The Family at Serpiente

by Raymond Tolman

  The river had so far, provided some strikingly beautiful views of the volcanic spire of Shiprock over the polychromatic mirrored surface of the river. The view was epic! The river at this point flows under some huge gates, which were part of, you guessed it, a diversion weir. Except for the trickle of the overflow stream the entire river was gone. I said to Corey and Hidalgo, “I’m thinking about the movie African Queen, with Bogart dragging the boat down the river with leaches dining on him.” The final irony! Why were the river Gods doing this to us, what had we done?

  “This trip is over” growled Corey as he threw down his paddle absolutely discouraged. There wasn’t enough water to float a toy boat, much less drag a “real” boat like ours which were tiny by almost everyone’s standards.

  While Corey and Hidalgo unpacked our canoes to move gear out of the danger from the public and their roving pickup trucks, I walked down the streambed. Over the vehicle tracks, the tiny stream flowed around a bend and disappeared. The River Gods, along with the Corps of Engineers, had stolen the river but with a little exploration the obvious was apparent. The main body of the river rejoined the riverbed just far enough down river to allow us the opportunity of doing at least one more long portage. The trip was instantly on again but it was getting late.

  The San Juan was transformed into a thick muddy brown beyond Farmington where the La Plata River runs into the San Juan after heavy rains. The river then enters the Navajo Indian Reservation and irrigated farming is replaced by sagebrush followed by overgrazed desert. A couple of camps down the river, we found ourselves confronted by a raging bull that wanted to play with the pretty thing grazing across the river. It’s a curious feeling knowing that water only twelve inches deep was separating us from a raging bull that could easily have torn us apart; so much for Bovine love, I couldn’t understand why the bull didn’t just wade across the river.

  The town of Shiprock turned out to be a disappointment from a culinary point of view. We were limited to what we could easily walk to so we settled for greasy fried chicken from a local KFC. In the most extreme southwestern section of Colorado that is imaginable, the river went under the bridge on State Road 160. Stopping to relax under the shade of the bridge, the only shade for miles around, we contemplated the desolation that was before us. Large sandy mesas loomed on the horizons but between them were miles of endless New Mexico scrub land. The river here was lined with Russian olive trees, a useless plant with sharp thorns that would puncture a car tire. Like many imported plants such as kudzu, they all turned out to be more trouble than they are worth.

  Russian Olives were part of a useless experiment done many years before when it was thought that they would stabilize the bed of the river. Instead like many plants that are not indigenous to an area they took over. In places one would need to travel for miles down the river before a place could be found to pull over and make a camp. Sand islands often were the only places where the weary river runner could pull over and find a spot to pitch a tent. This was where they would put their survival skills to work living off of the land. We also contemplated another small problem. We were well behind schedule and the permit we had received in order to run the beautiful lower San Juan had a launch date of the 23rd. It was becoming obvious that we would not make that date and had no idea how the rangers would react to a late launch. We resigned ourselves not to worry about it. The worst that would happen is we would have to take off the river and submit a new application for a later launch or simply hang around for a day or two until another party failed to show up and we could take their place.

  The Letter

  We made camp on a small island well upriver of the small town of Aneth. After a dinner of batter fried rattlesnake and cactus, washed down with one of the few soft drinks we still had in our iceless coolers, I rummaged through my notebook where I kept my personal journal and, among other things, found a description Dr. Douglas had written about his first solo trip down this section of river.

  “Dr. Douglas - Shiprock to Sand Island

  After arranging shuttles, my brother Bo and his son Neil were kind enough to drop me off under the Shiprock Bridge, even though they had just completed a long grueling week’s work. The responsibilities of employment kept Neil from going with me, but rather than waste an opportunity and permit, I was on a solo canoe trip on the San Juan.

  Just as it turned dark, and with a little exploration, we found a suitable launch directly under the Shiprock Bridge where we entertained a growing contingent of local Navajos by hastily overloading the canoe. The friendly, but very inebriated Navajos, watched in apparent amazement at the circus provided by me getting ready to launch my canoe.

  Finally, just at that point when you really can’t see unless you get completely away from light or stare through the beam of the flashlight, I pompously planted myself on the saddle. In an attempt to launch me, Bo tried to push the rear of the canoe with his boot. The canoe, bogged in the mud, didn’t move an inch. Bo said with a snicker in his voice, “Well, lard ass, you going to get started or not?”

  I love Bo and I’ve always respected his point of view. I feel safer that way. He is a living character in his own time, respected by his enemies, as well as his friends. Bo Douglas was always the kind of a person who walks off the silver screen, a character in a modern western novel who is the study for the actors who might play such a part. He has always managed to handle himself in a bar fight.

  The boat didn’t budge and there I sat, wondering if I should step out of the boat getting my feet muddy or just sit there enjoying the comedy of the situation. Meanwhile the Navajos were back into exchanging beers. They would offer us beer out of their brown paper bags and I would offer them a beer out of my icebox. No beers were actually drunk at the time, just passed around in an attempt to cross vast cultural and linguistic chasms. They naturally wanted to float down the river with me, go for a ride; all of us piled up there in a banana styled canoe; standing perhaps. Wondering if this canoe trip was going to get out of town without an incident, I rocked the canoe in the mud for dramatic effect. Immediately, Bo and Neil turned and within a few seconds they would be gone and I would be alone with the inebriated Navajos. Being careful not to step in deep water but rather into the muck, I immediately pushed the canoe into the night.

