Desert River Journeys –Stories By Phil Nelson,
Message by Katherine Brown, American Rivers Member since 1990

For over two decades, Phil Nelson and I traveled thousands of river miles together. When we moved to the Desert Southwest, Phil developed a passion for exploring the rivers of the region and spent many wonderful times enjoying the beauty of the canyons. He was so inspired by these desert river journeys over the years that he wrote stories about his trips in order to preserve the experiences and share them with others. Phil passed away suddenly the summer of 2009 after coming back from a long trip on the Escalante River — he was doing what he loved until the end of his life, and these stories are his river legacy.

I am pleased to share them with you and also am making my own river legacy, in memory of Phil's love of wild rivers, by including a gift to American Rivers in my estate plans to protect rivers for future generations of river explorers.

People float rivers for many reasons. Some go for the excitement of whitewater rapids. Others like to relax. Cast a line out. Here you'll find stories of treacherous water, exciting situations, natural calamities and some outrageous human behavior along with peaceful, thoughtful moments.

My style of boating is a bit different than most. I tend to get on small streams, in small boats, for long periods and usually alone. My equipment has been specialized over the years. It all fits in order. I've tried and tested equipment and ideas over decades now. What works for me may not suit you.

Before you go, ask yourself. What are my abilities? You may not admit them to others. But be true to yourself. Denial is a powerful thing. So are rivers. Multi–day trips will teach you a lot about yourself. Be forewarned! It can be habit forming.

I've chosen these stories from many. I hope you'll enjoy them. All events, locations, and names are true. Only the rivers have changed to protect their innocence. – Phil Nelson

Escalante River, First Run, May 1986

I'd shown Jim some photos of the Escalante River. When he looked at them he asked if it could be boated. I wondered myself. I had thought about it. I knew it would be possible in some stretches. But other parts I had seen were shallow and rocky. And we'd taken inflatable kayaks down the San Juan River a couple of weeks earlier, with raft support. But, as yet, we hadn't done any multi–day trips using only the inflatable kayaks. So we thought about it. We studied the scant information available. We practiced packing our gear into the little boats, keeping the weight light. We asked ourselves: "How long would it take to do this? ... How do we get in and out of the canyon? "

The best way out seemed to be Coyote Gulch, just before Lake Powell backed up. We would have to pack everything in on our backs. We decided to bring framed backpacks to tie our boats and gear on. We figured at least two trips. We'd try for no more than 50 pounds for each load.

Jim was from England and had never been to Utah. He had proven his outdoors skills on the San Juan River. We were comfortable with each other. My experience on the Escalante, up to this point, had been backpacking down to Harris Wash from the highway bridge. And down and back to 'The Gulch".

We looked at maps. Catching the water with enough flow was a problem. How much was enough? We didn't know. We saw on the maps that additional streams came in below the highway. The bridge was the easy way to get on, but if we could somehow get below 'The Gulch' we would have all the water we were going to need. If we could time the runoff just right that is. We realized that it was late April. So if we were going to go, it would have to be soon. The snow was melting .

We decided to enter at Fence Canyon which is a 3.5 mile hike down to the river. Let's do the math. That's 7 miles of full loads going down. And 3.5 miles back up empty.

We had only Jim's Subaru at the time. My car was broken down. We figured we would drive from Flagstaff to the trail–head at Fence Canyon. Hike our stuff down. Float down to Coyote Gulch and walk out from there. Then hitch–hike a ride back to the car. Drive back to Coyote and load up the gear and go home. Sure. It was the best we could come up with. We didn't know much. But we had adventure in our hearts. We had the two inflatable kayaks: they were 10 feet long and weighed about 30 pounds each. They were a rather new concept at the time.

We drove to Page, Arizona. Fueled up the car, fueled up ourselves with burgers and then drove on U.S. 89 west towards Kanab, Utah. We turned north at Cottonwood Wash Road up the Cockscomb towards Highway 12. Spectacular!

I had lived in Scotland for over 3 years. I'd been to England and walked the streets of London. So I could relate to Jim's enlightenment upon seeing all of this. He kept saying WOW!

At the town of Escalante,we stopped and had lunch at the local cafe. When Jim spoke, his English accent produced some comments from the cowboys about us being 'FORNERS'. I guess we were.

We gassed up the car and headed out on the 'Hole–in–the–Rock Road' about a dozen miles before turning left to reach the trail–head. What a view it was! It looked like the edge of the world. There's that moment when you abandon your car––your security – and head off into the unknown.

The first hike down we took the rolled up boats with the kayak paddles in our hands. We lost the trail a few times in the loose sand, but arrived at the river to find we had plenty of water. Not too much –– just a couple of feet deep. We wasted no time hiking back up. We now knew for sure that we were going down the river. We were real excited.

We managed to get the rest of the gear on our backs and practically ran down the trail. We pumped up the boats, packed our supplies in. And, very soon, we were floating on the river. It was a great moment – a sunny day and perfect weather.

