Between my mid-30’s and early 40’s, a time of self-imposed unemployment and a failed foray into graduate education, I had many outdoor travel adventures (and at least one significant misadventure) with a host of outstanding humans. None among these exceeds, in that particular combination of adaptability, optimism, resilience, gameness, toughness, and fitness so desirable in rambling companions, my young friend Ms. Diana Hsieh. I think this picture, snapped beside the Gunnison River on the first night of this trip, captures many of her winning qualities:

I’d first encountered Diana at a meeting of The University of Cincinnati’s Mountaineering Club in 2009. I was recruiting undergrads to go to Utah for spring break that year, to backpack and canyoneer in the Muddy Creek region of the San Rafael Swell, and Diana was bold enough to take a flier on the plan. That trip was so successful that both she and Brad (the other Muddy Creek participant) signed on in 2010 for an even more ambitious canyon sojourn–in White Canyon, near Hite, Utah. That second year, we also had a fourth: Nicole from Idaho. Both of these trips are worthy of trip summaries in their own rights. But this post is about my third, and (as of now) final, trip with Diana.

Preliminaries and the Plan

It was the summer of 2011. I was planning a ten-day cycling circuit in Colorado to include a backpack down into the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, a day of Class 5 whitewater on the Arkansas, and ascents of both a 14,000-foot peak and the tallest sand dune in North America, among other adventures. Few of my outdoorsy friends share my love of travel by bicycle, mostly preferring to stick to paddling, hiking, and climbing, so I wasn’t hopeful I’d secure a companion for this trip. In the end, to my great satisfaction and pleasure, Diana signed on.

The Women’s World Cup Tournament was running that summer. A day or two before departure I’d watched this, the most exciting goal I’ve ever seen–an Abby Wambach header scoring from a beautiful cross by Megan Rapinoe in extra time against Brazil to help secure a place in the finals for the American women. My trip plan specifically included locating a bar in which to watch that upcoming final, where the Americans would face Japan.

In preparation for the trip, we assembled all the required gear and loaded up the car. Here is a photo of Diana’s gear assembled on the floor of her apartment:

The drive west got off to an ominous start: not 45 minutes west of Cincinnati, we saw billowing smoke rising from the highway ahead. As we approached, flames became visible, and it was obvious that a violent conflagration was in progess. We came to a dead stop in halted traffic not 75 meters from two semis engulfed in flames. Diana observed, thinking of the long drive ahead, “We’re screwed.” We learned from motorists in the queue ahead that the semis had crashed, and one driver had pulled the other from his rig shortly before the explosion occurred, likely saving his life. The highway remained closed for a full 2.5 hours. When traffic finally resumed, I noted “you were sure right when you said we were screwed.” I PG-ified this paragraph, by the way.

Day 1: Hotchkiss to Black Canyon of the Gunnison N.P.
25 Miles and 3,000 Foot Gain
In Which We Eat Spaghetti By the Roaring Gunnison

Upon arrival at our designated starting point, Hotchkiss, on the western slope, we parked the car in a dirt lot beside a bridge crossing the North Fork of the Gunnison River. Using the hood of the car as a makeshift camera stand (quadrapod?), we snapped a photo of us standing beside our trusty steel steeds:

That day we were to cycle to the North Rim of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, via pavement and dirt, stow the bikes, and then backpack down to the floor of the canyon. We would spend the night beside the roaring Gunnison.

It was a beautiful sunny day, and neither of us seemed to suffer any ill effects from our recent arrival at altitude. The first half of the day was on pavement, along CO-92. Subsequently the route alternated between pavement and dirt, as we wended our way on back roads to the Park’s rather remote North Rim entrance. Here I am on a dusty road somewhere NW of Hotchkiss:

Finding the ranger outpost station vacant upon arrival, we self-permitted at the kiosk, cable-locked our bikes (feebly but adequately) to the wooden railing nearby, packed up our backpacks, and headed for the nearby trailhead on foot.

The routes to the canyon floor are summarized in park literature as follows:

Routes are difficult to follow, and only individuals in excellent physical condition should attempt these hikes. Hikers are expected to find their own way and to be prepared for self-rescue. While descending, study the route behind, as this will make it easier on the way up when confronted with a choice of routes and drainages. Not all ravines go all the way to the river, and becoming “cliffed out” is a real possibility.

There are three available routes from the North Rim, and we chose the aptly-named “S.O.B Draw,” which drops 1,800 feet over two miles of downward scrambling and butt-scooting. To mitigate against the abundant poison ivy along the descent, we wore long pants. It was hot, tiring, and unpleasant–but also thrilling to see the tiny sparkling ribbon of distant river slowly morph into a living, pulsing presence as we approached. Diana had some difficulty getting her legs to adapt to the different strains put on them during the hike–she was heard to say, several times, with lingering wonder, “Man, my legs are spongy!”

We had the river floor to ourselves that night, and explored a few hundred meters of riverbank that evening. Eventually we shared a delicious meal of spaghetti with sauce and sausages, cooked over my beloved Swedish stove. I failed to account for Diana’s (then) vegetarianism when I purchased the sausages for this meal. Thus, I got to/had to eat them all. Diana reports that I remarked, enjoying the unexpected bounty of fatty calories “Who knew it could be this much fun traveling with a vegetarian?” After dinner, finally, we drifted off, satisfied with our day, beside the river’s urgent roar. I think we slept out, under the stars, that night.

Day 2: Black Canyon of the Gunnison N.P. to Blue Mesa Reservoir
62 Miles, 4,800 Feet Gain
In Which Jason Wears Flip-flops and Fails at Flirting

The next morning we needed, of course, to retrace our route, back up the draw, to the bikes (hoping that they remained where we’d left them). It was tough going, and I missed a fork in the route on the way, eventually back-tracking and finding the proper way. Diana, in the lead, made her own way to the rim without my dusty detour up that damn dead-end.

The bikes were unmolested, the rangers still AWOL. We packed up and headed out. But only after resting awhile in the shade:

The route that day would take us up and over Black Mesa Summit, at 9,121 feet the high-point on CO-92, and then down a long undulating descent back to the banks of the Gunnison River, at the point upriver where it was dammed into the beautiful Blue Mesa Reservoir.

As we were getting packed up at the ranger outpost, another group of cyclists, who had spent the prior night in the nearby campground on the rim, was also setting out towards Black Mesa Summit. There were maybe five or six in this group, all with very proper cycling clothing and shoes–“all kitted up” as Brits and poseurs might say.

Now, it’s no secret that I have some measure of unconcealed contempt for cycling orthodoxy, which (in some circles) holds that this type of clothing and clip-in (technically, in the jargon, and on the surface rather nonsensically “clipless”) shoes are requirements for any cyclist to be judged “serious” or “legitimate.” I contend that the whole expensive get-up can only improve two things: very marginally, the performance of the most competitive of athletes, and, less marginally, the bottom lines of their clothing sponsors. I ride in street clothes, baggy shirt often flapping in the breeze. And, as for footwear, it’s anything from $2 Old Navy flip-flops to your standard-issue light-hikers–just absolutely never any kind of cycle-specific footwear. On this particular day it was flip-flops all the way.

A few miles into that day’s cycle, we passed a rim overlook to the river below. I think if you look closely you can see the flimsy flip-flops:

 

A little later, still on the dirt roads that would bring us back to the pavement of route 92, I flew by the group who had been at the campsite the prior night, giving a big wave and some kind of friendly greeting as I passed, but not slowing to chat. To my abiding pleasure, I heard someone from the group sputter, incredulously: “Did you see that dude? He was just wearing flip-flops!” I should absolutely be ashamed of the vanity of it. But I am not.

It was a long slog up to the summit, but not too steep, and the increasing altitude helped keep the temperature from becoming too oppressive. We each kept our own pace, and I reached the summit first. While waiting for Diana at the top, I mooched water off some friendly RVers. Diana arrived shortly, and we set off together on the long, surprisingly challenging, undulating descent to the reservoir.

Digression: “Undulating” will always be a loaded word for me in the context of cycling. It’s something of an inside joke, where I’m normally the only one on the inside. In 1995 I was cycling on the island of Lombok in Indonesia in the company of a married Canadian couple, Mac and Merina. We’d met up, again, by chance, on Bali (after we originally met in the Highlands of Sumatra, near Bukittinggi), and decided to cycle the NW coast of Lombok as a trio to a site from which we planned to climb the smoldering volcano Gunung Rinjani. I had received some beta on the cycle route from an Australian I’d met earlier in Surabaya, on Java: he described the road running northeast from the ferry landing site in Lembar as a “pleasant, undulating coastal ride.”

Now, I don’t know what you imagine when you hear this description, but let’s just say M&M were not at all pleased with the quality of my intel:  every time we’d come upon another of the 400-foot climbs, with grades often exceeding 10% ,required to surmount each of the seemingly endless progression of precipitous ridges dropping down into the Bali Sea, Mac would sputter “Here comes another one of your Goddamned Australian Undulations, Jason.”

As undulations go, the descent from Black Mesa wasn’t quite of this caliber. But I might say it was in the ballpark (though Pulp Fiction’s Jules might fairly dispute even this metaphorical level of similarity).

We stopped for a delicious greasy meal and some beer at a marina (recent homonym alert) on the western edge of the lake. As I recall, I tried to flirt with the waitress (or maybe it was a waiter? either way), having about as much success as you’d imagine. Which is to say: none.

