In recent years the San Juan area has become an attraction for an increasing number of people of varied interest. The upper part of the run is extremely rich in archaeological sites. Several universities offer authorized field trips into the area for geology and archaeology students, but concern has been expressed recently about our very human habit of loving our archaeological sites to death. The San Juan was the center of much of the Anasazi world as well as the recent Navahos. Modern vandalism has become a problem. Those “Thieves of Time,” as Tony Hillerman and others have called then, are still fast at work in this area. Unfortunately there are vast amounts of money available for those who plunder hidden ruins.
A seasonal attraction is sand wave surfing, which at high water makes for a roller coaster ride. In a canoe, the trick is to avoid swamping. You might show up at Sand Island to find a tiny, precious trickle of clear water coming all the way from Navajo dam in New Mexico. Or, you might find a raging brown river of extremely fast water that completely submerges the rapids with sand waves of frightening proportions. Watching large groups is at least as good as going to a circus, sometimes just getting around them while they are in the middle of a summer water fight can be an experience.
The water is usually very warm with summertime water temperatures approaching the temperature of bath water. Eventually the sand gets into everything, even for those who come prepared. Even native people suffered as a brief examination of Anasazi skulls demonstrates overly worn teeth as a result of eating gritty food such as cornmeal which is ground on stones made from the local rock.
According to dendrochronological dating research, the southwest had a much wetter climate in earlier, postglacial years. There is more than speculation that Chaco Canyon and Canyon de Chelly had permanent water flowing through them. One can imagine what it was like. Instead of a desert, the area was a vast forest of ponderosa pine and grass. Rivers which are now nothing but dry arroyos at the bottom of rocky canyons, were spring feed streams with lush vegetation and game abounding. For generations the population grew and the culture flourished. But a climatic change occurred along with deforestation, following a pattern as old as mankind itself. The ancient Anasazi appear to have suffered extensively from over taxing the carrying capacity of their land, particularly after drought.
The river returns a unique and personal impression affecting everyone differently; much has been written and published describing this experience. The mature river runner knows that there are life skills to learn that have little to do with the mechanical aspects of river running, but rather skills dealing with the complex psychological mechanics of interpersonal relationships in a bizarre and alien environment for an extended period of time. But overall, the San Juan is one of the most popular and safe white water runs in the United States and the people who swarm to this river are as varied as the river topography. Occasionally, many languages can be overheard along the river and she assumes an international flavor. Like any river she can be moody, but is treasured by moments provided by elements such as light, color, and atmosphere that come together in just the right chemistry producing dramatic moments and the resulting impressions, reflections and memories.
It was late spring which meant the days were warm but the nights would be cold. The river would be very high and the water very cold. By the time we would finish the expedition some three hundred miles downriver, the days would become long and hot and the river water warm.
After making arrangements to have a hired hand watch things at the ranch, which actually required little effort but rather a responsibility to keep eyes open for the usual problems such as a calf getting tangled up in brush or the daily feeding of livestock, Aunt June and Uncle Ken provided the shuttle.
Ken and June took it all in stride being glad to get away from the ranching business for a few days. They would perform the duties as shuttle bunnies both dropping us off in the river and meeting us later at Clay Hills in southeastern Utah. It was going to be an expedition type river trip, that is, we were not going out to enjoy a couple of days of whitewater, rather this trip would take more than a month or two to complete.
Knowing how Hidalgo enjoyed all the hiking and side trips, they intended to do research along the way getting to know some of the local people who lived along the river along with absorbing the local history and hopefully we would see of some of the phenomenon we had been told about.
We packed dry bags with sleeping gear, dehydrated food and everything we could possibly use on a river trip. Then we loaded the three solo canoes onto a small trailer that we had rigged out just for the purpose and made the connection to the Jeep Cherokee. Early the next day, well before the sun came up, everyone crammed into the Jeep and we all headed to Durango, Colorado with Ken and Hidalgo doing most of the driving.
It indeed was a long trip to Durango getting into a motel late that evening. We normally would have found a camping spot but instead decided to get a room because Aunt June found camping out close to a large town a little uncomfortable, besides Hidalgo wanted to make phone calls to his biligaana so he could make connections.
Durango is a tourist town full of restaurants and places for young people to play. Early the next morning we dropped Hidalgo off in front of a house in Durango’s suburbs. Without a word of explanation or hardly a good bye he stepped out of the Jeep and with a quick wave he walked up to a door that quickly opened and he disappeared inside.
By this time Corey and I were dealing with another mystery to solve. What in the world was Hidalgo up to? Certainly he had a life of his own but he was also considered family. There were very few secrets between us, but when it came to his biligaana he was silent, choosing not to discuss the matter despite several prompts by me. Corey and I felt it was not our place to pry but secretly we were eaten up with curiosity.
