Features

[Outdoor Issue 2015]

A dance with the Colorado River—four kayakers, one current

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Kayaking on the Colorado River on March 20, 2015.
Photo: Mikayla Whitmore

Kayaking on the Colorado River on March 20, 2015.

Red Cobra careens her kayak into the bow of my boat with no warning. A missile gone rogue with its last breath, moving independently in the midday sun.

She’d been zigzagging the Colorado like this for most of the journey, blaming it on her rudderless vessel. But then, we all found our excuses for whatever hindered our novice paddling.

I squint into the distance, hoping to spot Stretch, but she’s long gone, leaving the three of us to pick up the pace. Any slower and the search party will come. We have until 4 p.m., they said. But it’d taken us the day to kayak two miles up-river, so dawdling of any sort is out of the question, as is Hoover Dam. Access is restricted now, and any fantasy of nearing it was doused when one of our crew considered abandoning ship before we’d even left the Willow Beach harbor. Her technique, much like Red Cobra’s, proved interesting, both of them errantly ramming into the docks at launch (and one, who shall remain nameless, later wedged in a shrub). Unable to paddle free, they stuck like insects on flypaper. It was Keystone Cops in slow-mo.

Kayaking on the Colorado River on March 20, 2015.

Tomorrow would be the first day of spring, and we were its eager welcoming committee. No destination other than “up-river.”

Boulders towered on either side in hues of brown, a statuesque desert passage as pronounced and dreamy as any brochure could promise. Volcanoes created this canyon, and 15 million years later the four of us paddle through with beer and candy at $45 per rented kayak. Some of us barreling against the current. Others debating whether they’re actually moving. Ducky says she’s self-identifying as a weakling.

Kayaking on the Colorado River on March 20, 2015.

There are many ways to get up and down this stretch of the river, but navigating solo in a kayak creates an intense and complicated love affair, with a current that seems merciless at moments but promises to return you to your destination should your arms give out. We understand its demands. It has California to nourish, and we’ve already taken plenty. It makes national headlines for this reason, yet here it is close up, clear, seemingly pristine, bountiful and forgiving, oblivious to the political controversy taking place in boardrooms across the country.

Kayaking on the Colorado River on March 20, 2015.

At the shore beneath the historic river gauger’s house site, we come across others, explorers on a guided tour with fancier kayaks and a sense of ease in their eyes. They’re cordial and informative, having just hiked up to the historic site. “Harry’s House,” they call it. And what a view he had. We find remnants of a former home—steps, hardware, broken window glass, rusty nails and a concrete foundation. We examine the glass shards melted by the summer heat and read the provided text. Daily he would measure the water’s volume, rate of flow and silt content in the 1920s and ’30s. The Dam does that now.

Journeying on, the cliffs and desert brush signal our speed. Beaches provide respite. The Emerald Cave is indeed emerald.​​ We paddle out of it and back down the river with a grace we didn’t have going up. Red Cobra zigzags, and the sky seems eternal.

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