We floated easily for several miles before pulling into a beach for camp. We couldn't believe we were there. The morning dawned bright and clear. We planned on going down to Moody Canyon. It looked interesting on the map. We thought we should stop and have lunch there, maybe take a hike.

We saw it entered on the left. So we pulled in and ate some food and took a nap. I woke up first. I noticed a piece of petrified wood sticking out of the gravel bed. I pulled it out. It was about 9 inches in diameter and 6 inches thick. It was purple and black with white layers. I looked it over and then placed it back into its depression. I saw Jim walking up from the boats as I made my way up the canyon. I figured he'd catch up soon. But after a half hour of walking, I hadn't seen him. I waited and waited some more. No Jim. So I returned. And when I got near the river, I saw Jim standing out in the water washing something. I glanced down at where the petrified wood was and saw only the depression where it had been.

"Hey. Look what I found!" Jim said as he lifted the petrified wood (which must have weighed twenty pounds). "Isn't she beautiful?"

It was. When wet, it was shiny and sparkling in the sunshine.

"I'm taking this back to England!" he announced.

"Oh, sure you are." I said.

"No. Really, I've wanted a piece like this since I've been in this country." Jim responded.

I told him, "You'll never get it out of here. Just take a picture and leave it here."

Jim carried the rock over to his boat and put it on the floor between where his legs would be. And off we went.

When we arrived at Scorpion Gulch we encountered huge, railroad car sized slabs of Wingate sandstone blocking the river. We couldn't find a way through at first. We got out and walked and waded around and over these blocks and found only one slot big enough to allow our boats passage. We would have to get our 3" wide boats through a 3.5" gap. And once through, we would have to make a quick left turn and drop over a two–foot ledge with more maneuvering down below.

I went first. I squeezed through the slot, did a quick left turn and immediately dropped over the ledge. I took in some water and had to move around some more huge rocks. I located a place to stop by standing on some submerged rocks and looked back to see how Jim was doing. I couldn't see him! I waited and waited. Then I saw a plastic bottle come floating down. I waded out and grabbed it. Just as I did, I saw Jim coming down –– grinning.

"No worries mate." He declared.

He pulled over near my boat.

"I came out of the boat back in that drop. The boat stayed upright. I hung on and got back in." He said. "Old Moody's OK."

"Old Moody?" I asked

"Yea. That's her name." (he was talking about the big chunk of petrified wood). "She came from Moody Canyon."

I shook my head. "Don't let Old Moody kill ya now. Okay mate?" I advised.

"Right o." He replied.

We paused, bailed out water, had a smoke and relaxed. Down below, things were looking and sounding a bit rough. These big slabs of rock were all over the place throughout the river. You couldn't see very far downstream but we heard the loud, rushing water.

"Jim," I said. "We're maybe a third of the way through our run. Neither of us knows what lies ahead. Let's stay close together as best we can. If we hit a rock sideways, the current will push the boats in and wrap them around the rock. Let's try not to do that. I'll lead. I'll no doubt make some wrong moves. So try not to run into me."

"I'll sing out." he said.

We each knew the other was nervous. This stuff was far more than what we'd anticipated. Our boats were heavier than we were used to. It was not the river we'd started on.

We got back in the boats. It wasn't bad at first. But we were paddling constantly to keep control. We were next to each other when we heard the roar of some more loud rapids. We pulled towards the outside curve left. Got out and had a look–see. It was definitely a nasty rapid!

"Hold up mate," Jim declared. "Let me find us a drink." He dug around and pulled out a bottle. "Cognac?" he asked.

Now, it turned out that the rapid was probably the worst on the Escalante. But we didn't know that... We didn't know anything. We took the cap off the bottle,

"There is a history of craziness in my family." Jim said while taking a big gulp.

"Great." I said. I wondered what he was going to tell me next. My attention was on the rapid, trying to figure a way through.

"The world knows we English are an adventurous lot. We explored and conquered the world." He observed.

"Yes," I said. "It is written. And England had herself stretched out all over the globe. She was having trouble keeping the colonies in control, rebellious sorts, we were."

"That's so. Anyway, besides the wars, my immediate family was explorers and colonists. It's in my blood. So what do you think about this rapid? Can we get through it?" Jim asked, changing the subject.

We looked it over. One could drop in on the right side easily enough. But halfway through it ran into a bunch of boulders blocking the way. Some water turned left, but it wasn't good enough. And it turned too quickly to negotiate. Some good kayakers I know could have done it, but we couldn't.

On the left were more submerged rocks blocking the entrance to the channel. But below them the water from the right was gathering and provided enough depth to float. However, it was "pushy" and falling real fast. Past that gathering point the entire flow formed big waves passing between two enormous rocks about 30 feet apart.

"So, Jim," I said, "If we were to walk out with our boats over here, on this side. Hold them downstream in front of us, and then walk them carefully towards the deeper water below, we could just jump in. Like a bunny. And go. It's moving real fast down there. Keep the nose straight in. Ride those big waves in the center. We can maybe do it. Comments please?"

