As the Oarlock Turns

Sink an Expedition
By Josh Mahan

When this expedition left you last we sat poised at the top of the Green River’s upper canyons. Mike had shattered his first oar. But the Hyside, piloted by Mike and Bob, had yet to wrap violently around a rock named Lucifer in Hell’s Half Mile, nor had the oarlock been sheared from the frame in a deadly overhang in Lower Disaster Falls.

When we last left you we were still delighted to have found current. Still feeling tough for having rowed a boat across still water.

Still waters run deep. And it’s the rocks that can sink any expedition. Especially when those rocks lay directly in the midst of a big drop.

We managed the rest of Red Canyon just fine, below Grasshopper Camp. We pushed a long day through Brown’s Park, past the historic Jarvie residence and into the beating heart of moose country. Rod Nash, our trip leader and river-runner extraordinaire, told us that the lush willow flats hugging the river were luxury suites for our friend the moose.

The sun shone high and hot as we pushed through the flat water on the east side of the rugged Uintah mountain range. A thick and classic alpine crown, its base studded with deer, pronghorn, and fistfuls of birds. It’s hot, I thought, too hot for moose to do much but shade up. I was rowing alone, but paddling near Tim Mutrie in his kayak when we rounded the bend and saw what appeared to be a massive log half in the water, and half out.
“Is that a moose?” I ask.
“I think so,” Tim responds, paddling up to Rod’s boat where Jen is riding shotgun.
As we make our way closer Rod and Jen’s boat veers river left – moose side.
The gargantuan creature takes in the two-headed, 13-foot long floating beast and retreats to the willows as the boat nears.

The next morning 50 elk are spotted crossing the river and roaring up a hillside. The herd’s bull is the last to ascend, standing defiantly almost in the morning light.
The Gate’s of Lodore beckon and stand like mirrored towers with a ribbon of water weaving its way through the entrance.

We had fought the rapids of Red Canyon, one of our boats losing an oar in a riffle and becoming beached in Red Creek Rapid. We braved lightning, mega fauna, and sand bars in Brown’s Park. But nothing had prepared us for Gates of Lodore. Its whitewater was rugged. The river deceptively orange. The moves tight. The walls of the canyon, dotted with juniper, thrust straight to the sky thousands of feet, revealing only a slice of the heavens. Once you enter there is a feeling that there is only one way out – through the legions of rocks on the river’s back.

The oarlock was sheared from the frame in Lower Disaster Falls, dubbed such by the Powell party after a shipwreck. In our case the Hyside was sucked down a rogue current into a deadly overhang. Contact with the cliff’s side was made with Roselle on the bow. From my boat’s vantage at the rear, the collision was severe. But the men bounced out somehow wholly intact. The equipment woes were just beginning.

We soon realized that the oar tower had been snapped and that the boat would have to be towed to a ways to camp, then lined through a half-mile of mid-grade rapids.

A trusty spare oar tower was pulled from the group’s repair arsenal, and with Idaho attitude the crew went at attaching a round clamp to a square frame. After threats of duct tape and bailing wire, one of the snapped oars was cam strapped to the frame and the tower was fastened to the handle. It held solid.

Solid enough to get the Hyside through Triplet the next day. But Lucifer lay hungrily below. The river ranger, Chris, said it was the 13th boat he had pulled off that rock this year. After the river ran through the raft for awhile, sucking off some odds and ends and boat came down right side up with no major damage. An ammo can of computer technology was chased down. I think the river was trying to tell us something. Some food stores took on water, but the boat would row on.

And that it did. Down past the confluence of the Yampa. Home to natives and immigrant mountain men alike. You can still feel the magic in that joining of two powerful rivers. Some claim it’s the center of the universe. But as all river runners know, there are several centers to the universe. Your spine will tingle, though, as you wander that magnificent beach of smooth, shiny rocks, all the colors of the rainbow. Stare up at the top of Steamboat Rock, then make a hoot and hear the seven-syllable echo. Echo Park is what it’s called today. It’s also known as Pat’s Hole for a hermit who lived off the desert land.

Just downstream Rod Nash showed us French explorer Dennis Julien’s 1830 inscription at the proposed dam site of Whirpool Canyon. That dam never came to be. I can’t imagine a world with the Whirlpool Dam in it. Echo Park and the upstream canyons sunk forever. The twisted red faults of Mitten Park, named for Pat’s mule, but a geologist’s memory. The current still flows.