The remainder of the day was a hot ride along the northern edge of the reservoir to a Forest Service Campground, which we reached only as dusk approached. I think Diana opted for a shower, and I went out for a sunset swim:

I don’t recall what we ate for dinner that night. Probably some S’More Pop-Tarts. Diana thinks, after some back-of-the-napkin calculations, that 33% of our average daily caloric intake came from this diabolically delicious processed pastry pseudo-food. We may have made a fire with purchased firewood, and warmed them up. I probably babbled on about the brilliance of Breaking Bad (Diana reminds me that I was obsessed with this show for the duration of the trip). I’m fairly certain we slept soundly.

Day 3: Blue Mesa to Buffalo Creek Campground
56 Miles and 3,800 Foot Gain
In Which We Watch the Women’s World Cup Final

It was the day when the American Women were to face off against Japan in the World Cup final, so our plan was to head into Gunnison and scope out a bar at which to view the match. We’d tackle the bulk of our day’s miles in the afternoon.

I can’t remember precisely where we wound up watching–it was some kind of generic pub with lots of beer on tap and burgers and nachos and suchlike. We arrived well in advance of match time, and settled in with food and beverages. I think we were at a large circular table, and others joined us as kickoff approached and the joint filled up. We were so stoked (as we anticipated) to get to see, in the midst of this great trip, the American women regain their World Cup title, last won way back in 1999.

Alas, it wasn’t to be. It was a wonderful roller-coaster-ride of a match. Always enjoyable, if ultimately heart-breaking. For, in the end, the Japanese side prevailed in a shootout. The ever-controversial and outspoken American goalkeeper (with the groovy name) Hope Solo just couldn’t duplicate the match-saving derring-do she displayed in the semis against the Brazilians. You may recall, though, that the Japanese nation had then recently suffered the terrible tsunami and resulting nuclear disaster, so nobody but the most partisan could feel too badly about their upset victory.

Back to the saddle we went, with many miles–mostly uphill–yet to ride in the waning hours of the day. At one point, about 25% of the way up the climb, I remember I stopped to look at the map. I’d warned Diana that we were in for a long uphill slog. As she rode up, she asked, cheerful as ever, if a bit bewildered: “So when’s this climb gonna start?” We’d been climbing the entire time alongside a creek. But she somehow parsed the geography differently, imagining the stream flowing *in* our direction of travel rather than *against* it. Maybe she’d had more beer than I thought? In any case there are worse things than having been gaining altitude when you thought you’d been losing it. The opposite of that, for example. That’s much worse.

Eventually the grade became sufficiently steep that even strong and sunny Diana realized she was fighting gravity. The last few miles were lovely, if arduous, and finally we reached North Cochetopa Pass at 10,135 feet:

It was, from there, a quick and darkening descent into Buffalo Pass Campground, where we set up for the night. We ate leftover pizza crust from the tavern, and cooked up some vegetarian sausage Diana procured. Diana’s journal recorded this brief conversational exchange at camp:

Jason: [looking mildly pained] Man, I’m suffering some anal discomfort.
Diana: From your saddle, or…? [the question trails off, as no other hypotheses come readily to mind]
Jason: [Helpfully, and crudely, offering one up] …or vigorous homosexual sex?

A strange and friendly human (gender, admittedly none of my concern, unknown), the campground’s host, came and had a chat with us for a few moments. Then we had a heart-to-heart between the two of us, touching upon the (perhaps?) unusual generational/gender make-up of our merry twosome. I did sometimes wonder what people imagined or assumed about the two of us, happy intergenerational friends, traveling together. As it happens, a couple of days later I was to get some unexpected insight into one family’s very specific reactions and assumptions (all of which were based on some strange and discomfiting coincidences).

So that closed out day three: camaraderie, a simple meal, sleep.

Day 4: Buffalo Creek Campground to Great Sand Dunes N.P.
90 Miles and 1,300 Feet Gain
In Which Some Reservations about the Route are Resolved

I don’t remember an awful lot about this day in the saddle. Early on we stopped at a general store in Saguache and I ate some Hostess Donettes and had some chocolate milk. Maybe Diana had an ice cream sandwich? The day was sunny and hot, 92 degrees as reported by a gas station thermometer, and the wind was often working against us as we rode through Moffat and Hopper into the Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve. [Diana balked at my mild description of the headwinds: “they were *vicious* that day!”] Somewhere along the route, Diana ran over some road kill, tainting her bike with the foul stench of death. She washed it off using a convenience store hose. Despite the heat, the winds, and the olfactorily potent reminder of the tenuousness and fragility of life, the day was lovely–filled with beautiful miles, mostly flat and nearly absent automotive traffic. A few photos follow:

Perhaps two-thirds of the way into the day’s miles, having gained a bit of a lead on Diana, I stopped to wait for her to catch up. This was, I think, on a stretch of dirt road with a punishing washboard surface. I waited well past the usual length of time it would take for Diana to close the gap, and, growing concerned, started to pedal back along the route. Eventually, after perhaps three miles of backtrack, I spied Diana approaching. It happened that she’d gotten a flat on the rough surface, an inner tube patch from a prior flat having blown out under the strain. So the delay was caused by her effecting the necessary repair. I was pleased to learn that the flat was caused by a failed patch, for, in my book, the patching of tubes (rather than just throwing them out and replacing them with a new one as is the more usual practice) is the *true* sign of a serious and committed cyclist.

When we arrived at the Park, rather early in the afternoon, we got set up in our campsite, with its sobering bear-proof food lockers. Then I went off to seek information about plausible routes eastward across the Sangre de Cristo Range to CO-69, heading towards Westcliffe.

The obvious route was a long hot ride around the southern end of the range, through Blanca, Fort Garland, and Muleshoe. But I had driven these roads and was hoping to avoid the hot circuitous unpleasantness of it all. I had looked closely at maps and seen two intriguing alternatives: a dirt road that runs north through the park and then turns to the east to cross the range at Medano Pass, and a briefer, more direct foot path up Mosca Pass.

I found someone who had driven the first few miles of the dirt road in a 4WD vehicle. He told me it was a loose, sandy morass, not at all suitable for bikes. He warned that there would be no way we could ride on much of the surface. Even if we pushed the bikes through the looser sections, he maintained that we’d find them sinking into the sand rather than rolling smoothly. Now, he’d also hiked Mosca Pass and testified that, while that would be a difficult ride, probably requiring some dismount-and-push, the surface was sound. He cautioned, though, that he wasn’t sure bikes were permitted.

My next step was to ride over to the trailhead and read the signage. It included the specific prohibition: “No biking.” Now I have never been one to break laws or skirt rules (actually that’s not remotely true…), but I do  know a loophole when I see one. So I rode over to the Visitor’s Center and found a friendly-looking youthful female person in a Park Service uniform and explained the situation. I provided a quick verbal sketch of our tour, explained the desirability of avoiding the roads to the south, and disclosed my humble hope to be able to use the tantalizingly convenient 3.5-mile trail providing direct passage east. I ended with “The sign specifically says ‘No biking,’ but it doesn’t say ‘No bikes.’ Would it be a problem if we pushed our loaded bikes the entire distance, never riding them at all?”

She smiled and, without hesitation, said “I don’t see why that should be an issue.” Then, after a brief pause, she added “And if anyone gives you any hassle, just say that ‘Margot’ told you it’d be fine.” She may since have had reason to regret ending with that invitation to invoke her authority.

After squaring away our route for the next day, I returned to the campsite. At this point, with my extra miles backtracking to check on Diana, and the mile I’d just ridden for route recon, I’d covered 97 miles that day. I joked about doing a quick out-and-back three to make it a cool century. Didn’t do it though.

Diana and I made dinner and chatted with some nearby car campers before hitting our tents.

Day 5: Great Sand Dunes N.P to Mosca Pass
Approximately 7 Miles and 2,500 Feet Gain, All Afoot
In Which We Discover the Limits to Margot’s Authority

The next morning we awoke in the very early dawn to hike the dunes. We threw our sandals, water, snacks (Pop-Tarts!), and some sunscreen into our small packs and headed off barefoot toward High Dune, amidst a throng of other early risers looking to hike the dunes before the heat of the day turned the soft underfoot comfort of the night-cooled sand into a scorching torture-carpet.

We reached the summit of High Dune in short order, before most of the others. This is the closest “named” dune to the parking area, and the final goal for perhaps 99% of dune day-hikers. But we wished to reach the summit of North America’s tallest dune, Star Dune, which rises a total of 750 feet from the valley floor (High Dune is 699 feet). Thus we plunged down the west face of High Dune, and set off the additional 1.5 miles of (yes) undulating terrain towards that point of prominence.

As we struggled to maintain efficient travel over the loose terrain, we began slowly to sense through our soles the sun’s searing effect on the sand. Or, in short: our feet got hot. At some point we decided barefootedness was no longer an option, so we went to put on our sandals. Alas, Diana found that hers, tucked securely (she thought) into some elastic cord around the exterior of her pack, had gone AWOL.

None of the other hikers had followed our lead in heading over towards Star, so there was no hope of anyone finding them and ferrying them along to us. There was nothing for it but for Diana to retrace our steps in search of the waylaid Tevas.

As I think on it now, and remember how quickly the sand continued to heat up (it would become not merely an issue of comfort, but one of real pain and potential injury), I should have offered to go back in search of them–I had sandals after all! Diana could have sat comfortably in the sand with her feet buried in the cool lower layers. Or, at the very least, I might have let her wear mine as she trudged back. My only defense is that it mustn’t have occurred to me. Either that, or I just cruelly and callously let her suffer. Sorry Diana!

[Diana adds, having read the above: “By the way, you are totally a gentleman because you gave me your socks for part of the Great Sand Dunes.” I recall now, her footwear provided less protection than mine, and I also had a pair of socks. So I gave them to her to mitigate her suffering. Chivalry Regained!]