" Well, let's see." He said.

And then he walked right out into the river and onto the tops of the rocks. He was searching for footing. The current was very strong and it took him some real effort. He slipped some but got back up and moved on.

"Yes, let's try this!" He yelled over the noise. He then came back over to shore, took a sip of Cognac from the bottle and handed it to me.

"I guess we could portage way back around behind those huge rocks, but it'd take awhile." I said.

"We could, but let's don't." He replied.

"Get rid of that big rock you're carrying" I said (referring to 'Big Moody').

"Never!" He declared.

"Okay then." I said, "The longer we look at this, the worse it gets."

We walked over and put the boats in the water. I waded out first. I held the bowline in my left hand and the stern with my right. The current tried to push my legs out from under me. The boat got stuck on the rocks. Pull. Tug. I shoved it off. I finally got to the deep water where I could jump in. If I could hold onto the boat, that is. I was losing my footing and the boat was slipping away. So I jumped in, though not too gracefully, and started to move downstream real fast.

"Keep it straight!" I told myself. I pried my paddle hard on the right to gain a lane change over to center. The waves poured over the bow and filled my boat halfway. Then I dropped into the pool below –– safe. I paddled the super heavy kayak over to a shallow area and stood in the river. If I needed to rescue Jim, I'd need to jump. I was about to motion Jim to wait, but he was already in the fast water and couldn't hold the boat any longer. I watched him jump in –– about as gracefully as I did. But he was in, and made a great run. He barely took in water.

"No worries mate." He announced.

"Still got that anchor rock?" I asked.

"Yep!" He said proudly.

We pulled over to a small spit of sand and turned over my boat. Gallons of water and sand poured out. This was the curse of the inflatable kayak before the invention of self–bailing floors.

Smoke. Drink. Relax. The good news was that the river looked better downstream. We could see a long way without any obstacles. We'd been lucky so far and were feeling pretty good about ourselves. Still, you can't let your guard down.

"And if the English hadn't been so spread out, and we Yanks hadn't been so lucky. We Yanks would be praising the Queen and speaking real English." I said.

"Aye. And afternoon tea. Speaking of, that beach up ahead looks right for a spot about now. Let's pull in for a cuppa." Responded Jim.

And so, in the beauty of the Escalante Canyon, with the sun shining down, we had afternoon tea.

"You know, Phil," Jim said. "This is perfect. It seems unreal. Like a dream, but I don't dream like this. This is beyond anything I've ever seen. I have a new definition of perfect. Thank you for bringing me here."

"Well. Thank you for suggesting we come here," I answered. "For driving me over. Right now, I don't want to leave here. Ever! Would you look at that wall over there! Check out the stains coming down the side."

"Bar code wall. That's what it is. Like those labels on everything we buy." he observed.

I try to spend some time at 'Bar Code Wall' whenever I come down the Escalante. Afternoon tea.

We got back on the water. And soon enough, more van sized blocks. You move between two. And another awaits you. Do I go left? Right? Sometimes you move to the wrong side out of desperation to avoid getting slammed into a rock. And end up in a place you can't get through. About all you can do is head back up into the current and fight for the other side on an angle and, of course, try not to get pushed back into the wall. It can be a lot of work.

Often , I lost sight of Jim. I tried to let up and wait. Then he would come through and I would move on. I figured he had it easier because he could see me making a mistake, and he'd hang back while I spent all the energy correcting. But I couldn't make all the correct moves. Like the one I needed to make just ahead.

I moved between two blocks and was heading right into a good sized cube, about the size of a small school bus and perpendicular to the current. All the water in the river hit its center. At first, I thought I'd go left. But when I glanced at a nearby passage between the rocks, I could see it was blocked with rubble and turned right! Now, I thought. Turn before you hit the wall. Hard! With all you got! And I barely made it. I pulled into some shallows that held the boat.

And then Jim came down. Fast. Right down the center. Or, in his language, centre. He tried to turn right –– which he did. And that was just when he hit the wall sideways. Jim fell out on the upstream side. The kayak bottom was pinned against the wall, pushed by all the current, which was wrapping it, fast! Jim's paddle came up and started moving over to the right. I grabbed it before it went downriver. We might need it later. Jim came crawling up the wall on hands and knees with all the current pushing on his backside. He grabbed the boat. It wouldn't move. So he put his chest against the tubes and slid himself by walking his feet along the rock wall, he kept moving right and finally kicked away and swam towards me.

"Wasn't quick enough," he coughed. "'Old Moody' has fallen in."

I looked over at his boat. Everything seemed secure, but no rock.

"Ah... Jim," I said. "Let's make a plan to get the boat off that wall. I think if we get a line on the far side, we can peel it away. We can stand right here and have proper footing and pull her right off. See what I mean?"

"Yes. Here, give me that painter of yours and I'll take her out and tie her up." He responded.