And we go with it. Down through the currents and shallow rapids of Split Mountain canyon to the boat ramp with the same name. We camp a night. Ed and Melanie of River Runner’s Transport in Vernal, Utah take excellent care of us, donating a shuttle into town to resupply our beleaguered team. Together they know just about everyone in the oil patch boomtown. The town has more people than houses, and a new pipeline to Rock Springs is being built. Two-thousand new houses are in the works to relieve the lots of fifth-wheel trailers that the workers reside in. It’s a far cry from Green River, Wyoming, and prices are high, just like any oil town. If you want to get your car fixed, forget about it for a couple weeks. What if you need to get a frame welded and back on the river? You have to know people.

Fortunately, we knew Rod Nash. He knew Ed and Melanie. They knew Don at Industrial Repair Services, or IRS. Don is a river runner and even though we came to him at closing time, he put in another three hours and got us back on the water.

“I don’t want to slow a river trip down,” he told me. He said he’d like to jump on board, but like everyone else in town, he had a two-week back log on work.

River Runner’s sold us some knew sticks to replace the oars Mike shattered. They took us to the grocery store, got our propane filled, and even gave us twelve blocks of ice, and a box of beer that had been in their garage for a year. We happily accepted. Good people in Vernal.

We say good-bye to Bob who is heading back home and will rejoin us on the Grand Canyon.

Back on the river we made a winding push through the Uintah Basin. Sandbars and sand hill cranes everywhere. Beavers slid into the water with a splash. As did the rapidly eroding banks of the river.

We pushed and we pulled.

We would awake before dark, pushing off at first light, and roll into camp after dark. Our last push of the 106 miles brought us within strike distance of Sand Wash. We had slipped on navigation and thought we were one more bend further south than we actually were. Hoping to meet our friends we pushed into darkness figuring, how could we pass the boat launch to Desolation Canyon? The dark turned oil black and the landscape foreign. Lightning crashed across the sky illuminating the night for an instant. As we floated past the location of where Sand Wash would have been if we were actually there I made the call to row back upstream to what turned out to be Ray’s Botttom. After our longest day yet, we were now rowing against the current through the darkness, marked by flashes of visibility. We hit camp on a mucky sand bar. The crew was beat. In a trip marked by adversity already, this may have been our darkest hour yet. Silently we drifted to sleep.

The next day was bright, though. We collected ourselves, ate a big breakfast, and found our location. Then pushed to meet our friends; Jimmy, Morgan, and Allison, a crack river-running crew. We hoot at each other when we make our visual, talk to Ranger Jim Wright about how nicely the BLM section of Desolation Canyon is recovering since cows have been pulled out, and proceed downhill.

Desolation Canyon is anything but desolate. The vibrant red rock terracing up to mind-crippling heights. The days slipped sweetly into river time as we ran with old friends, telling stories, laughing, and wasting the day like proper sailors. We still rowed hard against the wind and occasional swift storm. Retracing the roots of Cassidy’s wild bunch, I wondered what that band of outlaws valued most of their life on the lamb. Their existence wasn’t all that different than ours once they were out here. We just have different resource acquisition philosophies.

We ran the rapids of Deso: Steer Ridge, Chandler, Three Fords, and Stone House. Solid whitewater.

We left our friends at Swasey’s after one last night at Neferetti Rock. We had a dam to deal with. Tuscher Diversion Dam. The center run had a gnarly, low-head keeper hole at the bottom. We squeaked the rafts through a damn tight left line directly next to the water wheel. We were happy not to portage. We hit Green River State Park at dark.

The next day was a resupply in the dusty town. That night we lost our table at Ray’s to a large group of Exxon employees who were obviously much more important than our group, which included Uncle Ramon and Wally, who surprised us, and a hitch-hiking Kiwi named Lawrence. They were a sight for sore eyes.

John Weisheit and Bob Lippeman came down to chat about the adventure, options for joining us, and interviewed us for radio and newspaper in Moab. Great guys! It was nice to spend the afternoon with them.

As I write, Marilyn Olsen and Howie Wolke (a.k.a. Mom and Howie) have pulled into the state park and we are pushing off to Labrinyth. More later, dear reader. Don’t give up on us yet.

Remember, they said it couldn’t done.