As the Oarlock Turns

They Said It Couldn’t Be Done
By Josh Mahan .

There were many who said it couldn’t be done. And we may still prove those faithless creatures right.

But not today.

Today our boats rest in the current at Grasshopper Camp, nine miles below the Flaming Gorge dam. Roselle did manage to shatter a thick Smoker oar like a tooth pick in the first Class III rapid of the trip. Roselle feels pretty bad and has begun whittling a new oar out of driftwood.
We shuttle portaged the monster concrete dam yesterday morning after rowing the entirety of the reservoir in six windy days.

We camped one evening in the company of Flaming Gorge Lodge. It was a needed rest after days at sea. To quench our sailor-sized thirst we bought Utah beer. The Daggett County sheriff’s deputy at the Spillway put-in the next day said there is nothing special about Utah beer. The beers that sell in Utah are 3.2 percent across the board nationwide. It’s only that Utah enforces the point.

Flaming Gorge was a spectacular row against all we had been told by scores of hippie river runners. The northern section is classic Wyoming desert; empty but for the howl of the coyote, a distant mesa top, or sagebrush-speckled hill.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s a tragedy to watch a young, innocent free-flowing river like the upper Green get sucked into a backwater algae-bloom cesspool. The tall grasses and reeds that housed red-tailed hawks, deer, and pronghorn just downstream of Green River, Wyoming yield abruptly to mudflats, bath-tub rings above the water line, and a drastic drop in bird numbers and varieties.

The high-water line is marked by a thick layer of jet boat trash, left behind by the scores of non-native, lake-trout slayers and thrill seeking water skiers. The brilliant red rock that once towered above the intrepid boater is now buried in an abyss of green water.

But there is still a strange, surreal and captivating beauty that surrounds the landscape in spite of all the environmental degradation. All of the destruction this canyon system has endured cannot veil the magnetism of these rocks and washes

We keep on rowing. Each stroke is a stroke in protest of the river’s stilled currents, and the living systems that are also stilled when an impenetrable wall is constructed across a river.
When one of the power boaters out here on Flaming Gorge asks us why in the sam hell we would opt to row our gear rafts across an artificial lake we tell them it’s because free-flowing rivers aren’t free.

It takes treehugging writers to bring you the algae-bloom horror stories and bemoan of the loss of one of America’s greatest treasures: the ability to put your boat on a river and float through the unsurpassed beauty of the West, a place many creatures call home, from the mountains to the lowlands.

You can still attempt a journey like this with a horse, or a pair of hiking boots. But if you want to float you better be ready to row some rez.

As many of you may have noticed, we had some transmission issues early during this trip. It’s our first river trip with solar panels, lap-tops, and satellites. You’ll be glad to know that all of the kinks have been worked out. From here on out you will feel the strain of the oars in your back straps, the beat of the sun on your brow, and the gritty taste of canyon country in between your teeth.

Bob has been busy working with our portable technology, a full time job, and taking spectacular photos of our reservoir crossing. There is hardly a critical moment and isn’t recognized and documented. The daily grind of crossing that body of water proved to leave little time for anything but rowing.

Jen has been a critical component of the gear logistics game and our fluid camp structure is due mostly to her tireless preparation. You should see her row a loaded boat across a windy bay in the face of a lightning storm. No slouch.
And a new and improved non-smoker Mike Roselle hustles around camp carrying heavy boxes, even as the golden morning light shines low in the sky and he works on his first cup of coffee.

And we were joined last night by the interesting and thoughtful professor Rod Nash and Aspen journalist Tim Mutrie. They’ve already proved to be invaluable by bringing in some essential computer equipment that has led to you reading this very post.

Enough with the introductions, here’s some daily journals, and soon to follow are some hot photos from Bob, tall tales from Mike, and stories of a life aquatic by Jen.

August 27, 2007
We launched from Expedition Island in Green River, Wyoming today. The boats finally pulled out of the south tip of the island around 3 p.m. After two rigorous days and nights of assembling, packaging, and loading our boats we were water-born and ready to roll downhill to Lake Mead.

Our rigging fiasco began with a band playing in a nearby park for the town’s annual River Fest and microbrew extravaganza. The tunes blasting through the willows were enough for Roselle to exclaim, “This is the best put-in I’ve ever been to.”

The scene was vibrant with locals straggling past. Two young, drunk locals straggled by bleary eyed, wanting to know what the big deal was with all the gear. We told them we’re retracing the oar strokes and footsteps of John Wesley Powell.
“Why haven’t we ever thought of that?” one asks the other.
“Yeah, we were bored and looking for something to do,” I told them.

They helped us unload our trailer, we talked about Missoula beer, and I gave one of them a Moose Drool from Big Sky, and the other a Cold Smoke from Kettlehouse.

Later an older couple came by. They were wearing medals from the kayak race earlier in the day, but lamented the state of kayaking in Green River.