"Last time that lady painter spilled paint on the carpet. I wanted to take her out and tie her up too." I said.

Jim grinned and waded into the upstream current and went some way upstream. He had the painter in his left hand and still managed to swim over to the other side of the river. He met the wall with his feet and deliberately wrapped himself to the wall. He managed to keep his head above water, braced, and tied the rope to the stern D ring. Completed, he pushed away and made his way over by the previous method. He then moved into the shallows and handed me the end of the rope.

We tugged. But all we accomplished was to bend the hull into deformity. I feared we might rip the fabric.

"Let's take a few minutes Jim." I said.

"Yes. Think I'll have a drink. Damn. The stuff's in the boat." He said.

"It's okay. I've got something that the doctor ordered –– 85 proof Kahlúa. Yep, here it is." I reassured him.

We swallowed a couple of ounces. Refreshing.

"I see the problem." Jim said. "Stay here. I'll go out and push her off. It's okay. It's your boat and I'm responsible. You stay and pull. Besides, I got the hang of this now." To my amazement, he swam back out there. What was that about family craziness?

Jim got up on the wall again and started pushing on the boat while I pulled on the line. It was moving some as he pushed up and peeled and pried.

"Too much weight. I'm taking the bag off." He said.

Jim unbuckled the strap on the large bag he had in the stern. He pushed it up out of the water and kicking off the wall managed to throw the bag over my way. Jim got his feet back on the wall and started the peeling of the stern act again.

"Just keep pressure on it." He yelled.

I did. As he was peeling, I took up the slack. It was inch by inch progress. A couple of times he lost his grip as the current pushed him underwater. He got his head back up and found a new grip. He pushed again, and soon enough the boat came free and nearly pulled me down the river with it. It was full of water and half deflated. I tugged hard and got it over my way and parked it on the submerged sand bar.

All that time, Jim was out there –– wrapped on the rock. He had his head just above water and was gasping.

"Get off that rock and get over here." I yelled at him.

"Phil. I know where old Moody is. I'm going to find her." Jim yelled back.

"You are a mad Englishman. Get out of there!" I said.

Instead, he moved over to where the kayak was wrapped and pushed himself down underwater. It was total insanity! How would I explain this to his wife Linda?

He resurfaced. "I felt it with my feet. I'll get it this time." He shouted. He went under again. I saw the top of his head for a second. And then he went deeper. I waded out close to the rock and just as it was getting too deep to stand, up popped Jim.

"I've got it in my hands. But I can't move." He declared.

I knew he wasn't going to let go of the rock. He's crazy I thought. He could breathe but he was getting hammered by the current. The water swept me off my feet as I made for Jim. And, then, like him, I was pushed up against the wall.

"I still have it!" Jim said.

He managed to turn himself around from back to front and gained a couple of feet. He needed his hands to push with, but he still wouldn't let go of the rock. He was stuck. As I moved closer his way, I was amazed to find a rock under my feet that enabled me to stand with my shoulders above water. My arms were free and I could just reach Jim.

"Jim," I said. "I can stand right here. I'm coming behind you and I'm going to grab your left shoulder and pull you this way. Try to turn and face up river."

And it worked! He got a foot over on the rock I was standing on. I grabbed his arm and he made it over. We were being pushed against the wall but weren't in the direct path of the current. We slid over a bit and kicked away from the wall. Jim threw 'Old Moody' down in shallow water. We collapsed, exhausted, on the sand. We lay there for some time.

"I'd stay right here and make camp. But it's too small. We're losing daylight. So let's go down to the next available sunny beach and park this whole show." I said, while shaking water out of my ears.

"Right. Let's give her a go." Said Jim.

We pumped more air into his boat. Jim borrowed some of my straps and tied 'Old Moody' down real well. We pushed off to the right of 'Wrap Rock' and were on our way. Just downstream on the left was a big beach in the sun. We pulled in and crawled onto the sand. We lay there –– like lizards. After warming up, we unloaded the boats. Jim had a wet sleeping bag that he decorated over a shrub.

"I've got a plan." I said.

"Oh no!" Jim responded.

"You be a bartender. Make yourself a drink. Make me a coffee and put in lots of that Kahlúa. I'll warm up two cans of chili." I said.

I'm not sure what he was drinking. Something clear. It smelled like gin.

"The day of 1000 decisions. That's what today is." Jim said

We ate, drank, smoked and brought some life back into ourselves. Since then, whenever we start into Scorpion Rapids, it is the 'day of the thousand decisions'. The following day was more of the same. I wouldn't say it was easier. There were still plenty of large blocks and slots to work through.

Later, we came to an area where stone slabs blocked the entire river. We walked downstream and looked for a way through. We couldn't see around the blocks. But when we got to the end we could see numerous narrow chutes of water. It was too tight to squeeze through,so we portaged around. It took about an hour.

Author's note; rivers are always in a state of change. It seems every time I come down here, the portage area has changed. Don't make the mistake of thinking you can get through. You'll get stuck. Getting unstuck is far worse than doing the portage. Always do the portage!