  There were bad eddies under the Shiprock Bridge and being totally self-conscious, I didn’t want to make a fool out of myself by swamping the overloaded canoe, but with a few correction strokes the canoe was around the bend of the river. Like Indians on a war party, I could see my Navajo friends scurrying along the river bluffs watching me drift in the fading light.

  Darkness was sudden as I searched for a site for a possible campsite. I found it, across the river from a cliff with a road and houses on top. Besides the constant whining of semi truck tires I counted three dogs by the sound of their barks. Cattle sign everywhere, but no dog tracks. I felt safe until about 4:00 AM when I was awakened by a growl about two inches away through the tent fabric. Sitting up to listen, I longed for the comfort of a .357 Magnum, but there was nothing. Since it was getting cold I slipped into a ski bib only to find a tick, which had made the journey with me inside of the bib.

  After an uneasy night without a good hip hole and while rolling up the fabric of my tent I discovered a very angry scorpion which I had pitched my tent upon the night before. The fresh coyote tracks in the soft sand behind the tent told the story of a startled coyote.

  Sheepherder’s weir, the only rapid on this stretch of river was at high water. Constructed by the locals by dropping large rocks into the channel during low water it was like any other natural rapid I had run. After finding a reasonable chute, slipping down and filling the boat with water followed by bailing, I crossed to the river bank down river of the rapid for photographs then resumed my trip down the river to admire the distant cliff dwellings on the river right.

  The morning of the third day the sky looked hazy, a sure sign of a weather change, but the wind remained calm
all morning. Late in the afternoon a major cold front slammed into the Southwest consisting mostly of cold rain and wind. It is easy to make headway down a floodwater river without wind, but a stiff wind with accompanying sudden gust, makes the Russian Olives lining the banks death traps. All you can do is concentrate on not letting the wind blow you into the spiked sweepers that line both banks. Panic attacks occurred several times as I almost lost the canoe, dipping the gunnels which allowed gulps and rivulets of water in and I didn’t dare take the paddle out of the water to bail. I strained to keep the boat lined up in search of a fast retreat off the water, but on this Russian olive lined section of river, retreat wasn’t possible.

  After several dramatic moments with incredible wind gusts toying with me, I finally saw a strip of road leading to a modern riverside sweat lodge on river right. Could I wait out the storm here? But then, I begin to think. It could be a good place to get shot, or chewed up by a dog. The ranch house was visible just over the hill. It is usually such a simple thing to take off a river but here it was impossible. I continued downriver until it began to make a long turn to the north where I spotted a twelve-foot sand bar. I was desperate. Dog tracks were everywhere, leaving me feeling really spooked but in the dark with just enough room to pitch a tent in the middle of a Russian olive thicket, I was simply too tired to go on.

  In a roaring wind I settled in to rest, setting up camp, and even cooking a nice dinner. After dark, the wind pattern changed again, coming in gusts followed by periods of relative quiet. During one of those quiet interludes I nonchalantly cleared my throat; immediately several dogs started barking in unison. Time to move!

  I packed fairly carefully and quietly at first, but soon I began to hear voices and the bellowing of an irritated bull. I began packing faster and faster. The bull was being herded into the field where my camp was and arrived with the dogs in a loud thrashing through the salt cedar and Russian olive thickets just as I pulled out in a desperate escape down the river.

  Nothing was tied in and the air mattresses were wedged in an inflated heap under my feet. After crossing the river and desperately looking for the next campsite, I finally found a rather large arroyo next to a fence line on river left. Every inch of earth that could be used to pitch a tent became tantamount in importance. There I set up camp the second time that night on the highest bit of dirt I could find and worried all night long about flash floods which, thank God, never came. The following night found me recovering on a nice island at the foot of a large cliff at Montezuma Creek. The danger was over and magic was about to begin.

  Dr. Wayne Douglas-University of Colorado”

  After I had read the letter out loud to everyone, I looked over at Hidalgo who was grinning. “Do all your Navajo friends do things like that to river runners?”

  “No, he answered. Just to the ones who camp on their property without asking for permission. We are very private people, what rights we have, we exercise.”

  I countered the point with, “Well in that case if we do get into a jackpot, you are the one we send for help.”

  “Fair enough,” replied Hidalgo but what if I am the one who needs a rescue?

  Looking at Corey I said, “Then I will get us out. I can usually get men to do anything I want them to do.”

  Corey says, “There she goes, bragging again.”

  Laughing, I let my mind wander back to the pages of Louis Lamour’s, The Enchanted Mesa.

