either it would be a long, miserable trip without many of our necessities, or else it would be a long hike back into town.

At last we reached a pitiful shore. The banks were steep here and willows choked out any possibility of going further inland. But we were glad to be able to touch the bottom, although my sandals sunk quickly into the thick mud.

Regrouping after swamping the canoes.

We pulled the canoes and all the gear we were able to salvage onto the small bank. With one man on each side we tipped the water out of each canoe, then placed them up-right to float once again on the water. Then we gathered the scattered gear and loaded back up.

By now we were all frazzled (at least us newbies). Christian and I now steered the unlashed canoe, but it felt swirly and unstable. I'm sure our confidence was at an all-time low.

Within a mile we found a cleared bank where we decided to pull ashore and spend the night. Never was I more grateful to be standing on dry land! We traveled a total of seven miles today.

Christian displays the oar that snapped and caused the canoes to overturn.

The miracle of the day was that of all our gear, my ball cap was the only thing lost! Even the dutch oven was intact, with the lid on and full of water! I don't know how that happened. My sleeping bag got a little wet, but my camera bag was found completely dry.

We are camped in a little valley that in the past has served as a farm. There are abandoned structures scattered around, as well as a large pump with an arm extending into the river. In the distance I can see large irrigation sprinklers and even a tractor. Perhaps in some years, this land is used to grow water melons.

Our gear is spread about, everything laid out to dry.

This evening we ate brats for supper. Jordan and Tason each caught catfish while waiting for supper.

There was a lot of drying that had to be done.

Our goal for each evening was to hold a small devotional where we could share spiritual thoughts and uplift one another. For our first night, we had asked Christian to share a thought. Although he had prepared ahead of time, his message blended well with the events of the day.

He shared a scripture in 2 Nephi 4:35 that reads: “Yea, I know that God will give liberally to him that asketh. Yea, my God will give me, if I ask not amiss; therefore I will lift up my voice unto thee; yea, I will cry unto thee, my God, the rock of my righteousness. Behold my voice shall forever ascend up unto thee, my rock and mine everlasting God. Amen.” He then shared his experience as the canoe first capsized. Although he was scared in the beginning, he said a quick prayer and suddenly felt a calm come over him. He also pointed out how the winds died down after our incident, which allowed us to get to shore.

As he shared his feelings, the words in Psalm 46 came to my mind: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. Selah.”

Tason angling for catfish.

The sun is now down and the wind has picked up again. A half-moon is out, but mostly covered by clouds. There have been several flashes of lightning in the distance. I can hear the flow of water chugging along just down from where we have our sleeping bags. Right now the bugs are loving the light from my headlamp that I use to write.

* * *

As a person who has a passion for history, I can't help but to compare our trip down the Green River with that of John Wesley Powell in 1869. The Powell expedition was the first major party to explore what is now known as the Green and Colorado rivers. They started at present-day Green River, Wyoming, and rowed four boats into unknown territory, all the way to the Grand Canyon and beyond. Many of the landmarks along the way were named by Powell's party.

They began their journey down the river at the exact time of year as we did. After traversing Desolation and Gray canyons, they emerged from the Bookcliff range at the present site of Green River, Utah. This is precisely where we began our journey. The following are excerpts from Powell's journal:

“July 13, 1869⸺This morning, we have an exhilarating ride. The river is swift, and there are many smooth rapids. I stand on the deck, keeping careful watch ahead, and we glide along, mile after mile, plying strokes now on the right, and then on the left, just sufficient to guide our boats past the rocks into smooth water. At noon we emerge from Gray Canyon, as we have named it, and camp, for dinner, under a cottonwood tree, standing on the left bank.

“. . . A long line of cliffs or rock escarpments separate the tablelands, through which Gray Canyon is cut, from the lower plain. The eye can trace these azure beds and cliffs, on either side of the river, in a long line, extending across its course, until they fade away in the perspective. These cliffs are many miles in length, and hundreds of feet high.

“. . . This afternoon, our way is through a valley, with cottonwood groves on either side. The river is deep, broad, and quiet.

“About two hours from noon camp, we discover an Indian crossing, where a number of rafts, rudely constructed of logs and bound together by withes, are floating against the bank. On landing, we see evidences that a party of Indians have crossed within a very few days. This is the place where the lamented Gunnison crossed, in the year 1853, when making an exploration for a railroad route to the Pacific coast. [This is a reference to the Gunnison Massacre.]

“An hour later, we run a long rapid, and stop at its foot to examine some curious rocks, deposited by mineral springs that at one time must have existed here, but which are no longer flowing.” ♠

The Standup Paddleboard
Green River Trip, Day 2
Green River Trip, Day 3
Green River Trip, Day 4
 

I think we looked like this when our canoes overturned!  (Painting by Ethen Allen Reynolds)