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on topics related to the Western landscape. My wife, Bessann, graciously agreed to let me use a few of her watercolors. You can see more on her website.
Labyrinth: Reflections from a (Sometimes) Quiet River by Frederick H. Swanson Few moments in life can compare with sitting on a sculpted rock at the edge of a desert river at sundown, when the last light fades from the cliffs and deepening shadows spread over the moving water. It’s especially peaceful to camp along a calm stretch where the current gently roils its load of sand and silt in wavelets and eddies. Camp chores are done, the boats are tied to a stout cottonwood tree, and the last birdsong offers a benediction on the dissolving day.
It was the memory of such evenings that drew my family and me back to a section of the Green River in Utah called Labyrinth Canyon. This is one of the few places in the state where one can float for days in canoes or open kayaks without encountering difficult whitewater. Nor must one navigate the tortuous permit lotteries that limit access to the Southwest’s more popular rivers. Labyrinth’s graceful meanders lead through the sedimentary layers of the Glen Canyon Group, whose cliff walls grow higher with each swooping bend, luring you into the heart of the Colorado Plateau. Our twelve-year-old daughter, who first paddled Labyrinth’s sixty-eight miles with us when she was six, was eager to repeat the adventure, so during her spring break we loaded our touring kayaks on the truck and set out for the desert. We read up on the Bureau of Land Management (BLM) requirements for minimum-impact camping along the river corridor, purchased the expensive, collapsible porta-potty that all Labyrinth voyagers must use, and assembled various safety items such as a rescue throw line, spare paddles, and even a whistle. On a pleasant April morning we pulled in to the entrance station at Green River State Park. The ranger on duty went over a thorough checklist with us, sending us to the local auto parts store to obtain a steel oil-drain pan that would contain our campfire ashes. These restrictions are designed to ensure a safe trip and a clean, odor-free campsite, a necessity when dozens of voyagers take to the river each day. Modern river runners put up with this rigmarole in exchange for the unique pleasures of steering their craft into the flow of a strong current, where with a little practice a flick of the oar or a dip of the paddle safely avoids obstacles and takes you down through a constantly changing landscape. You learn to use the current to advantage by angling the boat and pulling back against the flow to move toward one bank or the other, ferry-style, or by crossing into an eddy to rest and wait for stragglers. The hazards are few in Labyrinth, and absent a strong upriver wind the floating comes as easy as it did to Huck and Jim. We’d laze back and let the current spin us in circles, giving a slow panorama of the Cretaceous buttes and cliffs that rise along the first twenty-five miles of river. The slip and tug of the current works exactly opposite to the way a powerboat slices through the still water of a reservoir. The river worked on our minds in much the same way, immersing us in its strength, telling us to go with instead of go over. Other creatures also made use of this verdant corridor in the desert. It was migration time for Canada geese, and every mile or so we’d come across a pair or a foursome of these evocative birds as they rested on the riverbank or in the near-shore eddies. Their necks stiffened as they eyed us with concern, then began their skip-splash-and-hop run across the water, strong wingbeats finally giving them the air. We learned to drift across to the opposite bank to avoid giving them distress. Great blue herons provided more river-bank entertainment, their graceful stalking stance contrasting with their prehistoric-looking yet serene flight. Tracks and mudslides on the banks signified otters. A meadowlark called from a cottonwood, reminding us that we were still in farmland, and at several points the river’s tranquility was broken by the drone of diesel-powered pumps irrigating nearby fields. Then we entered BLM territory, where the cliffs rose higher and absorbed us in nature’s sounds. The stress of days of packing and travel ebbed as the river’s ancient pulse took over. *
The tendrils of Moab’s growing recreational trail network reached to the river at many points, and few side canyons seemed to be out of range of vehicle tracks. We stopped late on that first day at a campsite that I remembered from twenty years previously, a scenic site below a prominent eroded butte. We climbed the steep bank to a broad, ancient sandbar and discovered that the locale was now a vehicle raceway--or rather multiple raceways: narrow motorcycle tracks that darted in and out of wash bottoms and around tamarisk patches, and a wider roadway laid out for four-wheelers. Dozens of lesser paths crisscrossed the open flats and ventured up sidehills and drainages, and from these the riders had branched out to find new routes. The site was mercifully empty, and the only noise we were treated to that evening was the thunder bouncing off the cliffs and the wind trying to make a tumbleweed of our