  Our daily routine was pretty much the same every day. As soon as the sun came up we all set our sleeping bags out in the sun to dry then prepared a breakfast. As soon as we were done eating, we packed our canoes and dropped back into the coolness of the river. We would float for several hours, stopping occasionally to explore a ruin or interesting place, then about four in the evening we would take off the river at the first shady spot, and I would fix dinner while Hidalgo and Corey would explore the countryside. At one time I noticed Hidalgo picking out pretty red crystals from an anthill. He showed them to Corey then he tossed them back on the hill.

  Sand Island

  We camped the following evening on an island across from the town of Aneth where I spent the morning continuing my reading of The Enchanted Mesa. We packed and left the island much later than planned. During the afternoon we had a layover as we hiked up a side arroyo until we came out at a small settlement consisting of a gas station and general store. Restocking our coolers and dry bags with dehydrated food as well as carrying several water bottles we then made our way back to the canoes and continued down to Sand Island, the usual put in for the fantastic river that was to follow.

  At about ten in the evening of the 23rd we arrived at Sand Island, Utah. There were no park rangers in sight. In complete exhaustion we dumped ourselves as well as our stuff on the ground and went to sleep. We hadn’t realized that we were in the middle of the launch ramp, the busiest possible place at Sand Island early in the morning, except for the chemical toilets.

  She was a cute Ranger, eager, young, and full of ideals, just married, if Hidalgo’s guess about the brand new set of diamonds proudly displayed on her hand was any indication. She was full of arrogance often cultivated in those who are in positions of power. We found ourselves replying to her;

  “No, we don’t have a fire pan. Never use them except when we’re out on picnics or canoeing in the winter or changing the oil in our cars;” a major problem was developing.

  “The BLM doesn’t want fires being built along the river unless fire pans are used to protect the environment. Fire rings are strictly forbidden. Do you realize that once you stain rocks black they stay that way forever?”

  It didn’t seem to matter that we had no intention of building a fire of any kind. It was summer time and we prepared all our meals on one of the gas fired cooking stoves.

  “According to the regulations, I can’t allow you to go without regulation fire pans. Are you sure you can even make it down the river?” She never cracked even the slightest smile while looking right past us.

  “We put in over there in Durango, Colorado.” Hidalgo pointed to the distant east while trying to look as professional and worldly as possible with the last several weeks of dust and perspiration on him.

  “This permit says the twenty-third!”

  After a long pause the silence was broken by, “We got here late on the 23rd and no Rangers were on duty, therefore we registered our launch and floated to here and camped,” said Corey, as we looked up and down the tiny launch ramp which was gathering a crowd of curious onlookers. We hadn’t registered our launch but we were hoping she wouldn’t discover that critical fact.

  I finally said, “Where is a lawyer when you need one?” The crowd was getting out of hand as many of them had also camped near the ramp, hoping for an early launch, but our three canoes were clearly in the way.

  The pretty, young ranger consulted with the other Rangers that were on duty then she agreed to an inspection. We brought out all the gear and charm that we could muster and she reluctantly allowed us to go; as soon as we got a fire pan.

  I asked the perky ranger how many times she had been down the river. “I don’t do river trips,” she responded with a distinct sound of distain in her voice. Corey and I packed up the boats and carried them out of the way of the tourist while Hidalgo made the long walk into Bluff, Utah to purchase a fire pan that would never be used.

  “Perhaps our ranger will be the last diversion weir we will have to deal with,” I said, making sure that the ranger heard it. I have always respected authority but despised those who demonstrated authority with arrogance.

  Hidalgo finally showed up several hours later with a brand new oil pan that would double as a fire pan. However he was in no hurry to get on the river as he knew there were some petroglyphs along the sand bluffs not too far from the launching ramp that he wanted to see.

  “The native people were not the first to take scalps they learned that from the white foreigners, that invaded this area. The local Indians took heads rat
her than scalps, a trait that they had in common with the later Aztecs. This place is unique however. The petroglyphs here show head hunters. I suspect that some of the earliest peoples here may have been cannibals who actively hunted outsiders,” Hidalgo explained. “Headhunting was an important part of their culture, at least until they became the hunted.”

  The Circus

  Sand Island is not an island, but rather a cottonwood and willow covered sandbar backed with natural bluffs in an ancient meander of the San Juan River. It was used by the Anasazi as a religious and cultural site. During the winter it is deserted but in the summertime, it is a three ring circus. To the casual observer Sand Island can provide entertainment from the continually changing crowd of tourist and river runners. Currently it is becoming expensive to stay at Sand Island. Corey and Hidalgo carried the canoes well down river and set up a camp under a cottonwood well away from the crowds, then they took off hiking down the river in search of petroglyphs returning after only a few of hours of exploration.

  During the evening, two young girls started playing Neil Young’s, “Old man look at yourself; I’m a lot like you,” over and over. Like all men, Corey and Hidalgo enjoy it when a young girl flirts with them but I put a fast stop to the one young girl who was flirting with Corey. Corey smirked and said to the girl, “I can easily hide behind the fact that I am hopelessly in love with Penny, pointing to me and I’m bound to be a disappointment.”

  The young girl was disappointed. She wanted someone to take her into Bluff where she could find some night life. Obviously, she hadn’t spent any time in Bluff, or as most would ask, what night life?