Paddling Down The Green River by Lucy Avramenko

Blessedly the sandstorm that left our teeth gritty finally died down and we heard the first tentative raindrops hit our tent. Within minutes the gentle drops turned into a torrential downpour. After ten minutes or so, we once again heard the sound of roaring water over the sound of the rain. It was the same frightening roar we’d heard the night before, leading Andy to disappear into the rain lashed night to check on the level of the river. Camped on a sandbar on the shore of the Green River, with steep sandbanks that broke off and fell into the water as the current flowed by, we feared that the furious rain had swollen the river and flooded the bank. To my great relief, Andy came back and reported that the river was at the same level and that our Klepper was still where we had left it. Unable to see in the downpour and pitch-black night, the roaring sound remained a mystery - until the next day.

Now hearing the roar once again, we lifted the tent flap. Directly across the river was a wondrous sight: a spectacular waterfall with two lesser falls on either side. Water cascaded down the two hundred foot rock face of the red cliff opposite our campsite. Its fall was broken by a series of three rock ledges that fanned the water out in ever greater and wider arcs as it hit the rock balconies until, with a thunderous roar, it hit the river, churning up the gray mud before being carried off by the river current.

Until this point we had been upset by the rain, mainly because we hadn’t expected any at all in this area of the country. Months earlier, when we’d been planning our trip down the Green River in southwest Utah, I remember Andy asking if we’d need a tent. I said, "Oh, it never rains there." Then, almost as an afterthought, I said, "Let’s take one just in case." According to literature we had gotten, this section of Utah usually has .67 inches of rain for all of September. It seemed to me that we’d had more than that in one day.

In retrospect, the rain was manageable, and as our trip progressed, we learned to deal with it. When we saw darkening skies far off in the distance, we’d gauge how much time we had to get off the water, set up our tent and cook dinner. This reduced the odds of our being trapped in our tent (sheets of water sluicing off the outside) with just a meal of crackers, pepperoni and water -- or once (horror of horrors) just one sticky Power Bar for each of us.

Our trip down the Green River -- a strange name for a river that is a silty, opaque gray -- began in the town of Green River itself, a small, quiet town known for its lush, sweet cantaloupes and honeydew melons. Arriving in town by Greyhound (after an eight hour drive from Denver) we were left off next door to a motel, certainly convenient for us with our four large duffel bags, camera case and overstuffed flight bag. We spent our last night in great comfort. We ate at a local restaurant, took leisurely hot showers and slept on a soft mattress.

The next morning we were upset to learn that there was no taxi service in Green River. So, although the place where we were to start was only a half mile away, we had no way of getting there. Our sympathetic desk clerk saved the day by calling a friend with a pickup truck. An hour later we were on the banks of the Green River. The chore of loading the kayak was now ahead of us. For hours we arranged and rearranged the small mountain of gear on the shore. Finally, it was all stuffed in the kayak or lashed into a mound on the back deck. A last cantaloupe had to be eaten because not an inch of space remained. It was a relief to push off from shore, in spite of the fact that I had just barely wedged myself into the cockpit.

We had started out under an overcast sky, but as we paddled, the sky cleared and turned to a bright azure. The sun was shining, the current was swift, and it required almost no effort to keep us moving. After the tedium of getting on the river I felt a sense of joy as the tamarisk-covered banks of the river sped by. My joy was short lived. A new sound became audible, the sound of rushing water in the far distance. As it grew louder, my sense of well-being faded. "What’s that?", I asked Andy. He listened, then answered, "It must be the first of the riffles." I remembered his describing stretches where the river narrowed and the water was shallow. These shallows, call "riffles", were much milder versions of rapids.

As we paddled the current picked up and turning a bend in the river, the sight and sound of water rushing over a river bottom littered with rocks of all sizes, lay directly ahead of us. We tried to paddle through the deepest part of the river, avoiding the larger rocks. Suddenly, to our surprise, the kayak scraped over the river bottom and ground to a halt. Andy jumped out and I followed, not easily since I was wedged in by our gear. Pulling on the front Andy dislodged the kayak and I guided it from the rear. When the water deepened we both got in and paddled once more. After a short distance we were aground again. We got out and repeated the guiding of the kayak through the shallows. Then, as the water rose to our knees and we were about to get back in, the boat started to turn sideways. With the kayak turned diagonally across the current and me downriver of it, I attempted to straighten it out by pushing it against the current. All along Andy had been shouting at me to get upriver, but it wasn’t until I made one last desperate push and felt the river push back with a force that almost toppled me, that I jumped out of the way.

The scenario in my head, the kayak tipping over and all our gear carried away by the rushing water, wasn’t realized. As I watched, Andy pulled on the rope attached to the bow and the fast flowing current straightened the boat out. My experience taught me a valuable lesson that day -- not to underestimate the power of the river. In a more extreme situation, it could be a fatal mistake. In his book, Beyond the Hundredth Meridian, Wallace Stegner wrote, "...what every man who has ever handled a boat on Green or Colorado or San Juan learns: how trivial a mistake can lead to trouble. The rivers are not treacherous. They are only forever dangerous. One who had not tried it finds it hard to believe the instant and terrible force that such a current exerts on a broadside boat out of control on a sandbar or rock."