Eventually I reached the summit, and snapped this selfie while waiting for Diana (whom I could see in the distance, returning wearing her found footwear).

When Diana arrived, I snapped a photo of her, showing no signs of resentment that I let her scorch the holy hell out of the soles of her feet while I continued on in cool comfort:

After enjoying the views and some snacks, we set off toward the trailhead, traveling directly down to the southeast rather than retracing our route through the dunes. As the sand continued to heat up, even sandals proved incapable of fully protecting our feet–the sand poured through the gaps as our feet sank into the surface. But when we reached the firmer, windswept sand to the south, we put all these discomforts behind us.

Returning to camp, we packed up and set off for the quarter-mile ride to the Mosca Pass trailhead. I again read the sign and looked at the map–there was no indication there of Margot’s (and, more to the point, my) mistake. We dismounted and began the long uphill slog, a total of 3.5 miles, pushing the heavily-laden bikes up the trail. I took the lead. We encountered only a handful of other hikers, none of whom batted an eye at the bikes (though I preempted any possible indignation by apologizing and telling each group we had permission to push the bikes up to the pass).

When the trail passed through a narrow wooded section of the drainage leading up the pass, I spied a pair of black bears. I halted and watched quietly until they sauntered out of view. I waited to caution Diana about the bears. Here are some shots of the hike up the pass, the first looking west back toward the dunes, and the latter of Diana trudging up the final push to the pass:

Well over halfway to the summit, where bike-friendly dirt roads leading east awaited, I came upon a sign that threw me over the horns of a dilemma. It informed me that I was about to cross over into “Wilderness.” There had been, at least at that time, no indication in the signage below that the trail passed through a wilderness area. Had there been, I would not have even bothered asking for permission at the Visitor’s Center: I knew that, far beyond not being allowed to push a bike through wilderness, its tires touching the earth, one was not permitted to *have* a bicycle–even, say, some sort of folding contraption disassembled and packed entirely out of view in a pack. You cannot possess any such equipment within the bounds of a protected wilderness area.

Margot no more had authority to grant me that permission than she did to absolve me of my federal income tax obligations for 2011. It would have taken an act of Congress sanction my request. I knew this. So obviously I should have turned around. There may be those reading this who will react strongly to my decision not to do so. But we had based out entire future itinerary on our reaching the east side of the Sangres that evening. Had we known that the only viable route was the long ride through Blanca, we would have skipped hiking the dunes entirely and spent the whole day in the saddle.

So when I reached that sign, I was truly torn. I estimated that it was less than a mile to the summit. And I couldn’t be sure that the wilderness area reached even that far: it could have been an even narrower strip of protected land. Where we were, the land was rocky, so the tires were not even leaving any marks. Thus, rather than do as I should–rather than turn around and push the bikes the 2+ miles back downhill to the park, hope to scrounge another campsite for the night at that late hour, accept a long next day of riding in miserable hot road conditions, cancel our rafting reservations, and move our end-date back a day–I decided to forge ahead.

We encountered no additional hikers on the final push to the summit, and wrangled our bikes safely beyond the boundary of the wilderness area at the eastern terminus of the trail. I confess that the final quarter-mile of the trail was looser dirt, so the tires did leave some marks on the well-trod footpath. I consoled myself with the thought that hikers and rain would quickly obscure the evidence of my crime:

Nightfall quickly approached, and I was then unaware of the immediate proximity of a ranger station, so we set up camp near the trailhead at a spot obviously well-used by car-campers. I had gotten only as far as beginning to brush my teeth when I turned around to be confronted by a well-armed Park Service Ranger. This is the conversation that followed, as best I can recall it. I’m more embarrassed by my initial panicked attempt to lie than I am by any other element of this story…

Ranger: Evening. Where did you all come from?
Me: We rode up from the east.
Ranger: Is that so? Well, it looks like you must have ridden at least partway down the trail to the west–I see some tire marks going off in that direction that seem to match your tires.
Me: [Pausing, no doubt sweating and looking mortified, stomach soured from the toothpaste]: Um, OK. You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you exactly what happened.
Ranger: [With a very serious mien, more as command than invitation] Yes. Do.

I proceeded to guiltily tell the tale, beginning with a brief summary of our trip, how I’d proceeded to get permission to push the bikes up the trail from “someone” at the VC. I told of reaching the wilderness boundary, explained that there had been no indication of wilderness on the sign at the trailhead (I’d looked for that!), admitted to being aware of wilderness law, knowing that the permission was given without sufficient authority, and fessed up to pushing ahead in full awareness of the infraction. The ranger paused for a few moments, his bearing having softened a bit as he heard me out. There may have even been a wry smile at some point. The conversation continued:

Ranger: [Thoughtfully] You pushed the bikes the whole way?
Me: Yes. Absolutely. [Diana, remaining nervously quiet throughout the exchange, nodding along in agreement]
Ranger: I thought those tire marks were awfully narrow–I didn’t think anybody could ride tires like that up that trail. [Pause] And you got permission from someone at the Visitor’s Center.
Me: Yes. But as soon as I got to the sign, I knew that the permission had no authority, but I proceeded anyway.
Ranger: Do you know who you talked to?
Me: Um, yes. But I don’t want to get anybody in trouble. It’s entirely my fault.
Ranger: It’s not about anybody getting in trouble. But I need to make sure this doesn’t happen again. It’s about education.
Me: [With a great deal of hesitation] Margot. [I’m so sorry Margot!]
Ranger: OK. I understand what happened. I’ll have a talk with Margot. She won’t be in any trouble. You’re out here obviously trying to do things right, having some adventures, keeping a small footprint, spending some money in the towns and parks. I’m not going to cite you, though I could and arguably *should*. Spend the money the citation [I think he quoted $150] would have cost you in one of these small towns. I can’t guarantee another ranger won’t come along and cite you. But I consider the matter closed. You folks have a good night. Be safe out there

Immediately after his departure, I, noticing that I was holding my toothbrush, began to look around on the ground, puzzled. I said “Whoa, that was intense. I don’t even know what I did with my mouth full of toothpaste.” Diana immediately answered, deadpan, total matter-of-fact: “Swallowed it. Watched you do it”

[Diana reminded me, after reading the account above, that both the Ranger and Margot were exceptionally attractive humans, perhaps between their late 20’s and early 30’s. And we subsequently consoled ourselves fantasizing that his talk with her would result in them going  out to have a beer, hooking up, and falling in love. By now, she posits, “they probably have four kids and are living happily together.”]

Day 6: Mosca Pass to Outside Cotopaxi
65 miles and 2,000 Feet Gain
In Which Jason Changes His Shirt & Survives a Near-Miss

I’ve little more to report on this day than is succinctly summarized above. We set out in the early morning for the long dirt descent to highway 69. Less than a mile into the day’s ride, flying along at maybe 30 miles per hour, I startled a mid-sized buck in the brush beside the road. He darted immediately across my path, missing my front tire by perhaps three feet. If I had struck him, I’d likely have survived, it’s true. But the consequences would have been severe. It was a close call and the surge of adrenaline it delivered was not entirely unpleasant. Morning pictures from the descent, and a roadside shot of me with the Sangres in the background to the west:

We spent the day riding around the east side of the Sangres, with views of the Crestones (site of my “misadventure” referenced above) prominent through much of the day, stopping for snacks and liquids in a small town in the morning. Later, in Westcliffe, I think we had pizza for lunch in a large (deserted at lunchtime) barnlike structure that looked like it might host country-western dancing in the evenings. Diana reports that is was called “Silver Dome” and that we shared a large vegetarian pizza. Later, while she was off buying a new bungee cord, I additionally consumed a strawberry-banana smoothie. When we reunited, I was feeling unwell and reported that I hadn’t been that full since “I ate nine large sausages in Washington,” referencing the time in 1990 when I overstuffed myself, obscenely, to earn the dubious honor of getting my name on the wall of a greasy Seattle sausage shop.

In the afternoon we finished up the day’s miles, pushing on up route 69, then using county road 1A to cut the angle toward U.S 50 heading west. We camped at an unpleasant pull-out south of Cotopaxi on 1A. Oh. And I wore a fresh shirt.

Day 7: Outside Cotopaxi to Near Americus
65 Miles and 3,000 Feet Gain
In Which We Eat More Pizza and Partake of Green Chili Beer

We rode along the Arkansas River much of the day, first along U.S. 50 to Salida. I’m pretty certain we ate lunch at Amica’s. I no doubt enjoyed my usual–the Michelangelo pie and a pint or two of Hatch chili beer. I’m sure I cajoled Diana into drinking some of the same, though I could not speculate as to her choice of pie. Maybe she had a salad. I love Amica’s. Jeremy and Nao introduced me to the place at some point. Thanks guys. Eat there if you are in Salida.

We probably meandered around Salida for a few hours. Maybe we bought some supplies or a bike tool to address some minor nagging mechanical issue. It’s all a bit foggy.

Eventually we headed north up U.S. 285 to Buena Vista before transitioning to a dirt road system to the east of the Arkansas (the highway stays primarily on its west side). There were some tunnels.

We ran into some rafting guides wrangling their rafts onto a trailer and asked about convenient camping near Americus. They gave good intel. We camped beside the roaring Arkansas.

Day 8: Americus to AVA HQ and then to Mt. Yale Trailhead
Very Few Miles and Very Little Gain
In Which We Run the Gauntlet, and Inadvertently Stress Out a 15-Year-Old Young Woman

This was the day we were to go rafting with Arkansas Valley Adventures down the Gauntlet and Numbers stretches of that river. It’s a nice stretch of whitewater with at least one Class 5 rapid when the river is running high enough, as it was then. We pedaled the last few miles to AVA’s Headquarters, crossing over to the pavement of U.S 24 about halfway through the morning’s ride. I had calculated, badly, that the morning’s ride would be five miles, and we planned accordingly. But it proved to be eight miles, uphill and into a stiff headwind, so we arrived barely in time for check-in. We frantically checked in and got suited up with dry-tops and helmets. Then it was off to the put-in in the small old school bus.