tent. Still, as we walked the surrounding hills observing the early spring bloom, we were never more than a dozen yards from tire prints in the dirt. Those who prefer to take their recreation astride wheels probably enjoy seeing new vistas as much as I do. We have in common a love for adventure and getting into new places, if by different means. What separates us is speed. Our river float was slow by modern standards, an even, measured pace governed by the current and our willingness to paddle hour after hour. My daughter and I, after a little practice with our double-bladed paddles, were linked in a pleasant cadence that suited city-softened muscles. It was easy to listen to the geese call, spot the falcon pair gyring over the cliff, or just let the stillness occupy our space. Motorized recreation is just as fully human as the kind I prefer, for it draws on deep impulses in the brain: the desire for novelty and excitement as well as the delight in power and speed that have always fascinated our species. I dipped into these same mental currents while on the river, sometimes challenging my daughter to dig hard at the paddle while we reveled in our rapid progress—a five-knot clip--as the stream banks sped past. Tired muscles soon made us rest from our game, but what happens when gasoline fuels the sport? Then the expression of these powerful impulses finds no respite; the fun continues back at base camp long into the evening, where riders continue their play by headlights. * At the mouth of Tenmile Canyon, which I remembered for its attractive riverside lagoon and wild, little-used canyon, motorcycles had dug trenches in the mudbanks alongside the outlet and four-wheelers had spun random donuts across the sandbar. We were not tempted to explore up the canyon. I was growing resentful of the double standard the BLM sponsors for this canyon: if you travel down the river, you must adhere to a detailed list of “leave no trace” restrictions, yet if you show up on a bike or ATV, you’re free to leave tracks wherever your vehicle will carry you. I was impressed that there was little trash at these motorized incursion points, which may point to the efforts of a core bunch of riders who effectively police their ranks. But a certain number felt a compulsion to leave the established roads and churn up undisturbed soils at will. Every open hillside flung a challenge. Extrapolating a few decades into the future, I imagined these slopes after the summer rains had turned the tracks into flowing rivulets, thence into stream courses, and finally into gullies. We climbed the steep trail to the saddle above Bowknot Bend for what must surely rank as one of the world’s great panoramas of river, cliff, and sky. Here was a view that had taken us three days to reach, and it amply rewarded our effort. Far below we could see vehicles making their way along on the other side of the river. The following evening, at our camp by the old prospector’s road that reached the river at Spring Canyon, we listened to the rumble of engines reverberating from the cliffs. Seven motorbikers flew past, returning down canyon a half hour later. Did they notice the asters blooming along the road? Does it matter? All was as it had been, except for my temporarily deranged thoughts.
On our fourth night we found a campsite with no vehicle access under a brow of a riverside cliff that concealed an extensive benchland. After dinner we followed a deer trail across this ancient floodplain toward the head of a canyon that breached the immense cliffs to the west. A cougar had preceded us, leaving tracks in the soft dirt. We were glad to be hiking close together as we scanned the lonely bench for a flash of tawny fur. Low on drinking water, with thoughts of hot showers and fresh salads tempting us, we sped downriver the next day to the take-out at Mineral Bottom, pausing long enough to find the historic 1836 trapper’s inscription at the mouth of Hellroaring Canyon. As we approached the site, which is marked with a prominent BLM sign, we once again heard the rumble of approaching ATVs. But the motorists turned around after reaching a washout less than a hundred yards from the inscription. Perhaps they had seen it before, but we felt justified in our leisurely approach to this river, which let us obtain just a little more reward than from the seat of a machine. Strapped in a car seat on the back of one of the ATVs was a young girl no more than three years old. In a few more years she will be able to pilot her own mini-ATV, if she hasn’t tried already. What will form the horizons of her world? What sounds will she hear as nighttime unfolds over the canyons? As her generation comes to set the standards for America’s treatment of the natural world, what priorities will she hold highest? These questions sifted uneasily in my mind as we loaded the boats onto our truck and drove up the steep road to the rim, away from the narrow band of river that led deeper into the canyons. As we rejoined the ranks of the users of fossil fuel, we were left to contemplate those few days when we depended upon a much older flow — one that had brought us deep satisfactions. I hoped that our daughter would not be among the last to know them.
© 2011 by Frederick H. Swanson |
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