In 2002 the town opted to spend $600,000 to put build a kayak park on Expedition Island. While the rapids and play holes were initially a success, it only took a few years of high water to send the town’s investment downstream.
Today signs on the town’s main drag will point you to the white-water park, but you’ll only find remnants of this community’s attempt to revitalize around the river.

Downtown at the Book and Bean the store’s proprietor will ask any out-of-towner what the little forgotten railroad town needs to transition into the modern west.
“Should we focus on history, or the river, or art?” she asks, though she’s dismayed that the city has hired an expensive focus group to tell the town which direction to head.

Back at Expedition Island we met a local professor named Larry who told us that nobody had launched from the place we were putting in for 12 years. Why? The reservoir.
The focus group didn’t ask me, but if they did I’d tell them that Flaming Gorge’s backwater killed the town. If the Green was a free-flowing river, the settlement of Green River would be Raft-town U.S.A. and art and history would flow seamlessly with boat loads of tourist dollars around the town’s avenues.

After launching our boats and commencing the expedition, we wind our way out of town and into the vast and desolate desert mesas. We keep our wits about us. Green River locals had warned us of the mud flats below Scott Bottom.
“Some cows got stuck out there and nobody could get to them in time. They died,” one local woman said.

Since we had stowed our maps in gear that was securely fastened out of reach we had no idea just which Bottom was Scott’s. So as twilight yielded to darkness and the afternoon winds blew out we found ourselves beneath a nearly full moon scanning the river for mud flats. Coyotes howled in the distance as the current slowed and finally we reached Boater’s Bottom intact for some rest.

August 28, 2007
The tranquility of morning was shattered by a guide on vacation digging the coffee pot out of an old dry box we had borrowed from an outfitter in Missoula. The problem was that we had trusted the old box filling it with goods we expected to stay dry, and it had failed miserably.

A foot of standing water graced the goods that filled the bottom of the box.

But, no retracing of the Powell expedition is complete without compromising food supplies, and facing disrepair. So we happily accepted what the trip gods delivered upon our platter, did our best to make repairs, and kept pushing down river.

We pushed around north Chimney Rock and south Chimney Rock for what seemed like an eternity. A severe lightning storm and winds push us into a secluded cove.
Bob is on the oars in his boat and shores the craft before the cove. Mike hops on and pulls and boat the rest of the way in as Bob opts to walk in.

Glass returns to the water with evening and we push well into darkness to reach the confluence of the Black’s Fork and camp on a point just downstream.

August 29, 2007
The afternoon winds that whip this great body of water into a churning mess of whitecaps lay dormant this afternoon and we pushed on, reaching camp with daylight in a cove on Marsh Bay. We are happy with our progress, but are facing trouble with our satellite technology. The dry box is full of water again. Supplies hold out. Morale maintains. Roselle decides the french press is the best invention since the rubber boat, and Jen is glad she quit her job to come on this trip.

August 30, 2007
We crossed under the pipeline today and continue to inch our way across this lake. Winds picked up again this afternoon forcing us to take shelter in a cove with a bunch of power boaters. We were able to tepidly communicate with them. It is good training because tomorrow we enter their lair: Lucerne Marina. I work on my nightcrawler lingo and read an Engines to English dictionary should I be forced into a conversation involving torque or overall power delivery due to combustion.

The book confuses me and I decide all I need to do is point to my arms and call them guns.

We camp on Stateline Bay in yet another nestled cove. Our cruise has felt like a Mediterranean escape.

August 31, 2007
The Wi-Fi signal at Lucerne Marina proves to be the weakest signal that is actually called a signal in the state of Utah. It’s Labor Day weekend and the boat ramp buzzes with locals and visitors alike. Motorized madness. Our rowboats looks out of place, lowbagging a jet boat slip on the dock. Carl The Dock Boy doesn’t mind and sells us some ice. Roselle guards the gear and can’t stop talking about the perfect mullet, which he spotted on the docks. We face another monster lightning storm as we push across Linwood Bay and enter the official Flaming Gorge canyon. We camp just beyond Horseshoe Canyon, in striking distance to put this lake in our wake.

September 1, 2007
The push through the narrow Kingfisher Canyon is marked by Labor Day crowds of boat motorists roaring through the chasm and spinning up one rolling set of waves after the next. In the confines of the tight canyon white-caps soon rocked the boat, throwing up the biggest water we had seen yet. We finally hit the boat ramp and load our shuttle rig to capacity on a busy motor ramp. The only ramp. As we pull out a motor boater yells out to us.
“Don’t you know this is a boat ramp?”
“This is a boat,” I say.
“That’s a raft.”
The exchange continued devolving into straight ramp rage as we both drove off. Motorheads!
The vibe would be different the next day on the other side of the concrete where the current flowed. Fishermen in float tubes, paddle rafters, and guides all gave us the thumbs up and support that this journey needs. We’ve got many days ahead of us, and if Roselle keeps breaking oars, who knows what could happen.