San Rafael

A whitewater adventure with Mike Giddings, Tom O'Keefe, Paul 'Spike' Staskowski, Tom St. Germaine.

I drove along highway 70 late into the evening.  Just after Green River, Utah I passed a sign that informed me there would be no gas or services for the next hundred miles.  I drove on, a lone car in a parade of trucks crossing the desert at night.  At exit 139 I left the highway for the north out into the black cold desert.  A swirling rooster tail of dust formed behind me as I barreled along the unpaved road.  Occasional potholes grabbed at my wheels and free-ranging cattle leered at me--their eyes glowing in the car headlamps.

The ride along the unpaved road lasted nearly an hour.  I saw nothing but the stars above us and the shadows of mountains that rose up from the desert floor.  Was I actually on the right road?  Every few miles a side road would branch off and I had only a Utah highway map and the moon in the west as my compass.  After about an hour of driving I came to a bridge that crossed the San Rafael and found the rest of the group at the nearby campground.  The campground itself was nearly empty.  It was nothing more than a few tent sites cleared out in the middle of the desert.  We had rather elegant pit toilets, one of them home to an impressive black widow, but no water.  A fence protected us from wandering cattle.  I found dinner for myself, but after a quick meal and the ceremonial burning of a tumbleweed we all went to bed.

The searing desert sun did not appear the next morning as it had every other morning on the trip.  Anywhere else in the world and I would say that rain clouds were coming in.  But not here.  The rain barely reaches the earth in this dry climate.  A few drops hit the tent, but the nylon was instantly dry.  I went for an early morning bike ride along some nearby dirt bike trails.  Grand walls of solid rock stood above the campground with only the wind and the quiet flow of the San Rafael to interrupt the calm.  I knew highway 70 was off to the south, miles in the distance, but no trace of it was evident from where I stood.  We were really in the desert with only a couple gallons of water among us--the quart I had purchased at the last gas stop seemed all the more precious.  The muddy waters of the San Rafael flowed past the campsite, and although it would do in a pinch we all agreed it would be wise to conserve water.

The San Rafael itself is not much of a river at first glance.  You could probably wade across to the other bank if you were careful of your footing in the swift current.  The San Rafael is fueled by snowmelt for at most a few weeks in May and June.  Once the snowmelt is over the river begins to dry up, coming to life in its most savage form only for an occasional flash flood.  I stood on the bridge and stared down the river.  We had carefully considered our trip on this river.  This was sort of a pilgrimage for Mike.  His father Cal Giddings, now battling cancer, had made the first descent of this and many other nearby rivers in the early 1970's.  He and his companions had made the journey in fiberglass and aluminum kayaks.  We knew this was a river that few people boated--Mike guessed maybe a 100 people might have explored it by kayak.  Gary Nichols’s guide to Utah Rivers rated this as “one of the most difficult and dangerous sections of river in Utah”, but gave few details.  All we learned was that at some point a crack would swallow the entire river creating a must portage situation and at some point a waterfall existed.  We also knew that once inside the box canyon called the Black Box there would be few ways to get out.  As I looked into the muddy water it was hard to imagine this creek roaring to life in the canyon somewhere approximately 10 miles downstream.

Back at camp, the Coleman stove sputtered and finally hissed to life.  Spike and Jill prepared a breakfast of biscuits and gravy.  We all packed the van which we planned to leave at the takeout, then Mike and I ran the shuttle.  The road to the takeout was in worse shape than the road to the campground.  I followed Mike's van in our car to the takeout point, a distance of 14 miles that took us over 45 minutes to cover.  Finally we reached the end of the road or at least the point where a gate was erected which could not be passed on either side.  A few additional cars were parked in this isolated place--mountaineers, someone at the campground had told us.  Mike and I ran to the edge of the canyon.  Standing on a high ledge we could see the San Rafael flowing through a thin crack in the earth hundreds of feet below us.  It was truly an incredible site, but if you were not on the ledge staring down below you wouldn't even know it was there.  Looking to the south over a mile downriver it was apparent that the canyon opened up and it would be possible to leave the river and carry one's boat back to the van.  It would be a very long walk with an awkward 50 pounds of kayak and gear back up to the point where the van was parked.  It was also difficult to tell how long it would take to reach that point.  We had no real way of telling how many twists and turns we would incur in our journey down the river and time to reach our goal would depend a lot on the day's flow rate and how many portages we would have to make.  I decided to check out a side canyon that entered the river near where the van would be parked for the day.  I hiked about halfway down thinking that if we could spot this side canyon we could take out and carry the boats straight up to the van, thus avoiding the long hike across the desert.  I was deep within the side canyon, but turned back before reaching the river as it was clear that we were losing valuable daylight.  I turned around and headed back to the van without finishing my scouting trip--it was a decision I would later regret.