We got back on the River. There were fewer blocks. The small rapids continued as we flipped through a very deep part of the canyon around Falls Canyon.

Yes. All these names are real. Look at a map.

We knew we were almost at Coyote when we saw Stevens Arch. Here, the river calmed down. In 1984, Lake Powell backed up to here –– leaving silt deposits that make it slow and shallow.

We heard an airplane flying low in the canyon somewhere. Then we saw it fly over Stevens Arch. It circled around and returned in that direction. We heard it returning, but couldn't see it. The sound got louder, and then, suddenly, we saw it fly right through the opening of the Arch. It then powered up sharply to get out of the canyon. We looked at each other in disbelief. Yes, I saw it! Stevens Arch is something like 120 feet across and 80 feet high. That pilot had guts.

Just around the bend. We saw Coyote Gulch enter on the right. We pulled into a roomy beach just past the mouth. This is where our boat trip ended.

We camped at the beach and spread our stuff all around. We inventoried the food and stuff. We had a proper celebration – to both celebrate our success and get rid of the heavy food by eating it.

We thought we might see people here –– it was is a popular area. But we hadn't seen anyone since we left Escalante town. Our shoulders hurt from all the paddling. We had blisters on our hands. But, all in all, we were doing pretty well.

We knew about the 'Crack–in–the–Wall' trail. But didn't know where it was or what was involved. So we decided to stay with the original plan to walk out Coyote. It looked to be about 12 miles on the map, one way. Turns out it was more – it is tricky judging distances in these curving canyons.

The next morning we rolled up the dried–out kayaks and tied them onto our backpacks. I'd had my backpack for a dozen years and this was the first time I'd enjoyed having it along. In the kayak, the pack was in front of me. And I could just get something out of it without having to take it off first. Now, there was a boat and a bag tied to it and it was going on my back. I wasn't going to like it much –– it weighed close to 50 pounds.

"Holy Ned!" I said.

Jim was hiding some stuff in the willows when we heard what sounded, at first, like an airplane. But it was a helicopter–– flying way above us –– heading up Coyote Gulch.

"Hope they are not looking for us." Jim observed.

We shouldered our packs and began the walk up the canyon. We had to negotiate a tree ladder in order to reach a ledge about 10 feet above us. It was tied with branches to make the rungs. It was tricky with heavy packs. We worked our way over the ledge and got back into the creek bed. As we made our way up the beautiful canyon, the walking became easier. Eventually, we came to a level floor of wet sand. I took my shoes off and walked barefoot for miles. I stopped when I saw unusual prints in the sand. It looked like two pipes, side–by–side, 6 feet apart pressed into the wet sand.

"Helicopter?" Jim asked

There were footprints all around the outside but none between the pipes.

"Yeah." I agreed.

Later, we came upon some young people standing under a waterfall. We must have looked strange to them with our kayak paddles.

We learned that one guy in their group had fallen off a cliff the previous day. He was still alive, but broken up real bad. The leader of this group had run to get help. He was still gone. The helicopter had made an incredible landing and taken the victim away that morning.

We walked all the way to Jacob Hamlin Arch. The kids were camping there and invited us to stay. So, we unloaded our packs. We talked to them for awhile and told them some of our adventures down the river.

Next day, we hoisted our empty packs and headed back down the river. It was easier and made for a really pleasant walk. When we got back to the river we were really tired. We talked about staying. But after resting, we decided to pack up the rest of our gear and make for the Arch. If we didn't make it, we had our sleeping gear with us. We said goodbye to the river and thanked it for letting us live. Really live!

Jim had some extra weight. We trudged on and made it to the camp just as it was getting dark. The kids shared some of their dinner with us. The pudding was great. We told more about our journey. Jim showed them 'Old Moody'.

Come morning, the kids watched us pack the boats out on our backs. They told us what to expect on the trail. We still had a long way to go to reach the road. We trudged on up the canyon. We turned left at Hurricane Wash, where we soon met a man coming down with just a daypack on. He stopped to talk with us. It turned out that he was the group leader. We told him the kids were all right and that the helicopter made an incredible landing.

We told him of our journey. Well, Jim did. I watched the reaction in the man's eyes. I could tell it wasn't something he ever wanted to do. He said we had guts and was glad we didn't have to be rescued. He said the victim was still alive and had been taken to Salt Lake City. Then he left us and continued down the canyon. We said we'd see him later on the second trip. We continued up the canyon.

We made it to the parking lot near the road. We left our boats and stuff behind some bushes. Then, we went back down Hurricane Wash with the empty packs and stopped at the Arch. No one was there. We rested and loaded up our gear. It seemed to me that the second load was heavier; I know it was for Jim.

We stopped at the spring at Hurricane Wash. It's a nice place. We took a short nap. The last miles in the dry sand were a trudge. We made it to the parking lot after dark where we collapsed and went to sleep.

