Little Colorado Part 5:
River Camp to Confluence
Waking up Saturday morning we are still unsure
whether or not we are going to camp at the base of Salt Canyon and meet up with
our friends from the hospital or make it a longer day and get to the
confluence. It is a nice mental deviation, just to have a choice, as the
logistics of the past three days had been etched in stone for months. We
pack up our gear, clear the fire out, and take off.
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| Saying good-bye to a wonderful camp |
The trail continues for some time on the left hand
side of the canyon straddling the base of the red cliffs as it winds itself
through the thickets of overgrowth. Eventually it pops out at river’s
edge and I strain my eyes before Jarrod points and exclaims that he can see the
trail continuing on the other side. The character of both canyon and river
in this section (from our camp the night before to what ended up being Salt
Camp) are the most beautiful section of the entire trip in my opinion. It
appears that the river is calmer here but takes on a pool and drop quality, as
its long sections of calm flats begin and end in huge, river wide, travertine
falls. The walls seem redder, the river seems more turquoise in
color, and the whole spectrum of color appears so much more vivid than at any
time previously during the hike. Taken in conjunction with the transformation
from smallish rock stepped waterfalls to the huge travertine pour overs in
front of us, I vow I would hike the same distance just to glimpse this
section. I am sure that was this canyon and its river located somewhere
off the Navajo reservation it would be a must hike destination, bringing the hordes of people associated with places such as Havasu (which this place much
resembles).
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| Canyon downstream from camp, typical of the river-wide travs |
We cross at a particularly wide though shallow
section in the gorge and scramble out of an ankle deep mud pit up onto the
shore on the other side. Locating the trail again we head off downstream
only to get off track, spend 45 minutes boulder hopping before Jarrod makes out
the trail on the other side. For the entirety of the two miles to Salt
Camp the trail seems to stay on one side of the river, then just abruptly end,
signifying a long crossing, repeating this trend multiple times. It
is something to cross in calm shallow turquoise waters mere feet above a
thundering travertine waterfall and I caught myself stopping multiple times,
mid-river, to take in what was in front of me and to look back up canyon to
where we had come from. If I had not known there had been a small but
good trail I would have thought the section behind us was practically impassable.
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| Jarrod enjoying the view |
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Eventually we find a good path that stays on canyon
right for about half of a mile, eventually climbing a steep sandy hill and,
looking down-canyon, can, for the first time, make out Salt Canyon entering the
main gorge on river right. We stop for a second to reflect on what this
means. This small side canyon signifies known territory, and, more
importantly, safety. We are overcome with a prideful giddiness and
realize we have only two landmarks left to tick off on our trip, the Hopi Sipapu
and the confluence itself.
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| Typical crossing for this portion of the hike |
We press on and soon come to the wide mouth of Big
Canyon on river right, just above Salt Canyon. It was here that George
Mancuso and Linda Brehmer were killed by an epic flash flood in 2001. In
fact (in typical desert environment flash flood fashion), though the weather
was clear where they had been hiking, the flood had been so particularly
violent that Mancuso’s body (himself a veteran hiker of Grand Canyon) would be
found all the way downstream (roughly 6 miles) at the confluence. Insignificance
pervades my psyche as I stand at the mouth of this huge canyon. Looking
down its throat I try to imagine just what a flash flood here might look like
while pondering the sheer raw power that this place possesses. I realize
that my ability to simply imagine the scale of such an event (like when reading
the neat placards explaining the geologic evolution of places like Grand Canyon
or Yosemite) is murky at best and all I can muster is a fuzzy concept. I
cannot compare it to something I have already seen or experienced because I
have never seen or experienced anything close to it. There is no mental
scale that I possess to even begin to associate with such an event. I reflect for a moment longer and we
take off.
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| Taking another break to admire the beauty of this section |
Rounding a gentle left hand bend in the canyon we
plod a muddy trail and at once a familiarity invades our senses. We are
at Salt Camp. I hear voices as I walk the small narrow trail up the flat
sandy bench shaded by a large tree. As I come into camp I am met with the
curious gaze of several people. No one speaks; they just seem to stare,
wondering whom we are and where we are coming from. I try to be friendly
and explain that we have come down from Cameron and we have friends coming down
the Salt Trail that we will be meeting with. More silence. I think
one of the guys gave a little nod and mumbled an unconcerned “huh.” Eventually
the individual sitting in the middle of the group looking rather pissed that we
are invading his meditative experience (whom we come to nickname “beardface” or
“the beard”) explains that they are with fish and wildlife and because of the
prevailing winds their helicopter transport was unable to land and they are
stranded for another day (what a tragedy). Salt camp is rather small and
this group is not particularly inviting, it took Jarrod and I all of ten
seconds to look at each other and decide to head to the confluence.
