Feeding the Enemy

Anyone who knows me well is aware that I hate hiking where there's people—especially the crowds. Sometimes it's unavoidable. I had hoped that this place also would be thin with human visitation. Even though images of it are iconic, many people are simply unaware of its remote location.

After thirty-two miles on a dirt road we finally arrived at the parking area, and to my disappointment, there were already a dozen vehicles. With no other choice but to concede, we began setting up camp.

I came with a couple buddies from work and a brother to one. Our intent was to explore a rugged land carved with canyons, once inhabited by an ancient people and later used as a hideout for outlaws.

We set up our cots, then Rob warmed up supper in a dutch oven with a small propane stove. We ate “chilighetti” under the remaining light of day.

A crisp breeze picked up and we worried about staying warm during the night. But as the stars began to fill the sky, another thing picked up also—a guitar.

The camp just behind us set up in a semicircle of tents and trailers, with the open end facing us. A large fire in the center threw flames into the air while those around drank and talked loudly. All the while, a lone player strummed his guitar and sang boisterously into the night air.

We all rolled our eyes as we sat quietly in our camp chairs. “This better not last all night,” I was quick to voice my opinion. We were all running on fumes and needed a good night's rest in order to tackle a full day of hiking.

This is one reason why I don't like hiking or camping where there are people. Many of them tend to be the party type and have no consideration for others. When I'm outside, I just want it to be myself, the breeze and stars.

On the other side of camp was another group, less rambunctious, but still making a racket as they set up their tents. I remember their license plates being from Colorado and Massachusetts. I wish that such places as this (referring to the place we were about to hike) were not marketed to vast amounts of people via the internet and guidebooks. I'd like to have it all to myself!

When it came time for bed, I nestled into my sleeping bag, which I rolled out over my cot and under the wide dark sky. I folded one blanket beneath me and the other over. I wore a camouflaged head-cover that I had used hunting, that wrapped around my ears and chin. With a head-lamp, I rested on my pillow and wound down with a Louis L'Amour book.

Meanwhile, when I took the opportunity to look upward, the stars in the sky seemed to glisten a hundredfold. With no moon in sight, the creamy Milky Way spanned directly above us. I found the Big Dipper and Polaris, and realized I had been slightly off in my orientation. Small blinking lights moved far in the sky, probably either airplanes or satellites.

As I turned the pages of my book, I had hoped the group with the fire would have mellowed out. Not so. The same guy strumming the guitar hadn't stopped singing since dinnertime. They laughed and spoke loudly, as if they were the only campers here.

As for our neighbors on the other side, they weren't quite as flagrant as the others, but still made lots of noise. Two more cars joined them, and for a long time, a set of headlights shined directly on us. Sometime later, a couple of them came trudging near our camp with flashlights wagging ahead. We had to listen to them set up tents and converse until very late in the evening.

At last it was time to put down the book and make an attempt at sleep. The wind was picking up and I worried that my blanket would blow off. The temperature was supposed to get down to 40⁰F that night. The guy with the guitar continued to sing, but I did my best to let my mind relax.

After a long night mingled with sleep and wakefulness, the pre-morning sun began to light the sky in the east. When all of us finally awoke, the first topic of comment was that of our noisy neighbors. “Two of them came walking right through our camp with their flashlights!” Dave complained. 

We seemed to be the first ones awake, and I didn't hesitate to display my irritation. I didn't yell, but when I spoke, I didn't whisper either. I hoped to wake them up. If I spoke bad of them (meaning our neighbors) and they were to hear me, I wouldn't care. In fact, I wanted them to know how perturbed I was at them. What I really wanted to do was get a stick and frying pan and walk through their camp while banging the two together, yelling out, “Wakie, wakie!”

Little by little, they did wake up, although I'm sure it had nothing to do with us. Before our hike, Rob cooked us breakfast. In the same dutch oven he fried sausage and scrambled eggs. We spooned them into tortillas and drizzled hot sauce over the top. We ate to our stomach's content.

When we were done, Rob asked each of us if we had had enough. When we assured him we had, he then made a declaration: “I might go ask those guys if they want to eat the rest.” Then he pointed toward our neighbors on the side.

What was he doing? Feeding the enemy? He couldn't do that. I was still mad at them! But he did it anyway.

Using the handle of the dutch oven, he carried it in his right hand while packing the tortillas and a spatula in his left. I watched him walk over to a small log where they sat. From a distance, I could see their eyes light up and I watched Robbie hand each of them a tortilla and then he scraped a healthy spoonful from the oven.

When he returned he wore a big smile. “They all had some except the vegetarians.” Then he saw the carton on the tailgate and said, “I better go see if they want orange juice.”

The deed he did felt right. We later passed some of them on the hike and they enthusiastically thanked him again for the breakfast burritos. I learned a lesson that morning, a lesson that many have already learned. Negative feelings toward anyone is never a good thing. Sometimes all it takes to wash those feelings away and to see them as real people is an act of kindness. ♠

Rocky Mountain High

There are places in the world that I long to explore, yet one continues to climb to the summit of my mind. The Rocky Mountains of Colorado are rugged and breathtaking. To camp at the base of a lonely peak or to ascend a mighty fourteener is an experience not to be forgotten. 

 

In August I was able to bring my two daughters on a hike to a high-mountain lake that is 12,270 feet above sea level. The 7-mile jaunt took us past waterfalls, wildflowers and old mining structures. Although the hike brought awe to their eyes, it also brought fatigue to their feet. My 13 year-old struggled to breath at the highest elevations.