Next morning, I was drinking the last of the coffee when a convoy of three vehicles came driving in from the south. Jim jumped out and flagged them down. A solo driver offered Jim a ride to the turnoff. They were all heading back to town. I stayed with the gear.

About four hours later, Jim showed up with his Subaru. He said the driver was so impressed with our story that he drove Jim right out to the trailhead and made sure the car started.

Jim has a way of charming people with his British accent and all.

We packed up the car and drove into Escalante. We ate some more, and decided that a motel room and showers were most important

When Jim returned to London he wrote and said that 'Old Moody' weighed 23 pounds and he paid a fortune for extra baggage. Now it sits on his mantle with a brass plate identifying it as 'Old Moody.'

And I'm sure, Jim, that when your friends are over for afternoon tea, they all hear the story of how it got there.  

---

San Francisco River, first solo trip, May 1988

It didn't start out this way. Originally, a friend was going with me. But, at the last minute, his boss told him he had to stay put and be on call –– or be fired. My car was packed. I was ready to go. So I went.

I drove through the night from Parks, Arizona to Glenwood, New Mexico. I parked at the San Francisco Hot Springs. Back then, you could drive right down to the river. Now, there is a locked gate, and you have to walk. I couldn't do a shuttle. Nothing was listed and I knew no one in the area. So I figured I'd leave my boat and gear hidden down at the take–out then hitchhike back to the car and drive back to pick up my stuff.

This was my second trip on the San Francisco. It was my first solo trip ever. This river is small, shallow and rocky. It is mostly class 2 with a few class 3's and a portage. It falls 26 feet a mile.

I loaded up and left civilization behind –– though I wouldn't call some of the folks at the Hot Springs civilized. I pushed the new, self bailing inflatable kayak (an early design) into the river before the sun started to shine.

Once you get on the river, you immediately flow into a deep canyon. The river is easy –– at first. Then it drops over some small rapids with waves a foot high. You line up. Go bump, bump and bump again. It is great fun. The water is very clear.

I floated downstream for miles –– enjoying the absolutely fine weather –– to Mule Creek. I decided to camp there and planned on taking a hike up the side canyon. It is a great site with some Sycamore trees. I had come quite a way down into the canyon. The top of the canyon was over 1,500 feet above me. In the morning, I was awakened by the sound of leaves being raked. I looked out of the tent and saw half a dozen turkeys scratching through the leaves. They paid me no mind and were still around when I made breakfast but took fright when I fired up the camp stove.

I loaded up the day pack and headed up Mule Creek. The water in Mule Creek is clear and it flows about 10 ft.³ per second. The canyon is lush. The path upstream was an avenue of fallen leaves under the towering Sycamore trees.

After an hour of wandering, I came upon an open area of soft, green grass. I couldn't resist the temptation. So I took off my day pack, propped it under my head and lay down on my back to watch the sunlight filtering through the branches. I closed my eyes and heard the leaves rattle in the breeze. Small birds were chirping.

Suddenly, I heard a screeching sound. I opened my eyes and saw a pair of large hawks circling overhead. One landed in a nest in a tree about 50 feet away. The other one was still flying around and yelling at me. It was the size of an eagle –– black with yellow legs and white bands on its tail. I learned later that these were a pair of breeding Blackhawks. They live mostly in northern Mexico and come to the US in the spring and nest mainly in the Gila River country. That's about as far as they get in the US.

The male, I guess it was a male, was squawking at me. He flew over to a nearby tree and landed. He certainly was big! He flew over to another tree and yelled again. He repeated this tree to tree flight, dropping ever closer and calling ever louder. I was intruding. His next dive was right at me! He swooped by within 10 feet of me. I could feel the wind from his wings on my face. I sat up.

"Okay." I said to myself as I got up to back down the canyon.

I can't describe what I saw. I could say it was pretty. But,everything down in the canyon was pretty. So, you'll just have to see it for yourself. I returned back to camp, the hawks gave me warning as I walked by.

At camp, the turkeys were still around. I'd brought along a lawn chair. I never go without one anymore. I sat down to prepare a meal of canned roast beef and noodles, a bagel, chocolate pudding and Kahlua in coffee. I watched the sun go down (actually, the horizon moving up) all while talking turkey with my dinner companions.

It was wonderful! I had no one to deal with and no one to take care of. I didn't have to be affected by anyone's moods. I didn't have to answer anyone's questions. I could sit in my chair for as long as I wanted.

I slept a long time – draining away all the stress of planning the trip and the disappointment and frustration of my friend's job situation. I was really enjoying the spot here at Mule Creek. I could stay and enjoy the freedom. I could see that situations and desires bring you to where you are. And I was there, at Mule Creek. I realized it was what I was trying to do all along. Why did I think I had to go with someone? Well, help with the shuttle would have been nice. And what if I got hurt, how would I get out of trouble?

"Hmm," I thought to myself. You do your own shuttle. And you pay attention and don't get hurt. You bring what you need. That should work for going with people just as well as going alone.