I think there were two boats in our trip. We shared our boat with a veteran guide, Zach, and a family of three, consisting of a parental pair and a teenage daughter. Now, at the time, I had two daughters who (best I could estimate) likely straddled this young woman in ages. So I was comfortable with young women, and don’t generally think I make them ill at ease. But I immediately sensed that something, possibly about me, was making her rather uncomfortable. The vibe from the parents was a little strange as well. I’m not sure what, if anything, Diana noticed, but something seemed off to me.

As we headed down the river, the pleasures and perils of the rafting took precedence over my self-consciousness and mild dismay. We got into the rhythm of negotiating the rapids as a paddling team under the expert guidance of our grizzled guide, and the interpersonal dynamic settled.

At one point, during a flatwater stretch of paddling, I asked the young woman how old she was, wishing to tell her about my daughters’ closeness in age to her own. She immediately got all panicky and her eyes darted towards her mother. I smiled and helped her out: “You’re 16?” She smiled back, nodded and relaxed. I told her about Aliy and Peyton. The truth was, as I correctly deduced from her reaction, that she was 15: her parents had lied so that she could go on this trip, which had a minimum age requirement of 16.

After this, the dynamic became a bit more comfortable, though I still sensed some unease from our raft companions. At lunch, the mother pulled me aside and inquired discreetly and without any apparent implicit censure, whether Diana and I were friends, or partners, or relatives, or what was the deal exactly? There was a specific reason for this question, as I would shortly learn, and on any event I took no offense of the “none of your business” variety. I laughed and told her that we were friends. She then apologized to me about the strange vibe I may have noticed at the start of the trip (as I indeed had). She went on to explain that her marriage had broken up a few years back, and that her companion was her daughter’s step-father. The father, as it happens, was named “Jason,” bore a striking resemblance to me, and had taken up with a *much* younger Asian-American girlfriend in the immediate aftermath of the marital demise. They were still together, and it continued to make the daughter uneasy. That poor young woman had her day of rafting pleasure sabotaged by a startling set of coincidences!

We enjoyed our day on the river, but have no photographic record of it, for we had secured our cameras with our other equipment back at AVA HQ to avoid any risk of water damage. When the rafting was over we backtracked by bike south down U.S 24 to Buena Vista, where we turned west for a few miles up route 306 to the trailhead for Mt. Yale. We camped there for the night in anticipation of attempting to climb that peak the next morning. Here I am at camp, at day’s end:

Day 9: From Mt. Yale Trailhead to Outside Crested Butte
63 Miles and 5,000 Feet Gain
In Which We Summit Mt. Yale and Cottonwood Pass

Back when I was the precise age of the young woman I’d, by an unfortunate convergence of coincidences, made so uncomfortable the day before, I had climbed my first 14,000 foot peak. It was the very peak in whose shadow we awoke that ninth morning of our trip.

Back in 1986, I’d been at a camp for four weeks of backpacking, rafting, and mountain biking, and the culmination of our final, week-long backpack trip had been a summit attempt on the 14,199-foot Mount Yale. We’d succeeded, as a group, all taking hands to encircle the summit as we approached, and the moment, in all its glorious cheese, is one of the most treasured of my adolescence.

Now, 26 years later, I set off with the intrepid Diana on a glorious July morning to attempt to reach that same point of geography, so exalted both in height and in my memorialized esteem. It was a lovely hike, without incident. On the way up, we encountered a lone female hiker. Diana thought she must be my soulmate, as she could think of no other explanation for her ability to maintain my determined pace (as indeed she did).

After the initial mile or so, Diana and I split up, each keeping to a pace comfortable to each. Later, separately, we met a group of college women hiking together, all wearing birthday hats to celebrate the 20th of one of their companions that day. There was also a Mormon couple, Don and Emily. How I came to know they were Mormon, I have no idea. Diana hypothesizes that it’s because they didn’t use caffeine. That just raises the question: why on earth did I know that they didn’t consume caffeine? OK, it must be that I offered them some caffeine-containing food or beverage, and they politely declined, citing the caffeine as the reason. That has to be it. I’m always offering people in the out-of-doors (or in traffic–YooHoo!) a share of my foodstuffs.

Diana reports from her journal that I was on the summit “1.3 hours before” she arrived. This strikes me as a terribly specific and unusual way to record time. This was Diana’s first visit to a 14,000-foot summit, so Yale was both her and my first. As of this writing, I’ve climbed 49 of the 53.

On the way down, I seem to recall that Diana may have gotten off-route, and been directed back to the ridge crest by our newfound LDS friends. Some photos from the hike:

 

We were back at camp by noon, and still had a long day in the saddle in front of us. We set out up the long climb to Cottonwood Pass–one of my favorite rides on the planet, in either direction (I’ve ridden the pass twice in each direction). Going east-to-west, as we were, the climb would be on pavement and the descent on dirt. Here we are at Cottonwood Pass. This would be the high-point of our loaded cycling, at 12,126 feet (though we would pedal higher still, unladen, in the trip’s Coda):

After summmiting Cottonwood, we had a long glorious descent, followed by a rolling route, mostly on dirt roads, into Crested Butte. We ate some pizza and beer. Or maybe it was nachos. When we left the restaurant, I found that a tire had gone flat. This gave symmetry to our mechanical woes–we each suffered merely a single flat over the course of our journey. While I repaired the tire, I queried passersby about sites for camping heading west out of town on county road 12. Somebody gave us the skinny, identifying a road that drops down from the main route a few miles out of town to some creekside sites.

As we headed out of town with full bellies, I snapped this photo of Diana, smiling as ever, slogging it uphill:

The campsite was a bit of mosquito hell. But it was free. We had to cross the creek to get to any viable sites. And, speaking of badasses, here’s what a real one looks like (hint: not me):

I flung myself into my tent immediately after its erection to escape the frenzied, buzzing, voracious throng of probosci-wielding insects. And the day was done. I’m sure Diana did the same. The next day we would complete the circuit, and, but for a significant and noteworthy coda, our trip.

Day 10: Outside Crested Butte to Hotchkiss
55 Miles and 2,000 Feet Gain
In Which We Fly Through Aspens and Close the Loop

It was the last day of the trip, and we were anxious to book the final miles (the “last portage” if you’ll excuse another inside joke). The morning began with a climb, then we descended through forests of Aspen on dirt roads to the pavement of CO-133 and the last leg back into Hotchkiss. It’s all a bit of a blur.

One thing to note: at the start of the trip, I was clearly the stronger cyclist. It’s what I did. And, though 40, I was probably in the second-fittest shape of my life. But each day the gap between our natural and comfortable paces began to close. On this final day, I realized that Diana had become the faster cyclist on both the flats and the downhill stretches. I maintained an advantage, though now slim, only on the climbs.

As luck would have it, this final day provided just enough climbing for me to maintain a lead, sometimes razor-thin, throughout the day. During an extended period of flats, I could look back and see Diana steadily reeling me in (try as I might to maintain the lead!). But then, just as she was about to catch me, I’d find my salvation in a short steep uphill grade. It was almost like magic, and may have proved frustrating to Diana. [Diana, having read the preceding, reported: “I did note in my journal that I was indeed desperately trying to catch you on the bike this day. Haha.”] Had the trip lasted another two days, I’m certain I’d have found myself riding sweeper position more often than not

Here’s a photo from early in the day, among the aspens:

And here we are, having reached sanctuary of my one-time mother-in-law, Connie, in Fruita, CO:

Coda: Mt. Evans Road–“It Gets Better”
55 Miles and 6,500 Feet Gain
In Which We Ride Light and Touch the Sky

We’d completed the journey as I’d proposed it to Diana. It was, by any conceivable measure, a smashing success. I probably shouldn’t have even suggested we try to gild the lily at that point. I mean: why push our luck? But as we packed up to begin the drive east toward home, I tentatively suggested that we might give the road up Mount Evans a go next day: we could strip our bikes of the gear and racks and put our hard-earned fitness and acclimitization to the test on the 27+ miles of the highest paved road in the continental United States–the road up Mt. Evans, another 14,000 foot peak.

How could I even have doubted but that Diana would embrace the suggestion with every fiber of her always-enthusiastic being?

A final anecdote: While visiting with Connie at her home in Fruita, she mentioned how life only seemed to be getting better as she grew older (not “old,” but older). As we were filling the gas tank in preparation for the drive to Evans, I remember remarking to Diana that I found it difficult to imagine life getting better (for me, at least) as I aged: “After all,” I mused “How could it get any better than this?”

There was a large RV at the adjacent fuel island, tanks being topped-off by its owner, a man perhaps in his early 60’s with a very attractive and, to all appearances, rather younger female traveling companion. Overhearing me, he looked me dead in the eye and said “Oh, it gets better.” After pausing he repeated, for emphasis, obviously contemplating his life’s many pleasures and satisfactions, “It gets better.”

And indeed his prophesy held–at least on the smallest of time scales. For that next day’s cycle up Mt. Evans Road was good. Very, very good. We were fast on the ascent, the unladen bikes light and lithe under our strong, skillful strokes. And the descent was the perfect adrenalized conclusion to the trip. I close with some photos from atop the paved road:

Thanks to you, Diana, for, as always, being the perfect traveling companion–for your enthusiasm, your your resilience, and for your trust.