The next day, after dropping Hidalgo off, we drove south along the Animas River to scout it. We wanted to see what we were getting into. What we discovered was a river full of diversion weirs that would require many portages. We had been warned about diversion weirs. They were the one deadly aspect of this river. Water that rushed over the top of them would curl back upon itself when it plunged down causing a nasty hydraulic. This caused the unwary river runner to be trapped in a cycle of water that continually pulled them back into the waterfall offering no escape unless one dived deep under the churning water and swam out without a lifejacket. Rebar and angle iron is also found around diversion weirs making it possible for a canoe or canoeist to become impaled. They heard of one fellow who had been trapped in the reverse current of a weir for several hours until a large limb from a tree branch fell over the edge which he used to push himself away from the waterfall.
We finally found a reasonable ‘put in’ around the small community of Cedar Hill then returned to Durango where we purchased fresh food and ice for our coolers. We knew the ice wouldn’t last but we figured we could buy fresh food and ice along the way. The melted ice would later provide water for us to cook with. There was more to this trip than exploration; it was a personal test, a survival lesson. This trip was something that very few people would do and that is to subject themselves to deprivation and hard times in order to experience personal growth. Naturally, others would think we were crazy.
Early the next morning, we returned to the ‘put in’ at Cedar Hill where we planned to meet Hidalgo. After arriving we unloaded everything out of the Jeep and began organizing the dry bags. We had learned many river runners’ tricks from Dr. Douglas. Each dry bag was lined with a separate heavy plastic bag and was burped with all the air pushed out of them and then we tied them off. Afterwards we sealed the straps on the outside of the dry bags making sure they had a good double seal. A prussic loop with a carabineer holds all the gear together under the lacing ropes. If the canoe is hopelessly trapped the lacing ropes are cut and the gear spills out but is still held together because of the loop. The unfortunate canoeist must then float down the river using the dry bags as floatation; needless to
say, winter trips could be problematic.
Finally the whole mess was then laced into the canoes. If they did go for a swim, the canoe could not sink because of all the displaced air inside of the dry bags. This was one of many tricks that had become rituals Dr. Douglas had taught them. This one he himself had learned from a fellow he watched float down the Dolores River on his dry bags after he had inadvertently destroyed his canoe in State Line Rapid.
Corey and I packed our canoes and then Hidalgo’s canoe, all the time getting nervous thinking that Hidalgo had misunderstood the meeting place and time, but soon a blue sedan appeared, turning into the small dirt road that offered access to the river. Hidalgo stepped out of the car but a young lady also stepped out. She was a gorgeous lady with blue eyes and long brown hair trailing down the back side of a perfect figure. As they walked over to the canoes Hidalgo introduced her as Jill Thompson.
“Jill works for La Plata police as an undercover agent.”
Shaking hands during the introductions I burst out, “I thought you were meeting with a bilaganna!”
This, of course brought out a roar of laughter from Hidalgo, “That’s right, answered Hidalgo, “a bilaganna is a white person.”
Confused, I blurted out, “I thought a bilaganna was some tribe, or some kind of Indian or maybe a witch doctor.”
“Well, she belongs to the tribe that I used to work for, which just happens to be the La Plata County Police Department.”
Ken, who was grinning during the whole episode finally said, “Yes but you didn’t tell us that it, was a she, and that she was beautiful.”
Jill replied, “Well, I have known Hidalgo for some time now and we are really good friends.”
“More than just good friends,” laughed Hidalgo, which caused a blush to appear on both Jill’s and my faces. Everyone started laughing and Aunt June put out her hand saying, “Welcome to our crazy family.”
After Jill and Hidalgo embraced each other in a passionate hug and kiss that seemed to last forever he turned to the wide eyed and totally surprised group and said, “Let’s get down to business and get these canoes down the river.” The three of us put on life jackets, waved, and pushed off into the icy cold water leaving Uncle Ken, Aunt June, and a bilaganna named Jill smiling and waving from the bank.
Farmington
We sat on custom saddles made of closed foam that also acts as floatation in our brand new canoes. We also leaned back against our sleeping pads that were sealed inside a dry bag and propped our feet against the coolers. We were very comfortable, only using our paddles to occasionally turn our boats so they didn’t float sideways in the current. We were enjoying ourselves with our new found freedom of effortless movement but it didn’t last. We soon approached the first of a number of diversion weirs. We would need to find a place to pull off the river, unpack all the dry bags and the coolers and carry them, along with the canoes around the weir. This portage would take several trips while balancing along a four inch wide cement retaining wall while water roared past us over a short waterfall into a hydraulic laced with large slabs of cement with rebar sticking out in odd places.
A channel next to the weir diverted water off to satisfy thousands of acres of farmland. It was a dangerous procedure that would have to be repeated many times but with practice it became a routine. After several similar diversion weirs, we found ourselves coming into Farmington where we finally came to what appeared to be a custom built weir. Custom built for river runners with huge warning signs that warned of the danger of running the weir. A custom built takeout had been provided on the river just for the purpose of portaging boats around. We had already portaged around many weirs that were far more dangerous but here close to town more precaution is taken because of children. Just below the weir was a small campground with picnic tables. Seemingly a perfect place to camp we pulled out and set up our tents to enjoy an uneventful evening under the stars.