The river was beckoning. I yearned to lie on the boat and feel the water moving me along, like a slow–motion movie. So, I packed up and vowed to go as slowly as I could. Just to drift and use the paddle only when I had to.

I stopped only once at a spring pouring off of the wall into the river. I walked up and opened my mouth. It seemed simple enough. I made camp right after I saw a herd of Bighorn sheep. They were drinking from the river. I stopped above so as not to scare them. I let them drink while I took some pictures.

The next day was rapids day. They were bunched up together and fell abruptly. At low–water, they're usually rock gardens. Anyway, that was the next day. Now it was fine camp time.

As usual, one sleeps, gets up, loads the boat, pushes off and floats down the river, pulls out, unloads the boat, eats, and sleeps. It becomes routine. It's complete freedom.

Day four. I was on the water and looking for the power lines across the canyon. They were the signal that I was getting close to 'Pay Attention Rapids' –– the largest and most challenging I would encounter on the San Francisco River.

I saw the lines! I pulled over and had a look–see. The first one was on the New Mexico side and I named it 'New Mexico Rapid'. It was a definite class 3. It was followed by 'Son of New Mexico Rapid' –– a class 2+. And it was followed by 'Daughter of New Mexico Rapid', also a class 2+. You have to run them all together.

I walked around. I found the route I was most comfortable with and tried to remember key rocks so I could position myself, like road signs. I checked my rigging. I didn't want to be losing things down there. Not in those rapids anyway.

And off I went! Bump off the rocks. Move, move and move some more. I made it through the New Mexico family. A quarter mile of easy water brought me under the power lines. Around the bend awaited 'Arizona Rapids'. That one worried me. It was a definite class 3+. I saw it ahead, and pulled over to the right for a look. It slams into the left wall. Gathers itself together and tumbles down into a boulder garden. At the bottom of that, it gathers force again and, again, makes an attack on the left wall.

"Don't mess up here", I told myself. The walls were steep, dark volcanic stuff. It was less than 100 feet from wall to wall. The riverbed was a mass of boulders of various sizes. Nothing gets a chance to grow down there. It's noisy and kind of spooky.

To get ready, I unfolded the lawn chair, plugged in the headphones and listened to Michael Martin Murphy's "Drink Life One Drop at a Time" Excellent! That was nice. Let's go run this thing I told myself.

I pushed off and stayed on the inside curve to avoid the wall. Chicken run? You bet! I had nothing to prove, and no one was there to witness anything. No one was there to rescue me either. It was pushier than I'd expected. I had to paddle hard to stay away from the wall. Okay, I said to no one, I made it!. Now came the rock garden. I told myself to line up between two rocks, stroke straight and straighten out! Watch that rock on the right. Shit! I spun around. I was going backwards now. Ok, I told myself, turn around –– face the danger. I was back in control. But wait...only 100 feet ahead was another rapid. I had time and room to pull over. But I could see into it, and it looked pretty straightforward.

I called this one 'Son of Arizona'. It was a solid class 2+, maybe a 3 at higher water. It dropped down wide then funneled into a point where there were some waves about 2 to 3 feet high.

In I went. My approach was good. I was where I wanted to be in the rapid. I picked up speed – dodging some underwater rocks. Then I rode up fast on the first wave. It was the second wave that got away from me. I plowed right into it and then, slam! ––– my bow buried into the wave, which poured right through my hips and nearly pushed me out of the boat. The boat was full of water. It wouldn't flip, but I couldn't move very well either. I kept the nose pointed in. In 10 seconds, the self–bailer drained the boat.

"You son of a.... Arizona!" I yelled.

I was soaked but the sun was shining and the air was warm. I thought I would stop to see if everything was okay. I saw a white beach a way down the canyon. I paddled down and landed on the right. It was a big beach and it was all mine. I peeled off my wet clothes and then brought out the waterproof bags to see if they were, in fact, waterproof. They were.

I set up a folding chair. Fixed a drink and puffed on my pipe. You know, I thought, a lot of people pay a lot of money to go to some tropical getaway and sit on a beach. And here, I have this great view of the mountains, this canyon, and this wonderful little river. It was so peaceful. Yeah, peaceful? It nearly kicked my butt back there. But it was okay. We were still good friends.

I had gone about 20 miles into the canyon by that point. I decided to check the maps. Let's see, I thought: Diversion dam was at Martinez Ranch – mile 28; Blue River was at mile 32 and Clifton at mile 53. I decided I would head to the Blue River the next day, portage the dam, go past the ranch and then four more miles to the Blue.

I put the maps away. I heard some weird sounds from across the river. I saw some movement. It was a bunch of peccaries (wild pigs). I had heard that they don't see very well, but can hear and smell keenly. A few had gathered at the bank drinking. One looked my way and snorted. Then they ran off quickly into the shrubs and disappeared.

No, I didn't want the pigs in my camp. I had a solid wall behind me and the river in front, though it wasn't very deep right there.