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| At the mouth of Big Canyon looking at Salt Canyon coming in on the right |
Downing
some peanuts on a small beach below the camp we remorse about not seeing our
friends tonight as we had imagined a triumphant meet-up, however, after the
solitude of our previous days we don’t feel like sharing camp with a huge (and
unfriendly) group.
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| Travs right above Salt Camp |
Pushing on, we snake our way through the trail that
parts the eight-foot tall reeds swaying in the wind. Eventually we emerge at the river but decide to take a small
side trail to the right. Following this for a while, the trail soon
begins to peter out and we are ducking under bushes and climbing over large
boulders. Across the river we see a figure emerge on the bank and stare
at us. We claw our way back down to the river for a calm waist deep
crossing. As we emerge on the other bank the young man asks, “hey, do you
guys want some water?” Surprised, we take him up on his offer as he leads
us back to a Fish and Wildlife camp set deep beneath an alcove high up off the
river. In camp, the four youngish people ask us about our journey. We explain where we came from and at this time an older, leathery
looking gray haired man walks into camp. We instantly pick up on the fact
that he is the boss, or the “beard face,” of this lower camp. Looking
around we realize this is the camp where we had found potable water last year
on our way back from the Sipapu and it is interesting to see if fully staffed.
We are again told the story of how the group is “stuck” for another day due to
high winds canceling their heli-vac. I glance over at one of the two
tables set up in the shade beneath the overhang and see fresh pink fish on a
plate by a knife. About the time that I spy this treat, one of the
volunteers, sensing my lust for real food sees this and shuffles it away.
The group is generally friendly, though the old man, now titled “Old timer” to
Jarrod and I, seems hesitant to chat. We take them up on their offer,
refill our waters, and head out.
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| The view back up-canyon |
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The trail heading towards the confluence only gets
bigger and more “trail-like” as we make our way downstream. We figure it
must be because many of the rafters stopping at the confluence, a popular spot
for commercial rafting trips, come up this far into the canyon to see the Hopi
Sipapu.
About forty-five minutes after leaving the Fish and
Wildlife camp we come to the Sipapu. It is a particularly special moment
for me as I missed out on making it down to this point the previous year.
Jarrod has already seen it and scouts the bank for salt deposit, even tasting a
bit. Though I am burning to get to the confluence, I realize how special
it is to be at this place and decide to take the time, ford the river,
and get a closer look. From a distance, and if one did not know better,
the Sipapu appears to be a strange apparition, nothing more than a rounded pile
of red dirt sitting at the base of a large canyon wall. In reality, this
is a place of great spiritual significance for the Hopi people. It
represents their birthplace; the small recessed bubbling hole overlooking the
turquoise waters at the foot of this deep red rocked canyon symbolizes the
portal through which their ancient ancestors first emerged to enter the present
world. It is a powerful moment to stand near it and reflect on its
importance.
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| The crossing to the Sipapu |
I cross back over the river to find Jarrod sitting
under a nicely shaded spot with pack off. We are aware that if we get too
comfortable now the day will slip away and so decide to take off. For the
next four miles the trail goes away from and stays up off the river. It
is not particularly pretty and the afternoon heat is sweltering as it is
reflected off the loose white sand at our feet. The hiking becomes monotonous
again as we miss the cool aesthetic comfort hiking near the river brings
us. We find a deeply shaded space where the trail finally rejoins the
path of the river and take our packs off. We are both sweating profusely
and the time spent mindlessly walking with little inspiration has left us
drained. I check the topos and see that around the huge left hand bend in
front of us is the confluence. We chug out water and head out for the
final push.
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| The Sipapu looking downstream |
As the canyon begins to curve we see large collections
of camping gear arranged into nice neat piles. We looked around for the
occupants of what had to be the fourth and final Fish and Wildlife camp but
they were nowhere to be seen. We would learn later that we were supposed
to cross the river (from left bank to right bank) here, but the trail was still
strong so we continued on.
