My friend Hector and I had been promising to drag each other out into the wilderness for about 15 years, ever since he was a student of mine. When I returned to college teaching after a few years off, he was now a member of the department, and we recalled our unfulfilled plan.
When Winter Break rolled around, we had settled on an ambitious idea. Hector is a workaholic who usually takes only Thanksgiving and Easter off every year, but I somehow got him to set aside three days for a canoe trip down some of the more remote stretches of the Lower Colorado.
Preparations
Unlike one of those spontaneous over-nighters I had been used to doing, a trip like this involves some planning and logistics. We would have to dust off all our camping gear, and we’d need to borrow three canoes and a rig to carry them with.
Since we’d likely have a couple of frosty nights on the river, and since we wanted to leave the natural environment as untouched as possible, we also secured a trailer-load of mesquite for firewood.
Then we rounded up all the unsuspecting dependents in our immediate households as crew. Someone would have to drop us off up river and pick us up the day after next, so my wife Lori volunteered for that.
River safari
On that overcast mid-December afternoon, the seven of us rolled out in the Suburban pulling a 20-foot trailer and headed east on I-8. We turned north at Ogilby Road and then, after about 20 miles, hung a right onto California 78, a.k.a. Ben Hulse Highway. Another 15 miles or so and we turned in toward the River at Walter’s Camp Road.
We passed the entrance to the Cibola Wildlife Refuge, which is closed to visitors during the winter months, when the migratory birds are in reproductive mode. At the Camp, we were charged a hefty fee to put in at the boat ramp and resolved to start from the nearby residential area next time around.
There would be two of us in each boat: Hector with his son, my son with Hector’s nephew, and myself with four-year-old Mary. Between the occupants in each boat was a mountain of gear, provisions and firewood. We pushed off awkwardly into the still water of the boating inlet and muscled our way out to the moving water of the mighty Colorado.
Weakest link
It would be 30 miles on the river from the put-in to the take-out at Fisher’s Landing on Martinez Lake. We had about three hours before sundown and twelve miles to get to the first of the established campsites inside Picacho Sate Park. There’d be no lollygagging today.
It was obvious right away that I would be the weak link. With only one adult, my boat sat low in the rear. The boat with the two young men rode pretty high on the water and slipped along quickly, as they competed with each other in a test of strength.
Like his Trojan namesake, Hector is a solid mountain of muscle who’s been doing hard physical labor all his life. For the rest of the trip the other two boats would be somewhere between one curve in the river ahead of me and long gone out of sight.
Fellowship
That first stretch of river, which must be some of the prettiest below Lake Mead, cuts through entirely uninhabited territory on both sides. The restricted lands of Yuma Proving Ground block all access from the east, and the rugged hills to the west are enough to discourage all but the most determined four-wheelers.
Absolute quiet prevailed, except for the rhythmic swish of my custom bend-handle paddle and the occasional honk of a goose. At regular intervals, beavers slipped into the water from both sides, and groups of ducks took off together and landed so as to stay a comfortable distance ahead of us sluggish interlopers.
When the light began to wane, we started watching for a clear spot to camp along the bank. The pitching of tents proceeded very slowly, as we were distracted by one of the longest and brightest Southwestern sunsets I can recall, its layers of pink and orange blanketing the jagged skyline of Picacho and the lesser peaks in its cohort.
I’m forever amazed by what we humans can gain from each other’s company when we aren’t so focused on productivity and electronic entertainment. In the light of only a low mesquite fire Hector caught me up on all the key campus gossip. And I learned that my son’s best friend had died of an overdose several months before.
It had been a satisfying day’s workout in the clean desert air, and I don’t remember falling asleep.
Signs of life
The second day was sunny though a strong breeze kept the temperature cool.
Along the sweeping bends of the river designated as Picacho State Recreation Area, we stopped to check out most of the designated camp sites, each sitting at the end of a track that comes in off the Picacho–Indian Pass loop. Amazingly, none of them was occupied.
From high above water level are some impressive views of the crumpled area we had traversed the day before. Also along this stretch of river are several high cliffs, including one, visible for a long way, that has the perfect square shape of a fortress rampart.
The river was widening as we made our way lower. Thankfully, there was none of the boat traffic that in the summer is reminiscent of an L.A. freeway and that makes navigation in a canoe difficult and hazardous.
Now and then, on a long straightaway, I could see the other two boats in my party far ahead. I even caught up to them a couple of times when they pulled over for a break or a snack, but each time they were quickly out of sight again.
Amenities
Sooner than we expected, we were docking at the inlet next to the main camping area at the lower end of the park, which, with its ramadas and pit toilets, seemed to us the pinnacle of civilization. In a barbeque pit, over the last of the mesquite, we cooked the last of the beef that Hector had kept in the deep freeze since August when he slaughtered his cow.
Around sunset we discovered that my son had been paddling all these miles while running a high fever. On the hill next to our campsite, I found a spot for a strong enough signal to reach Lori on the cell and plan an evacuation from there, in case James seemed to get worse, which fortunately he did not.
I lingered on that hill for the duration of the second most impressive sunset in my memory, once again a perfect backdrop to Picacho Peak, which tonight was much nearer and more massive.
Alone together
After two days and 20 miles on the river, we stirred a little more slowly from our sleeping bags and took our time lashing the gear into the boats. When we did launch, though, my companions were quickly out of sight, not to be seen again till evening, and Mary and I were alone on the river for this last long leg of the journey.
Today the breeze was gone. At least I didn’t have that resistance on some of the open stretches, but the rising heat made the hard work more onerous.
As soon as we crossed the boundary of the Recreation Area, the countryside began to flatten out. The river was wider and seemed to move much more slowly. The water was shallower, too, and we started having to crisscross the river in order to avoid the sand bars.
The birds seemed to be more plentiful. One sandbar was covered with ducks. The pair of pelicans that presided over the gathering hesitated to fly away but finally lifted off gracefully when we got too close.
The tules are especially thick on both sides along this section of the river. I kept my eye out for the occasional tunnel into the cool shade to catch my breath, refuel on cheese and crackers, and whisper with Mary about our sublime surroundings.
Civilization
At long last, Martinez Lake came into sight and then, around the bend, the clustered bungalows of Fisher’s Landing. Being familiar only with the bar around on the lake side, I assumed that was my destination and turned in off the river.
At the put-in next to the bar, though, we saw no canoes and no companions. In fact, the whole town was unaccountably deserted. With the last of my energy, I pulled the craft ashore and trudged up to the street and into the bar.
Eventually an off-duty Fish and Wildlife guy would drive us over to the store on the other side of town where indeed our party was waiting, wondering what had become of us.
Meanwhile, I think my only regret from the whole trip is not having a picture of that barmaid’s face when she saw this bedraggled, unshaven guy shuffle in with a four-year-old kid, tracking sand on her shiny floor, asking for directions.
She was in fact the first stranger I’d seen in three days. Thousands of locals and Californians drive out there every year to water ski, party and hide away for the weekend. I guess not many come in through the back door.
Sonoran Visions 