We awoke the next morning to a shotgun being fired from the nearest house. Jumping out of our sleeping bags, Corey and Hidalgo grabbed pistols they had brought with them for rattlesnakes, dog packs, and marauding packs of thugs who might, but were unlikely, to bother us. We discovered in the field next to us a man running around firing his shotgun into the air to scare away a pack of ravenous crows that were slowly devouring his cornfield. It was a false alarm. After our hearts stopped racing, we prepared a fine breakfast of steel rolled oatmeal cooked with pecans and fresh rose hips that I had picked along the side of the river. We then packed our boats and headed down the river.
Above Farmington we ran into an unusual scene at another diversion weir. Several young people were swimming in the river along a beach with access to the main road.
Corey said, “Hey they are just enjoying a simple swim.”
Hidalgo answered with a wide grin, “Maybe everyone on this river swims that way.”
I said with my cheeks burning, “Don’t people around here believe in wearing swim suits?”
But after a few curious stares and a wave we were well below the swimmers and coming into Farmington where the river began to braid into many channels. Each channel subdivided through a forest of Russian olive trees until the largest channel we could find was just a few feet wide. We waved at people who spotted us from a parking lot well above the river then continued in search of another campsite.
About two thirds of the way through Farmington we finally came to a lovely site. There, a young man was throwing a stick out into the rapid formed from another weir, and his dog, an Australian sheepdog, would plunge into the river and fish it out. We watched this for about forty or so times and finally the dog who wasn’t nearly as tired of the game as the young boy was, disappeared into the brush.
We were now alone despite the fact that we were in the middle of a city. Hidalgo and Corey emptied dry bags that also served as backpacks, and began a hike into town in search of a grocery store to replenish our supplies. When they returned, a small crowd of people had gathered with fishing poles and coolers full of drinks. They hung around, a pleasant group of young families, until late in the evening. There was definitely fish in the river, and as they left to go home they offered me several nice catfish that Corey and Hidalgo cleaned and threw into one of the coolers to keep fresh for tomorrows’ breakfast.
The next morning after breakfast and another ritual of watching the young man throwing the stick so his dog could get his daily exercise, we set off again down the river. An enjoyable day ensued. As we floated leisurely we noticed several hideaways that people had built along the edge of the river. Speculation as to what people were doing in those hideaways lead to an almost, but not quite, exploration of one of them. Hidalgo made the point, it is none of our business what people do in those shanties. Below Farmington and the confluence of the San Juan River from Navajo Lake we came upon two concrete embankments on either side of a thin water line that crossed the entire river, the PNM diversion weir. No sign or warning was visible.
“You really don’t want to go down there!” Hidalgo casually replied as Corey floated out to the edge of the escarpment. He wasn’t trying to demonstrate bravado, rather, he was living proof that fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
“Well, I might try it,” Corey replied. Unloading, portaging, and repacking the canoes several times a day was losing its thrill and by this time everyone was really tired of portaging. The advice of Dr. Douglas was always foremost in our minds; “You’ve got to be safe, any man made dam can be a deathtrap.” Hidalgo had of course earlier seen the diversion dam from the road. He had seen the large concrete blocks built into the main channel. He knew they were death traps, particularly to a long canoe.
“It really doesn’t look too bad down there from here” Corey yelled at Hidalgo as Hidalgo turned his boat and headed toward the bank while shaking his head all the way. Glumly, Corey back paddled the canoe back from the drop line and followed Hidalgo and me. He was glad he did, the PNM diversion dam suddenly descended down a concrete chut
e to reappear as a waterfall going over large concrete teeth. Everyone got out of their canoes and walked down a well-worn path until encountering a Navajo family fishing in the white water below the weir. Most Navajo’s find it hard to talk to others who do not speak their native language. Although they may appear to be impolite, they usually don’t mean to. Actually, the outsider is the one who comes off as impolite. The outsiders appear very aggressive, always in too much of a hurry. Outsiders were always too worried about money. However with Hidalgo with us we made friends very quickly.
One of the older ladies spoke to us in English, “Last summer a raft went off that thing. The ice chest, raft, and all stayed in the white water the whole summer, I don’t know what happened to the people.”
There must have been some little angel up there that day in the form of Dr. Douglas’s advice. His persistence on being the ultimate careful person saved Corey’s life.
Below the confluence of the San Juan from Navajo Reservoir and before coming into the town of Shiprock, We encountered the hogback, a large rock formation of yellow sandstone that provides a stark contrast to the usual flatland topography. The Hogback’s strike is north - south yet the river had cut perpendicularly, though the formation providing a paradox as to which came first; the mountain or the river?
Leaving the Hogback, everyone was a little dazed, but in good spirits. Spending day after day on a river is a joy but it takes a particular mindset to continue. Thoughts of evenings sitting under an air conditioner while drinking cool drinks seemed to nag at our collective consciences. Hidalgo was becoming more stoic about everything.
The Family at Serpiente Page 31