Day five. I was drinking coffee and watching a catfish surface feeding. The sun was just peeking over the distant rim. I had my headphones on. The little Walkman cassette players are great! I thought back to when I'd first taken music into the wilderness.

It was 1974. Little Ricky and I had packed in a 12 volt motorcycle battery (that weighed about 3 pounds); A car stereo cassette player (a couple more pounds); and a pair of six–inch speakers with heavy magnets (even more pounds)! Outrageous! We took the system down the Grandview Trail into the Grand Canyon. This was about halfway down and way out over the inner gorge. Here we set up and listened to Pink Floyd's 'Dark Side of the Moon'. Carrying it all back out was not so enlightening.

But my little Walkman was better. It weighed only a pound and had better sound.

Well. Better pack it up, I thought, it was time for an all day float to the Blue. A couple of miles down the Blue is a tricky rapid I call 'Boulders Galore. It's a class 2+ maybe a 3 at higher water and it deserves a scout. It's a pinball game. Boulders or bumpers are everywhere. I wasn't sure if I wanted extra points or free game. Or?

I found several routes through. The left didn't look friendly at all. The center was better, though there was a big rock below it. Or, something a little more to the right, I thought to myself, hmmm.......

I went down the center. I bumped a couple of times. "200 points. 500 points. Whoa. 1000! 1000 points!" ...I thought as I descended.... "But you better watch that big rock down there. Geez. Just about crashed.''

When I hit the pool below the rocks, I relaxed and let my nerves unwind. I turned around and looked back the way I'd come, the pinball game...where was my cotton candy?

The canyon was opening up more now. And there were more rapids...miles of them! When coming to the rapids, I heard a baritone roar and then saw a horizontal line. It was a diversion dam...a danger.

I've seen people on rivers hypnotized approaching diversion dams, approaching ever closer. Maybe they are just curious about where the water goes? Usually, they're drunk.

I pulled over to the right and looked around. I unloaded almost everything from the boat and carried it 100 feet around the dam and down to a pool. I put the kayak over my head –– just like the canoe guys do –– and decided to have lunch before loading up again.

Downstream the canyon really opened up. At the ranch there were fields and pasture. Part of a barbed wire fence jutted out from the water. The rest was torn out by spring floods. I told myself to watch for the fence.

It was an easy float from the ranch to the Blue River. The walls of the canyon narrowed near the confluence and were comprised of dark cliffs with white bands running through them. On the right, a large side canyon entered and I knew it was the Blue. the San Francisco's largest tributary. It drains a large section of Arizona's border from way up to Alpine.

I pulled into a sand bar below the two streams. There was a noticeable added flow. I was in camp again, in the chair with chili and crackers for the meal. I thought I would take a walk up the Blue in the morning. Go 'walk about'. It would be good to stretch the legs.

Side canyons are special features on river trips. It always seems I hardly get walking before the lure of 'what's around the bend' gets hold of me. It makes you go on, and on.

I returned to camp in the early afternoon. The ravens had found my crackers and were having a party. "This place is for the birds," I thought, "Think I'll just leave."

I got back on the river. There's more water and it seemed I was hardly bumping into anything anymore. The sky was cloudier. More fences were showing up, also cows, and mining prospects. I was getting closer to civilization. I needed to brace for that. I hadn't seen anyone this entire trip. I had about 10 more miles to go before I got into the Clifton area. I would make one more camp. I timed it to get into town around noon. That would give me enough time to get back to my car before dark.

I went a few more miles and saw a road on the left side that looked suitable for passenger cars. It was close enough. I found a camp on the right. Next morning, I floated through Clifton. I saw buildings, cars, people, liquor stores, and churches.

I pulled under the main bridge. Put on a pair of jeans, and a dry pair of shoes. I tried to fit in. I climbed up the bank and right up onto Main Street. I walked over to a small store and bought a Coke and a pack of smokes. Then I went back down under the bridge, drank my Coke and had a smoke, changed back into shorts and, again, got on the river.

Downstream, below town, was a pizza place on the east side of the river. I tied up and scrambled up the bank to reach the parking lot. They'd just opened. It was empty except for the owner and his daughter. I ordered a big pizza. I explained what I'd done, where I'd been, and how I needed to get back to my car.

"Man. I'd like to do something like that!" Said the owner, "Hey, you can leave your stuff here in the back room. In fact, I am nearly finished here. We're not busy until the afternoon. I'll drive you down to the freeway where you'll get a ride to New Mexico."

We got in his old Ford pickup and drove the 12 miles to the highway junction. There I got a ride in less than 20 minutes with, would you believe, a traveling salesman? We had a good conversation about the times and the status of America – what's wrong and what's right.

He dropped me off at the highway where the road to the Hot Springs turned off. I walked down the road for a mile and put the keys in the door lock. Everything was fine.

I drove back over to the pizza place and ordered another one – for the road – and packed up the gear. The owner thanked me and I thanked him. I drove home to Parks in the dark.