Thanks, also, to any of you who may have read this far!

Happy Trails.

Jason

Postscript: After finishing the process of helping me compose, edit, and refine this trip report, Diana had this to say, via email: “So fun to relive this trip though in my head. Truly a trip of a lifetime.”

She is young yet. There is time for it to be eclipsed. But I’m older. And I agree. It was. It really was.

In the summer of 2003, for the third consecutive year, I spent a week paddling the wilderness waters of Isle Royale National Park, in the northern reaches of chilly and deep Lake Superior. The first year, it was a solo trip. The second year, brother Jonas came along. And in 2003, Greg flew out from Montana to accompany Jonas and me. As I recall, the trip coincided with Greg’s fifth wedding anniversary. His brilliant and lovely wife (who is among my favorite people) generously gave her blessing for Greg to participate in this adventure.

We captured a great deal of video footage from this trip, and I, using the then state-of-the-art desklamp iMac G4 and iMovie, edited it into a 50-minute DVD. The full film, as you might imagine, contains a great deal of tomfoolery and camp shenanigans that could only ever be of interest to us three featured players, and those who, for some reason, love us a great deal. Now, I’ve edited that down into a highlight reel of fewer than ten minutes in length. I still think its audience is likely *very* limited (in fact it may not be any larger than that for the full film), but there is some pretty paddling footage, wildlife (a loon, with its trilling, and a moose), and background music by Gordon Lightfoot, U2, The Traveling Wilburys, and Cat Stevens.

If, after that rather tepid introduction, you still have any inclination to check it out, here it is for your (it might be hoped) enjoyment:

I planned to start my summer off with a week-long, 120-mile paddle of the Green River in Utah with my thirteen-year-old, Aliy, and her best friend Isabelle. The trip would begin just south of the town of Green River and take us through Labyrinth and Stillwater Canyons, cutting through the heart of Canyonlands National Park to the convergence of the Green with the Colorado River. From here, a jetboat would pick us up to take us and our dirty, well-used gear up the Colorado to the town of Moab.

I was more than a little nervous about taking these two too-urban girls on a week-long wilderness paddling trip through the desert. Neither of them had done anything remotely similar and their lives haven’t exactly been marked by discomfort or physical sacrifice. I tried something similar the prior year with my then-eight-year-old, Peyton, along with Dave, Peyton’s “Gramps.” We’d paddled a 120-mile stretch of the Upper Missouri River in Montana, and she famously quipped at trip’s end “I think I got the wrong father.” That was not exactly the response I’d been going for. I figured, though, that Aliy and Isabelle were older and perhaps more likely to appreciate the overall experience. Plus, they could share the highs and lows with one another rather than having only adults to turn to, as Peyton did.

Adding to my reservations was the passing of Isabelle’s dear grandmother just after we left Cincinnati for Colorado. It was not unexpected, and Isabelle had been able to say her goodbyes before we left; thus her parents decided that, unless Isabelle wanted to head straight home for the funeral, she should continue with the trip. This left me a little uneasy that, should she not enjoy the trip, she might especially regret not returning home.

But I set all my reservations and concerns aside and ventured forth with great hope and enthusiasm.

We began the morning of June third in Fruita, Colorado at the home of my children’s maternal grandmother, Connie. We headed out at six in the morning for the 90-minute drive to Tex’s Riverways in Moab, car stuffed with a week’s worth of food, camping gear, and a single folding kayak. Tex would be providing our shuttle service, driving us to the put-in, storing the car while we were on the river, and picking us up via jetboat just below the confluence. When we arrived at Tex’s, we completed a little paperwork, picked up some rental gear (toilet, well-insulated cooler, two 6-gallon water containers, and one canoe) transferred our gear to their shuttle van, and headed north to the put-in.

There was another party setting out with us–a married couple and their three boys. They were using two folding boats and an inflatable kayak. Isabelle dubbed them, somewhat derisively, the “Brady Bunch.” On the drive to Crystal Geyser the shuttle driver, Darren, a highly charismatic lifelong river rat, warned us of some of the potential hazards we’d be facing on the river: high winds (the most serious hazard), the swift high waters of the river itself (our trip falling at the peak of spring runoff), hypothermia, rattlesnakes, and scorpions.

I should also note that both the shuttle driver and the office guy at Tex’s definitely did a double-take when they saw the composition of our group–they both said to me, essentially, “are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into taking these two out on the river?” In fact, Darren’s last words to me after he dropped us and all our gear off at Crystal Geyser, as he was preparing to drive the empty van back to Moab, said with a wry smile, were “You’re a brave man.”

At Crystal Geyser, I worked furiously to assemble the folding boat, got the canoe in the water, and loaded everything up. At precisely noon, we were ready to set out, well ahead of the Brady Bunch who were still working to get all their boats assembled. I put Aliy in the kayak alone, as she had the most kayaking experience, and put Isabelle in the bow of the canoe with me. A capsize of the canoe, which held the overwhelming bulk of our gear, would be a major ordeal, whereas if either girl overturned the kayak I could easily get them out of the water, clear the boat of water, and have them back in their boat without even needing necessarily to go to shore. Thus, I planned on piloting the canoe for the first few days, at least until the girls each got some more canoeing experience, and having the girls switch off between canoe and kayak.

As we set out we said our good-byes to the Brady Bunch, whom we would never again see along the river. It was warm and sunny with scattered clouds. Leaving the initial eddy was a little unsettling for Aliy whose prior paddling experience was all on still water, but she managed just fine and quickly found her paddling legs, so to speak. An eddy, by the way, is where the river’s current swirls back, moving at variance with the river’s main flow. When entering or leaving eddies at an inappropriate angle inexperienced boaters will sometimes lean the wrong way and quickly find themselves swimming.

Once we were out on the river, we rafted the boats up together and I took the following photo of the two girls, appearing to already be having a fine time out on the river:

The initial fifteen miles along our route passed through desert terrain like you see in the background above, prior to entering Labyrinth Canyon. While rafted up in the main current we enjoyed a leisurely lunch. Lunch was basically the same each day, almost always eaten in the boats: bagels and cream cheese (or butter, or PB and J), granola bars, almonds, gatorade, some kind of fruit, and (for me) some beef jerky. The girls switched between boats a few times, each getting the feel of both boats, and taking advantage of the ability to kick back and rest in the canoe if they so chose. With our stable craft, switching back and forth was easily accomplished on the river–no need to go to shore.

Soon enough, they both needed to pee. I explained their options, and they decided to my relief that lowering themselves into the chilly water was the best approach. Much screaming, giggling and hilarity ensued, but eventually bladders were emptied into the swift silty waters of the Green.

As we expected, the river was moving swiftly–at about 4-5 miles per hour in the main current, so we were able to make it to mile fifteen, the beginning of Labyrinth Canyon, quite early in the afternoon. A famous formation, Dellenbaugh’s butte, named for the 17-year-old artist on the Powell exploratory expedition of this river, roughly marks the beginning of Labyrinth Canyon:

At high water, when all the sandbars are covered by the river’s swift current, finding suitable campsites along the river can be a challenge. Where the river doesn’t directly abut steep canyon walls there is normally thick, impenetrable vegetation blocking passage to the shore. Thus, side canyons, where you can often paddle the boats some ways up the high river’s backflow to accessible ground, become favored campsites. A huge benefit of camping in side canyons is that you can explore them on foot from camp.

Darren had told us that there was great camping at trin-alcove bend, a place where three converging side canyons join the river at a sharp bend. He warned us that, as this spot fell at mile 25, this would make for a very ambitious first day given our noontime start. Now, we had 120 total river miles to cover in, essentially, six days (on the seventh day we would need to be ready for pickup by 11 am). Since the weather was cooperative and the river swift, I decided to make for trin-alcove bend that first day. Making big miles on the early days would give us more options on the later days, and I knew that bad weather could potentially force a layover day at some point.

Shortly after Dellenbaugh’s butte, the typical up-canyon afternoon winds kicked in. It was nothing that we couldn’t handle, but it meant that everyone needed to paddle consistently to counteract the slowing effect of the contrary winds. After ten miles of hard work, we reached the lovely side canyons and were dismayed to find a large party of older teens just unloading their boats and setting up camp. Fortunately, though, there was room father up the canyons for us to find a perfect spot in relative seclusion:

The girls did an excellent job helping me unload the boats up a steep, high, sandy embankment and carry the gear to our selected campsite. We set up camp together, the girls obsessing about keeping sand out of their tent (an obsession that would disappear completely by the third night). I would be sleeping under the stars, so they had the tent to themselves. When camp was in order, I started the charcoal going in the firepan as the girls explored their nearby surroundings and went swimming in the shallow waters of the lower side-canyons.

All fires along the river must be kept in a firepan, and all remains must be either packed out or (if they are fully burned to ash) dumped into the main current of the river. Since wood can be hard to come by and it is more difficult to burn wood down to pure ash, I had brought charcoal along for the first four nights when we would be grilling our dinners over a fire. I had a simple stove along for cooking breakfasts and dinners the last two nights when I knew our ice would have melted off from the cooler and spaghetti was on the menu.

Once the coals were hot I set to cooking the girls spicy chick’n patties and my sirloin burgers. These cooked up beautifully, and we enjoyed them on big whole-wheat buns (kept protected in a separate smaller cooler) with lettuce, tomatoes, and delicious avocado from the main cooler. I was chastised, but not too roughly, for forgetting mustard and ketchup. After we were all well fed, the girls set off to explore one of the three side canyons from camp:

I let them go off on their own for about 25 minutes, then set off after them. I found them scrambling along the upper side wall of the canyon pictured above, enjoying the views down to the river and climbing up onto the larger boulders that they found. Together we then climbed down and followed the floor of the canyon up a few hundred meters to where it ended abruptly in a large dry fall (a vertical section of canyon that would be a waterfall if there were water flowing). We worked together to climb part-way up the lower portion of the fall, listened to our own echoes, and then made our way slowly back to camp as night settled in. At one point during this excursion Isabelle said “I used to think that ‘beautiful’ was all bright colors and pretty flowers, but now I see that rocks and sky and light can be beautiful too.”