 

I include a photographic chronicle of our adventure, but deliberately omit a specific location. I'm sure the determined person can figure out where we went; however, there is no reason to advertise the location further. As it was, we passed too many people (124 to be exact) on the way down. ♠

 

The Death of Harry Hopkins

If a person had to die, this would be the place to do it. The young cowboy was probably admiring the view of South Peak, for he still had his field glasses around his neck. Perhaps he looked for deer and wild turkey below the towering ponderosa pine or amidst the scrub oak. But to be shot in the back . . .

The death of Harry Hopkins brings a sense of intrigue and mystery. Very little is known about his past, including his family or place of birth. As far as who pulled the trigger, that has never been solved either, although there are some pretty good theories.

Harry was a cook and ranch-hand for the L.C. Cattle Company in 1887. This was an interesting time on the wild frontier of what would become southeastern Utah. The Mormons, who a few years earlier had arrived in Bluff, now pushed northward to Verdure Creek, where they established a small community they called South Montezuma. The cowboys had their range spread across much of the eastern slopes of the Abajo Mountains, the Carlisles in the north and the L.C. Cattle Company in the south. As for the Utes, they had been here longer than anyone.

Cowboy story singer, Stan Bronson, put it accurately when he penned: “Cowboys and Indians and Mormons, most of those people were fine. But some of those people were up to no good, making trouble all the time.”

One such example occurred just a few years earlier when a Ute Indian fell into a quarrel with a cowboy over a horse. The cowboy shot the Indian through the mouth, but miraculously he survived. This didn't settle well with the other Utes and they started causing havoc with the cattleman, so much that they soon picked up camp and began to move out. That's when the Utes rode in with bullets whistling, stealing several of their horses, killing four mules and burning a wagon.

The L.C. Cattle Company arrived in San Juan during 1880. In 1881, the owner, Issac Lacy, was shot by one of his own employees, a former gunfighter from Tombstone. His wife took over the business and hired a foreman to handle operations. The company located their headquarters near Recapture Canyon and had a summer camp near Verdure. It was here that the young Harry Hopkins cooked for the cowboys while they were out on the range.

The cowboys camped a couple miles west of South Montezuma. Harry came from time to time for supplies. Mary Jones, a resident of the young settlement, recalled the events leading up to the murder:

“The L.C. Ranch had a summer camp on the Blue Mountain, not far from the Verdure [South Montezuma] settlement. A teenage boy by the name of Hawkins [Hopkins] took care of the camp and the horses while the men were out on the range. He came down to buy eggs, milk and butter from the Mormon women and would stay and visit until late afternoon. On one such trip the boy seemed reluctant to go back to camp. The women sensed his uneasiness and urged him to stay overnight. But he must feed the horses. The cowboys depended upon him.”

Harry returned to camp where he prepared the afternoon meal. While waiting for the riders to come back he climbed a hill and sat on a drift fence with his binoculars. No doubt he enjoyed the solitude and pungent smell of pine. Before him, beyond the forested gulf of Verdure Canyon, rose the ominous summit of South Peak.

Unknown to the young camp-hand, someone was creeping through the brush behind him. Without any apparent warning, Harry Hopkins was shot in the back, dropping him dead.

When the cowboys returned, they found dutch ovens full of food at the edge of the fire, but their cook was no where to be found. That night, a violent thunder storm rolled across the mountain.

The next day, Harry failed to make his usual appearance at South Montezuma. Mary Jones remembered: “Soon Old Wash, a Ute Indian, came by and said the boy was dead. Wash claimed that [Hopkins] had been standing on a log looking for horses through his field glasses and was struck by a bolt of lightning.”

A group of men hurried to the site, where Hickory Dennis and another cowboy, possibly Parley Butt, found the boy face-down in the mud with two bullet holes in his back. His body was too decomposed to move, so they dug a hole at the spot and rolled him in.

The incident elevated tension between the three groups. Everyone was wary of the Indians. For days on the Blue and LaSal Mountains, Indian signal fires burned, sending plumes of smoke in the air, a sure sign that they were on the warpath. The white man worried there was an Indian behind every tree.

Some of the cowboys also wished to drive away the settlers of South Montezuma. In a rage they declared: “You Mormons clear out of here in ten days or we will annihilate you!” This threat caused the Mormons to seek protection from U.S. Soldiers, who came from Fort Lewis near Durango.

As for a motive for the murder, only theories will suffice. Harry was a cook for stockman on the Disappointment Range near the Lone Cone in Colorado, where several Indians were killed by cowboys. Perhaps his killing was an act of retaliation. Another theory is that Harry was an outlaw and had been discovered by an old enemy. Or, as Albert R. Lyman theorized, the Utes were always looking for excitement and Harry was the victim of a potshot.

The cowboy cook is buried where he died, at the head of Devils Canyon. An old fence made of poles surrounds the burial plot. Inside is a head and foot stone, with the simple inscription of “H H Hopkins.”

The story of Harry Hopkins is intriguing. It is best told around the campfire, at night when the cicadas are serenading and a gentle breeze is subtly bending the tall grass. ♠

Sources 

Lacy, Steve, and Pearl Biddlecome Baker. Posey, the Last Indian War. Gibbs Smith, 2007.

Lyman, Albert R. Indians and Outlaws: Settling of the San Juan Frontier. K.R. Lyman, 1980.

Palmer, Cameron. “Eagle Project.” 2001.

Young, Norma Perkins. Anchored Lariats on the San Juan Frontier. Community Press, 1985.

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