Our days settled into a rhythm. We’d get off the river, usually camping on a sandbar, set up camp, cook dinner, then check our river guides. Sometimes it’s hard to choose among a variety of interesting day trips. We usually decided in favor of Anasazi ruins and pictographs or petroglyphs (drawings on rock or pictures pecked into the sandstone). More often than not, we found the ruins according to the directions given. Standing in wonder before the structures and art left behind by the "ancient ones," I imagined the landscape as it might have looked a thousand years ago; a landscape peopled by short, dark-haired farmers tending their corn in the valleys below their pueblos. These pueblos, or communal villages, consisted of flat-roofed structures set into the ledged recesses of the sandstone cliffs that rose from the valley floor. Built at a great height, with ladders that could be pulled up for the night, they were reasonably secure from marauding tribes.

In 1869, John Wesley Powell and his crew paddled down the Green River. The Anasazi were long gone by then. Only their dwellings and pottery shards remained. The one-armed Powell (he lost his arm in the Civil War) made his way down the river, mapping and naming features as he went. For this he was enshrined in the history of the Green and was a legend in his own time. But even more fascinating to us is Denis Julen, a French trapper who etched his name into the sandstone at various points along the river. He paddled the Green River thirty-three years before Powell -- going upstream.

The current on the river is strong and after pushing off, the kayak is carried along swiftly. Very often Andy tells me not to paddle, which suits me just fine. I settle back in my seat with my paddle held in front of me, and watch the tamarisk-covered banks speed by. Every time we turn a bend in the river, new red rock formations come into view. At a distance, the rock takes on familiar shapes. We see squirrels, mushrooms, masks and Indian heads profiled against the sky -- the body parts will be left to your imagination.

The days are sunny, dry and hot, yet, one morning we wake to find the short, young tamarisks that cover our sandbar (giving the appearance of a sparse grass lawn), lightly touched by frost. Our breath shows white when we speak and it is bittersweet to realize that our trip (and summer) will soon be over.

As we get closer to the confluence of the Green and Colorado Rivers (our final destination and pick-up point), the number of sandbars dwindle and finding a place to camp becomes difficult. At one bend the canyon walls steepen above us, the river narrows and we can’t find an area of sand large or level enough on which to set up a tent. Approaching a long, narrow rock ledge just two feet above the river, we make a quick decision to land. After scrambling out of the kayak, we unload it, lifting it onto the rock ledge when it’s empty. That night we unroll our sleeping bags and lay them side by side on the narrow ledge. Andy’s bag is just a foot or so from the edge of the ledge, a two foot drop into deep, swift-moving water. Knowing my tendency to lean against him while asleep (often pushing him up against the wall at home), I place some large rocks on the side of his sleeping bag as a precaution.

Luckily for us, the night is clear with no possibility of rain. As the sky darkens, small dark shapes fly over the canyon walls, down to where we lie snug in our sleeping bags. Bats. They flit and swoop above us, their clicks clearly audible in the still desert air. At times they drop down so close (probably sensing our heat and thinking we’re insects), that I can hear the movement of their wings. Once they realize we’re not food for them, they shoot back up again.

All the while the sky is changing to navy and as the bats disappear, the stars appear above us. In the cool, dry desert air they shine with a brilliance unmatched by any other sky I’ve seen. We see falling stars, brief streaks of light arcing across the dark; sometimes we see what appear to be stars, dots of light pulsing on and off as they move slowly but steadily through the cluttered sky -- they’re satellites, put there by the hand of man.

On the day that we are to reach the confluence of the Green and Colorado Rivers, we plan our last hike. It’s the Powell Canyon hike to the plateau overlooking the coming together of the two serpentine rivers, both legendary rivers of the "old west." Landing on the sandbar we change into our hiking boots and pack our day packs. We start our hike up a narrow cleft filled with fallen rock. Sometimes, the way up is very well defined; at other times, we make a wrong turn and are faced with a steep, slick wall and have to retrace our steps, then continue on in another direction. It’s a scramble getting to the rim. At one point, Andy waits for me, watching as I make my way up. I have a unique hiking style; slipping on the loose rock, I often totter before regaining my balance, which makes Andy nervous. It makes me nervous to be watched, so I tell him to go on ahead. For all my slipping and swaying, I manage not to fall. At a few places in our strenuous hike up, we’re temporarily stymied by narrow ledges or almost nonexistent footholds, but we don’t give up. After all, if the one-armed Powell could make it, so could we. Two hours later, we reach Powell’s Overlook, tired, but elated, and we see the Colorado shining down below. Standing 1,300 feet above the river, the view exceeds any of our expectations: it is a stunning fairytale kingdom.

After paddling between steep, massive rock walls, the sight of an immense blue sky above huge, multicolored rock spires stretching to a far distant horizon, leaves us speechless. The sandcastle-like formations are banded in shades of cream, rose and mauve, and as their outlines blur into the distance, they shimmer with a purple-violet haze. A far off mountain range seems to float in this same atmospheric haze. We wander over large, rounded rock mounds that form the surface of the plateau. Here and there, depressions worn into the rock are filled with rainwater, reflecting the blue of the sky above. Piñon trees grow in pockets of soil, their gnarled shapes reflecting the harshness of their lives buffeted by the wind.

Powell’s Overlook is a place of great beauty and it’s hard for us to leave, but the time comes when Andy says, "Well, we’d better be getting back to the river." On the way down I brace my hand against a boulder, briefly glancing at it. What I see stops me in mid-step. A gracefully undulating stem is visible in the reddish sandstone. Once, millions of years ago, it waved on the ocean floor. Now, this lily-like marine animal is frozen in rock; in fact, it has become rock itself. It’s strange to imagine this entire area under water, an area now dry except for the rivers cutting through it.

Returning to our kayak, tired but thrilled by our hike, we paddle the short distance to the confluence of the Green and Colorado Rivers, and to our pick-up by Tag-a-Long Expeditions, an outfitter we’d hired to take us up the Colorado to Moab.

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