Despite the noise from the teens camped down-canyon, the girls fell quickly to sleep after
climbing, exhausted, into the tent. I lay awake for a few hours, looking up at the stars from my nearby bedroll, before finally drifting off to sleep.

The next day dawned cloudy, cool, and dreary. The forecast when we set off had called for this day and the next to be quite chilly and potentially rainy and I knew we would nevertheless need to make solid progress unless the weather was absolutely prohibitive. Thus I got the girls up early as I started off the morning’s egg-scramble breakfast with a cup of hot chocolate for each of them. This gave a good start to their morning, and they began taking down camp as I cooked up the eggs, scrambled with some veggie sausages, tomatoes, and avocado. I realized this morning that I’d forgotten to grab the three packs of cheddar cheese that I’d purchased for the trip, so we had no cheese in our eggs.

With impressive speed and efficiency we broke down camp and got the boats loaded up for the day. As a light rain began to fall, we paddled down and re-entered the main current of the river well ahead of the larger group camped nearby. The day was going to be largely a play-it-by-ear day. I hoped to make big miles, but would remain flexible given the uncertain conditions. We paddled through gorgeous canyon country for a few hours, through intermittent rains and upcanyon winds. The girls continued to trade off between boats, and we enjoyed another lunch in the boats. You can see from the following photo of Isabelle proudly displaying her bagel that it was clearly much colder than the prior day:

At one point, shortly after lunch, fifteen miles or so into our day’s journey, the upcanyon winds became dangerously strong–at their worst they can create three-foot standing waves and make forward progress impossible. We immediately brought the two boats together and found a place to escape to dry land. I tied up the boats in a small protected eddy and we huddled under some overhanging rocks at the base of the cliffs for about an hour until the winds subsided sufficiently. At one point the girls wandered off in the drizzle to find a place to pee.

When we got back in the boats the weather relented somewhat and we made good progress for five more miles to Bowknot Bend, a place where the river makes a giant seven-mile loop back on itself and you can climb up a steep trail to a gap in the cliffs from where you can see the river on either side. When we reached the take-out for the hike the weather had become calm, sunny, and warm. You had to exit the boats up a vertical three-foot embankment, and there was a shortage of solid places to tie up the boats, but eventually we got ashore and secured our boats.

Unfortunately, as I was gathering snacks and water for the hike up to the overlook, Aliy got some sand in her eye and became inconsolably grumpy. She wouldn’t let me flush her eye with water, preferring to sit and whine and complain. This was essentially the only time on the often uncomfortable week-long trip when she got this way, so I don’t mean to give her a hard time about it now. But neither Isabelle nor I wanted to miss this hike, so we set off leaving Aliy to rest and pout at the base of the hike.

The hike was steep, pleasant, and brief. Soon we found ourselves at the overlook and I snapped the following photo of Isabelle overlooking the river just as it enters the seven-mile bend:

I also snapped the following photo showing the river on either side of the Bend:

When we got back down to the boats the sun was shining and Aliy’s mood had lifted somewhat. As we prepared to launch, we encountered another party of three canoes who had decided not to make the hike but were resting in their boats at the trailhead. We talked for a while, then they set off just prior to our launching.

Though it was sunny, the winds were swirling and there were some dark and ominous clouds forming in the distance as we started off downriver, entering the giant loop in the river. We quickly passed two of the three canoes from the other party, as they were having difficulty managing their boats in the blustery winds. Eventually the winds settled and we made good progress through the bend. At about the midway point, the leading canoe from the other group pulled aside to wait for the rest of their party and we passed them.

Shortly thereafter the dark clouds were virtually upon us, and I realized that things could get ugly very quickly. I called Aliy, who was then paddling the kayak, over to us, had her hold onto the gunwale of the canoe, and paddled the pair of boats over close to shore, searching for a place to pull out. No sooner had I accomplished this than the winds began to howl–downriver this time–immediately increasing our speed from five miles per hour to an estimated ten-to-twelve miles per hour.

While the more common up-canyon winds can create very dangerous standing waves and require you to get off the river quickly, they at least slow one’s progress downriver, making it much easier to navigate the boats to solid ground. Downcanyon winds, with dangerous destabilizing gusts, can also necessitate a quick exit from the boats, but they make matters worse by hurtling you along at nerve-racking speeds relative to the safe and solid river banks.

At this point on the river, there is thick vegetation all along the banks which makes finding an exit point very difficult. There are occasional small breaks behind points where the vegetation protrudes further out from the river–this breaks the wind and slows the current, providing a sort of semi-eddy into which I knew we could, with some difficulty, escape. Thus I pointed the boats upriver, angled toward the near shore, the kayak joined to the canoe on the upriver side, as close to shore as was feasible, waiting to dart into one of these breaks.

When I spied one Isabelle and I paddled furiously (Aliy could not paddle as she was tasked with keeping her boat secured to ours) to escape the main flow into the half-shelter along the shore. But we didn’t quite make it and we kept moving downriver, now too close to shore. As I backpaddled furiously I saw that we were not going to clear an overhanging bush, and I yelled to Isabelle “Down! Down! Down!” She ducked into the boat just as it scraped overhead. I then turned the boats 360 degrees, whipping the bow away from shore and repositioning the boat for another attempt.

This time our furious paddling brought us ashore, and Isabelle and I were both clutching at roots and bushes along the bank to try to hold us there, but Isabelle’s grip gave out and the river tugged us back into the main flow. Once again we were pulled under a sweeper and Isabelle ducked below the branches into the belly of the canoe.

For the third attempt I spy a much more substantial half-eddy, and we are just able to pull in behind a wind-break into some relatively calm waters. We clamber out of the boats onto the soggy shore and find ourselves in a most unpleasant tangle of bushes and low-hanging branches. At this point it is quite late–well after six–and we have covered an impressive 25 miles in variable weather. I’m not at all certain that we will be able to get out of here before nightfall, and assess the prospects of setting up camp in this spot. It was obvious that, while it would have been doable, it wouldn’t have been at all pleasant.

After the leading edge of the storm passes through, the weather stabilizes, but there are still steady and strong down-canyon winds, so I am reluctant to relaunch the boats. In the meantime, Isabelle decided that now is the time when she must absolutely inaugurate the toilet (all parties must carry and use a sealed toilet system to remove all solid human waste from the canyons). I dutifully climb into the canoe to extract the toilet, set it up for her in the only flat area nearby and turn around to let her do her business. Soon it is all closed back up and stored safely in the canoe.

A good hour passes, and I am cold and wet, having given my best warm-when-wet clothing to the girls. I constantly check in with the girls and conclude that they are nowhere near as cold as I am. I know that hypothermia is a real possibility, so I decide that I must either relaunch the boats and begin the warming work of paddling the boats, or decide to camp here and start a fire for dinner and fire up the stove to get some hot chocolate in me. As the wind has abated somewhat and this would have made a truly miserable campsite I tell the girls (who are anxious to move on) to saddle up. We get back in the boats and are soon making good progress downriver in safe conditions.

I know of two nearby campsites: the first a very good campsite three miles downriver, but with no hiking opportunities, and the second a decent campsite five miles downriver with better hiking. Since I fear that the next day’s weather may be even worse (the forecast called for the following day to be even colder with a greater likelihood of rain), I want to be somewhere that we could go for a hike if we cannot get back in the canoes. Thus I bypass the excellent campsite at Oak Bottom for the good hiking of Horseshoe Canyon. When we arrive at the entrance to the side canyon, it is well into dusk and I am borderline dangerously cold.

We navigate the boats a hundred meters or so up the river’s backflow into the canyon and remain enveloped in dense vegetation as the water becomes too shallow to continue. I jump from the boats and clamber up the shore to search for a suitable flat spot for camping. I find a pretty good spot actually, though reaching it requires climbing through bushes and over deadfalls. I tell the girls that we must work quickly to get camp set up because we all need to get dry and warm.

After lugging the bare essentials up to the campsite I immediately start the charcoal burning and set up the tent. Once the tent is finished I put the girls in there with the bag of dry clothes and set them to changing out of their wet things. Then I fire up the stove and get some hot chocolate brewing, which I pass in to them just as they’ve gotten dry. Next, dinner goes on the grill as I begin heating more water on the stove for my own hot chocolate. Only after drinking the warming beverage do I begin to relax.

As it’s getting fully dark, I pass the veggie dogs into the tent for the girls. They seem to enjoy these as I’ve rarely seen them enjoy any food in their lives. I sit outside in the growing darkness devouring my own sirloin burgers. Soon thereafter I climb into the tent, and we are all quickly asleep.

I had told the girls that, since we’d made 55 miles in the first two days (leaving us with 65 miles to travel in four and a half remaining days), we could take the third day off from paddling and just explore the nearby canyon if the weather wasn’t nice. But the morning of the third day dawned much more promisingly than I expected, and I wanted to get back on the river. I left the decision up to them, though, telling them that they could decide after the pancake breakfast. We took turns having pancakes, cooked one at a time and served with real maple syrup and squeeze parkay. Both of the girls said “I’ve never squeezed butter from a bottle before.” Aliy, who somehow finds syrup too sweet, had peanut butter and jelly on her pancakes. We each ate three pancakes, and then the girls decided that, since the sun was coming out and the skies were showing blue patches, they’d rather get back out on the river.