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| Fish and Wildlife gear |
Eventually we start to climb up above the river
skirting a fluted rock shelf as we looked down to see hordes of rafters
enjoying the warm waters of the Little Colorado. It is a bit of a shock
to the system to see so many people gathered in one area, but the realization
that we are near the confluence quells any negative feelings we have. We continue to
climb and eventually find a good trail leading back down to the river. We
walk a little further and the trail disappears completely into a patch of tall
reeds. We are ravenous to get to the confluence and hack our way through
them, coming out onto a rocky ledge on the downstream side of the
confluence. We follow the ledge for a bit before we realize it is not the
right way and that we need to be on the upstream side on the confluence to
access good cold water from the Colorado.
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| View up-canyon from the rising trail |
We scramble back down to the island and look for a
place to cross. Hiking across the gravelly patch separating the upstream
side of the confluence from the downstream side we come out to a spot
overlooking a smooth, fast, very deep turquoise tongue roughly fifty feet wide
separating us from the most upstream bank. I am fed up at this point with
our difficulties reaching the other shore, but Jarrod is calm and collected and
as a group we decide we need to cross here. We are slightly worried about
swimming this section; with its strong current it brings the small possibility
of us being swept out to the main body of the Colorado. As a result, we
decide, through much consternation, to take the time and blow up the green pool
floats for one last hurrah. It seems silly to me that we spend what
seemed like forever blowing up the tubes to cross such a small section, but
they seem to reassure us, making our decision more formal I get mine blown up
and walk to the drop off (waist deep) at the edge of the current, as Jarrod,
who has already crossed, looks on. I kick off and with a couple slaps of
my legs come up on the other side.
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| Jarrod pondering the finer points of what would be our last inner-tube assisted crossing |
We
climb up on to the shore and dropping our packs under some shade survey our
surroundings. From where we are
standing we have a great view of the confluence; the LCR and its warm turquoise
waters flowing gently into the cool, dark green swift currents of the
Colorado. We are here. The convergence of water in front of
us, housed by Grand Canyon National Park proper, represents our destination, our
turn around point, and we take a second to let it sink in.
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| The confluence!! |
Since
the beginning of the trip, even in the initial planning phases, Jarrod and I
harbored a secret desire to score some cold beer from a rafting group at the
confluence. Standing on the shore
drying off we look back up canyon and see the commercial rafting trip
clientele heading back toward their large pontoon boats. They ask us about our trip, want to
know what we are doing out here and how we are going to get back. We talk for a bit and then two of the
women we are in conversation ask us to turn around and begin peeing in the river
we are to filter our water out of.
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| The awesome commercial group |
Turning
our backs we see three individuals heading towards the boats; two very fit
women and one fit tanned bearded man.
We know instantly that these are the river guides, and, more importantly, the possessors of cold beer. Being a whitewater boater myself, I am unsure of the
kosher rules when it comes to commercial groups and alcohol supply. Once we enter into conversation though
the guides are enthusiastic to hear about our trip and are super friendly; one
of them, after talking to her, actually turns out to be Navajo and from Fort
Defiance, the small reservation town where Jarrod and I work. What are the chances? We hit it off and they take us back to
the boats where they refill our waters (now empty) and provide us with 4
ice-cold PBR’s, 2 cokes, and fresh fruit right out of the cooler. We thank them immensely and scramble up
onto a rock ledge to watch them head out.
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| The view of the Grand Canyon from our cheers spot |
They
float by as the sun is getting low in the sky and we cheers them from a
distance. The ice cold beer tastes
more amazing than we ever could have imagined and we both get a slight giggly
buzz (2 PBR’s, really?) and reminisce about what it took to get here. It is an absolutely joyous afternoon,
sitting on a ledge above the Colorado River, at the confluence, watching the
sun go down while drinking cold beer.
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| Cheers! |
We
make camp and make a small fire a short distance up-canyon from the Confluence
in moderate proximity of two small backpacking groups who came down the Beamer
Trail and whom will head back out the Tanner Trail. We stay up late, watching the stars come alive over the open
flame of our fire and take comfort in the fact that we only have six miles to
hike tomorrow and that we will be meeting up with our friends. For the second night in a row, sleep
comes fast and effortlessly and is incredibly peaceful in nature.
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| Late light in the canyon from camp |
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| Jarrod getting nice and comfy |
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