Once we’d decamped and loaded up the boats, we set out to make our way back down the side-canyon to the main river. While I had been able to turn the kayak around in the narrow stream for Aliy to paddle out, it proved impossible to rotate the longer, heavier canoe. I said to Isabelle, “Well we could just back-paddle out of here” and Aliy, never lacking in common sense, said “Why don’t you just turn around?” And, while that presented comfort challenges given the position and layout of the seats and gear, this proved to be the best way to navigate the canoe out of the shallow, narrow side-canyon.

Once we got out on the river the weather brightened considerably, and, while it remained an unseasonably cool day for the Utah desert, it was a brilliant day to spend leisurely paddling fifteen miles down the Green River through Labyrinth Canyon. Early in the day, we were relaxing along the river and I took this shot of the girls:

They intended to give the peace sign, but apparently only one of Isabelle’s fingers responded to the neural signals from her brain, so she inadvertently flipped me off. There was no end of laughter about this picture. Later, someone snapped the first picture of me:

One final shot from the river that day shows Isabelle kicking back in the bow of the canoe:

Ten miles into the day’s paddle we passed Mineral Bottom on river left. This is the only (rough, steep, dangerous, dirt) road access to the river along our route and a common put-in and take-out for paddlers looking to complete half the 120 miles that we were traveling. This was where the Brady Bunch were planning on taking out, and the party of three canoes we’d met the day before was on shore here waiting for their shuttle vehicle to arrive. We exchanged pleasantries and discussed the weather-related challenges of the prior day. This would be our last encounter with other people for a full 72 hours.

About 90 minutes after passing Mineral Bottom, we came to our chosen campsite for the night, at Horsethief Canyon. After paddling a few hundred feet up the backflow into this canyon we spotted an obvious takeout and, just above the landing, a beautiful campsite with lots of open space, good vistas, excellent nearby hiking and exploration opportunities, and soft level areas for sleeping. The only problem was that, for some reason, this place was heavily infested with mosquitoes (nowhere else did we suffer from much of a bug problem). Nobody wanted to go back to the boats to unload gear since this was where the mosquitoes were thickest. But eventually, after liberal use of bug lotion (“Why didn’t you get the spray?!” they whined–it never occurred to me that it mattered), we had camp set up (the tent’s around the corner to the right–you can see its shadow):

The girls spent the afternoon exploring the canyon walls above the campsite, where they found a deposit of crystals that they mined for what seemed like hours. Meanwhile, I took a brief hike up the flat canyon floor that appeared to go on for miles and miles, and then returned to join them at their scenic overlook. Later we made dinner (black-bean burgers for the girls and gourmet brats for me) and had s’mores for dessert over the wood fire (we started out with charcoal, and the girls collected and added wood to keep the fire going until after dark. I retired early to read and left the girls to enjoy talking and laughing around the campfire.

By the next morning we were clearly out of the bad weather spell. We awoke and enjoyed a breakfast of egg scrambles again–this time with a bit of ricotta cheese (pilfered from the spaghetti night ingredients). Aliy and I had ours with a ton of onions and tomatoes (a bit too many onions for Aliy’s tastes) in addition to the ricotta and sausages, while I made a separate batch for Isabelle with just cheese and veggie sausages.

Breaking camp had become routine, and we were soon in the boats headed back through Labyrinth Canyon. On this day we would actually pass out of Labyrinth into a wide, open area called Tower Park for a few miles before entering Stillwater Canyon in Canyonlands National Park (up until then we’d been on BLM lands). Just before leaving Labyrinth, though, we planned a hike up to an overlook and ancient masonry tower at Fort Bottom. So, five miles into the days paddle, we pulled into an eddy at Fort Bottom, packed up the camera, lunches and water, and hiked up a hot steep hill to an old stone tower:

The final 12 feet up to the level of the tower required some challenging class four climbing, and I helped the girls past this difficult obstacle. At the tower I snapped a couple of photos of the girls, first peering through a window:

And then standing next to the structure:

Then we hiked back down the hill to the remains of a hundred-year-old cabin where we ate our lunch in some rare shade. After resting awhile we got back in the canoes and left Labyrinth canyon behind for good and entered Tower Park. From Tower Park, we could first see some of the famous formations of Canyonlands National Park, such as Buttes of the Cross. You can see the buttes in the distance behind the paddling Aliy in the the next photo:

The Powell Expedition initially named this formation the “Butte” (singular) of the cross since they mistook the two formations, aligned in their sight-line, for a single one, and they thought is resembled a “fallen cross.” Here are the buttes closer-up:

When they got further down-river and saw that the single formation was indeed two, they renamed them the “Buttes” (plural) of the cross. And that is the name it keeps today.

Just beyond where these photos were taken, the geological character of the surrounding sandstone changed noticeably and “White Rim” sandstone made its first appearance right at the riverline. As the miles passed, the White Rim sandstone climbed higher along the walls above us. After passing through a few miles of short white canyon walls we approached Millard Canyon, a camping area in Canyonlands’ Maze District where I’d camped the year before with a group of friends, mostly from Denver. It all looked perfectly familiar, though the river was noticeably higher and our swimming area was in deeper water and no longer contained a protective eddy.

Past Millard, we passed under the cliffs that I’d hiked along the prior year and, after a few miles and some interesting, swirling river eddies, reached Anderson Bottom. I had hiked to this area from Millard the prior year and knew of an excellent slot canyon for hiking and some well-preserved pictographs that I wanted to show the girls. I also knew that there was an excellent campsite here, and planned on spending the night.

We found a good place to beach the canoes at precisely the spot where the prior year my group had pumped water from the Green. We did this without letting the silt settle out from the river water first, which is very hard on the filters and requires constant cleaning to keep the water flowing through the apparatus. As an aside, I’d brought a pump along to supplement the 13 gallons of water with which we’d started this trip, but I planned on settling the water out in our bailing bucket prior to pumping. With the unseasonably cool weather we’d experienced, though, we were not drinking water at quite the rate I’d planned, and our initial supply proved more than adequate (just). I never had to pump!

After setting up camp on the increasingly windy flats of Anderson Bottom, I let the girls enjoy the can of baked beans that I’d neglected to feed them on their fist night of veggie dogs. They devoured these enthusiastically. After their bellies were satisfied, and they’d had a brief rest, they wanted to go swimming in the small eddy where we’d beached our boats. After checking out the situation (some small potential for them to get careless and be swept into the main current of the river, I said they could swim, but only in their life-vests and only with me standing guard with the throw-rope on the downstream side of the eddy. They thought these precautions reasonable and enjoyed a good hour of splashing around in the silty water, and running in circles around the eddy along the sticky, muddy river-bottom.

After they recovered from the swim, we filled our water bottles and headed out for the hike to the slot canyon. Unfortunately, the approach to the slot was longer than I recalled, and the girls got a little disheartened hiking under the hot desert sun for maybe a mile and a half, as I kept promising: “It’s worth it.”

Eventually we reached the narrowing slot, and the girls were disappointed that, despite the recent rains, the giant puddle at the base of the slot was only about one-third as large and deep as I’d described from the prior year. But once they got over this initial disappointment, they loved exploring up the narrow canyon and trying to ascend its difficult falls sections. Here they are looking up at me from just after wading through the initial puddle. I have a photo of me standing on that boulder above their heads from the prior year posted somewhere on the internet:

Next is a photo of the girls stemming across a narrow section of the slot:

And finally a shot of Aliy attacking one of the most challenging sections of the canyon:

The girls did each need my help negotiating some of the more challenging vertical sections, but they enjoyed trying everything they could to ascend them entirely on their own before finally resigning themselves that they needed a little assistance. In all, they clearly agreed that this hike was fun enough to justify the long, hot, flat approach.

I should note one puzzling observation about Aliy. When I take Aliy to the climbing gym, she frustrates me to no end because as soon as she gets ten feet off the floor she becomes terrified, even though she is on a failsafe safety system and could not possibly fall and hurt herself. But that fear doesn’t seem to translate to canyon exploration. She will climb fearlessly up along canyon walls with long and dangerous falls beneath her with nary a thought for her own safety.

On the way back, of course we had to backtrack along the unpleasant approach hike, but we made a side diversion up to some well-preserved Indian pictographs along the section of canyon wall (these were discovered by Nao the prior year). The girls were actually so tired that they only approached just close enough to see the rock art, but I got a fair bit closer and snapped the following photo:

Anderson Bottom contains a few other gems: some ancient Indian granaries hidden among some cliff walls, an old and active spring (that contains far too much organic matter to make it suitable for drinking), and some old cave-like dwellings that have been used over the years to store port-a-toilets by people cruising the river by powerboat. Since the girls were pretty worn out, though, we saved these explorations for another trip.

When we returned to camp, dusk was soon upon us and we set to making dinner–it would be the last of our refrigerated food cooked over charcoal. The ice, expected to last through this night actually, due to the cold, made it another 24 hours, but this was the last of our chilled food supply. It was veggie dogs for the girls and once again gourmet brats for me. After dinner I cooked a blueberry cake made from Krusteaz blueberry muffin mix over the still-hot coals, and we shared this delicacy liberally coated in the nearly-exhausted supply of squeeze parkay.

Once again I retired to the tent to read and left them to enjoy a wood fire and conversation. Just before heading to bed, I snapped this picture of the gorgeous desert night sky:

And this one of Aliy laughing at the fireside:

That night was exceptionally windy, and I wound up getting up in the middle of the night to ensure that the fire had been properly extinguished and that everything had been properly secured so that nothing could blow away. When I returned from my rounds, I snapped a photo of the girls in their sandy-floored tent–as you can see, their early-trip clean-tent fetish had fallen by the wayside:

The following morning it was still windy and I was a little nervous about the conditions on the river. We had another pancake breakfast and enjoyed a leisurely morning around camp. I was hoping that the winds would abate, but they stayed strong and I soon decided that we’d best go ahead and get on the river and see how the conditions developed. Fortunately, the wind seemed to be localized at Anderson Bottom, for as soon as we rounded a nearby bend in the river all was calm.

That morning was the first genuinely hot day on the river. Up until then, “swimming” from the boats had been limited to the girls occasionally lowering themselves quickly into the water to empty their bladders. But on this morning I decided to shake things up a bit. So in a wide, slow, gentle section of river I stood up unannounced, and leapt from my canoe seat into the chilly river waters. When I resurfaced I could hear the girls screaming and asking whether I’d fallen out of the boat. I assured them that I’d merely wanted to take a quick swim. After I climbed back into the canoe I cajoled them into taking a genuine swim in the river from the boats.

After much negotiation to ensure that they would both enter the water simultaneously and swim one full circuit around the canoe, they eventually lowered themselves, laughing and screaming, fully into the river. The following photo captures a moment from their experience:

After the swim we enjoyed scenic miles of paddling with the famous White Rim becoming visible on the upper canyon walls thousands of feet above us. We rounded (the perhaps not politely-named) Turk’s Head formation, seen below with the girls in the canoe beneath (I’d finally permitted the girls to paddle the canoe alone, leaving them on their own to talk for a few miles at a time–though always within view and only in perfect weather):

After Turk’s Head, we decided to explore an unnamed side canyon. We selected one that I dubbed, informally, Elephant Canyon since it was just above the point where the “Elephant Canyon Formation” makes its first appearance in the main canyon. Hiking a side-canyon is an uncertain proposition–you may get a few hundred feet up the canyon to find it’s blocked by non-navigable falls. But we got lucky and found ourselves exploring a seemingly-endless, narrow (not slot-narrow), twisty, gorgeous canyon that featured a small cave and a few easy falls to climb.

About a half-mile up the canyon it opened up into a large park that afforded views up to the White Rim above. The girls found a fabulous perch on which to rest:

And we all enjoyed the expansive views up toward the distant canyon rim:

I could have hiked on and on, but it was clear that the girls were ready to return to the boats so we made our way back from here. Only a few miles after getting back into the boats, we’d reached our destination for the night–Horse Canyon (notice a pattern? Horseshoe, Horsethief, Horse). Once again we reached camp relatively early in the day and had a gorgeous site all to ourselves. We did a little hiking, played some Frisbee on the wide, flat, sandy wash, and the girls went swimming and took a mud-bath:

After drying a bit, they tried to stand up:

Reading, more Frisbee, a dinner of spaghetti, ricotta, and sauce, and a failed attempt to make a chocolate chip cake without eggs (it was truly inedible) rounded out our evening. The girls had planned on making a wood fire, but they opted to skip this and go to the tent and read and talk. I laid out my bedroll on the soft sand and fell asleep while watching the quarter moon glide silently along the canyon rim.

The next morning, with the orientation of the canyon walls, we didn’t get direct sunlight until quite late and I let the girls sleep until an unprecedented ten o’clock. I’d been up and reading and puttering about for hours when they finally emerged, well-rested, from the tent. The best food was all gone, and it was granola with powdered milk for breakfast. Since neither teen was interested in the powdered milk and only wanted the cereal dry, I made them the last of the hot chocolate and surreptitiously added a bunch of powdered milk into their drinks.

They ate, we packed up, and we were soon on the river for our last full day of paddling. It was another gorgeous, warm (but not too-hot) day, and we had roughly fifteen miles to go, leaving us with five quick miles for the final morning. We enjoyed many breathtaking views of the White Rim on the upper canyon walls, such as the one visible in this photo of the girls in the canoe:

That sixth day, around noon, we reached Jasper Canyon, where I knew there were ruins. I saw that another group had their canoes beached at Jasper Canyon, so our 72 hours of solitude was officially at an end.

We piloted our boats up the backflow into the wash. The other party had beached along the outer canyon, so we essentially caught up to them while still in the boats and joined them at the 200-foot-high falls in the upper canyon. We said our polite hellos (each party disappointed to see the other) and they pointed the girls to a 200-foot droplet shower falling in one corner of the circular falls. Here the girls are enjoying the cold clear droplets:

On the way back down the canyon we stopped at the ruins of an ancient cliff-dwelling:

Another eight miles of beautiful, serene paddling would bring us to our final camping spot of the trip, at Powell Canyon. While the access to the site was steep and rocky, it was actually quite a nice site, with several excellent places for tents and a pleasant riverside lounging area. Unfortunately, though, the orientation of the canyon at that point left us exposed to direct sunlight well into the evening, and the girls had both suffered painful sunburn on their upper thighs. I encouraged them to wet some t-shirts and drape them over their laps. This seemed to afford them some relief. After setting up camp, I opted to go for a swim and the girls felt compelled to snap a photo of my post-swim hair:

Red ants were also a potential problem at this site, but, though there were millions roaming about, they seemed completely disinterested in bothering us loitering humans. Nobody felt much like hiking that evening, so we basically ate our remaining dinner food (spaghetti again–no cheese this time since I’d let the Parmesan get soaked by river water–don’t ask), read, and hung out by the cool riverside. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, the sun passed below the canyon walls and we had some much-coveted shade. Shortly thereafter, we were all asleep.

The final morning we had to get ourselves five miles downriver by 11 am. I told the girls that they could sleep as late as 8:30. Isabelle was up by 7:30, but Aliy used all her alloted time and had to be woken (which, inevitably with her, means for some grumpy-time). As we were breaking camp, Isabelle announced that she had to use the “Growler” one final time (on river trips, this is the official name for the toilet).

As a linguistic aside, it was curious to me how quickly they adopted the unusual term “growler” while they resisted my every concerted effort to get them to properly refer to our daily activity as “paddling” rather than their preferred (and maddeningly wrong) “rowing.”

Anyway, there was no suitably private place for the growler at this particular campsite, and just as she was settling in to her business, the party we’d seen at Jasper Canyon the prior day came paddling around the bend, bringing her nearly into full view. She finished up in world-record time.

Shortly thereafter we were on the river for our final bittersweet five miles of (what’s it called, boys and girls?) paddling. After one quick mile we reached the convergence of the Green with the more voluminous Colorado river. At this point you could see the two rivers, with their different silt compositions, and thus different colors, swirling together, becoming one. Aliy snapped a perfect self-portrait with the canoe in the background just above the convergence:

Below the convergence there is four miles of swift water with a few standing waves down to the takeout at Spanish Bottom. The girls had a blast going through these and Aliy did a great job keeping the kayak upright through these only real rapid-like sections of the trip. Just below one particularly swift section the perfect take-out spot revealed itself to us. I knew I could easily get the canoe into the eddy, but Aliy was a little downstream, and I worried that she might not be able to fight the current into the protected waters of the sandy, beach-like eddy. Isabelle and I were screaming at her to paddle hard into the eddy, and she made it back in like a pro (just barely).

Once ashore, we set to unpacking our gear, cleaning the canoe, and disassembling the kayak in preparation for the jetboat’s expected arrival in one half hour. I was surprised that the other party, whom I knew to be going out on the same jetboat, had not come ashore at this perfect spot. I saw one of their boats at a lousy, awkward takeout on the other side of the river and couldn’t figure out where their other two boats were.

A few moments later, two waterlogged men wandered up-river on the shore and told us that they’d flipped their canoe in the large standing wave, and swam their boat to shore a few hundred yards downriver from our perfect take-out location. In the ensuing confusion, one boat had gone ashore on the other side, and the other was with them. They decided to carry their gear upriver to our beach since it was clearly perfectly suited for a jetboat landing.

Soon enough the jetboat arrived, Driven by the charismatic Darren. After we all got our gear and boats securely stowed on the water taxi, we settled into our seats for the two-hour, fifty-mile ride up the Colorado to Potash boat-ramp near Moab. Here is Isabelle relaxing on the jetboat:

And here are Aliy and I:

Here is a photo of the jetboat being trailered at Potash:

One final photo follows of me on the bus back to Moab from Potash. As we made our way back on the bus, I became increasingly convinced that I knew the guy driving the bus. After about fifteen minutes racking my brain, I homed in on his possible identity–he looked a lot like a guy I’d taken a few philosophy classes with sixteen years ago at the University of Montana. I didn’t know him at all well (and liked him even less), but somehow I pulled the name Andy out of thin air.

When the bus parked I was the last to disembark and I asked him on the way out if his name perchance was Andy. Turned out he was the guy. He clearly had only a fuzzy memory of me, but we knew many of the same people and reminisced about friends and professors for a few minutes.

Perhaps some people might think this an unimpressive life for an intelligent and thoughtful college graduate, but I thought, in all sincerity, “driving a shuttle bus for river trips is about the best possible job for a philosphy graduate–certainly better than being an actuary.” No slight to happy actuaries intended. Anyway, here’s me on the bus:

And, finally, for all those who’ve been wondering “What’s the deal with the subtitle to this post?” This photo should make it crystal clear:

To wrap up, forgive me for making a sweeping and unprovable claim about this trip (anybody who’s read my prior trip reports knows I’m prone to such rhetorical grandiosity), but I hereby assert that nobody has ever taken two pampered, comfort-loving city girls on a more successful week-long wilderness trip of any kind, to any destination, in the history of humankind.