We had been gone for over two hours by the time we got back to camp and it was already creeping up on noon.  We all slid into wet suits and quickly packed our boats.  We all knew that it would be wise to at least prepare for a night out in the desert.  We carried our boats to the river that flowed within 50 meters of where our tents were pitched.  Rie, Takeshi, Elise, and Jill gave us a ceremonious wave--they would spend the day mountain biking.  Mike, Spike, Tom, and I were safely tucked into our boats and on our way.  The first few miles were a placid float trip.  We floated through Class I riffles and then the sun came out.  It came time to peel off a few layers of the warm gear we had on.

As the noon hour passed the pace of the river slowly increased.  The canyon walls seemed to grow in height and squeeze us in ever so slightly.  The current was swift, but not pushy and it was relatively easy to maneuver around boulder fields that we found along our route.  Soon it became evident that we were entering the Black Box.  Once inside it would be difficult to find a way out before the end.  A lunch stop was in order so we pulled our boats up on a sandbar and peeled off another layer of gear.  High overhead the sun blazed down a straight shot into our little canyon.  As Tom continued the chore of seemingly endless packing and unpacking of his boat--how many ziplocks does that guy have in his boat anyway?--I hopped into the river and found a little play spot.  The current had some power to it and although it was a little shallow for any serious acrobatics I took a couple of good little rides and got flipped a time or two.  In an inverted position the river was dark.  Eyes opened or closed the view was the same. I rolled up to daylight once again.  Soon everyone was in their boats again ready to begin the push down the river.  Lunch was not hurried but there was a sense of urgency among all of us and the knowledge that unknown obstacles stood before us.

Through the afternoon the pace of the river picked up.  Moves had to be made precisely and quickly.  Class III rapids came in quick succession and the river was a maze of huge boulders.  We continued downstream, usually with Mike in the lead, and eddy hopped through the canyon.  We all knew that at some point the river would be swallowed into a narrow crack, a certain strainer that would pass water but not us.  As the difficulty of the river increased to IV- it became necessary to scout more often.  Then began the arduous task of portaging.  We heard the river at the “crack” long before we came up on it--the entire river swallowed beneath a massive rock slide only to emerge several yards below us.  At the rivers we knew from back home in the upper midwest many portage routes have clearly marked and well worn paths through a forest, but not here in the desert.  A small streak of blue plastic on the rock was the only sign that others had passed before us.  We had nothing but huge boulders, the size of buses, some perhaps the size of a small house to cross over.  The portage at the “crack” was by no means our last.  We encountered more.  Even with all of us working as a precision team passing the boats over the rocks it was taking half an hour or more for each portage.  The sun had long passed over the rim of the canyon and we all wondered how far it was to the take out.

Some of the portages presented unique challenges.  At one we had to lower our boats to the water’s surface ten feet below using a line attached to the stern, but could only climb down to within about two feet of the boat.  From there it was a short leap into the kayak, which was not exactly sitting stable in the froth of a rapid just upstream.  As I was wondering what exactly we were going to do Mike jumped onto the stern of his boat and slid into the seat with  such a quick motion that the kayak never had time to flip over.  I followed and thanks to Mike’s steady hand narrowly averted a turn over.  Spike followed with relative ease, but Tom’s move into his boat was not quick.  He stepped on the stern, paused, and was in the water.  It was no easy task to get back into the boat and the next obstacle was but a few feet away--a large rock obstructed the river below us with a boulder-choked passage on river right and a narrow open passage barely wide enough for a boat on river left.  I held my breath as Mike took the lead and made it through the slot with inches to spare.  Tom made the decision to swim his boat through.  It seemed the best course, because an uncontrolled ride through the slot, as might result if Tom were unsuccessful in getting back into his boat in time, would lead to a certain disastrous side pin.

Having all made it through we breathed a sigh of relief, but a look at the ever receding sun told us that we had little opportunity to waste any more time and we started to pick up the pace a little.

We had a feeling that the end was near as we caught a glimpse of Mexican Mountain which Mike and I knew was near the take out.  The question was how many twists and turns would there be before we finally reached the end of the Black Box.  Mike tossed out the idea of trying to climb out of the canyon.  I looked at the sheer rock walls rising up above us and thought what a stupid suggestion that was.  We passed a couple side canyons and Mike floated the idea again, but it was hard to tell if you could really get out once you made it up the first pitch.  I was determined to boat to the end of the box.  Tom was noticeably worried that we wouldn’t make it before darkness would make our run down right dangerous.  The thought of having to spend the night on a river with no real place to stop haunted all of us.  It was obvious that comfortable places to set up camp simply did not exist.  Facing the dilemma of what to do we came upon another must-portage situation.  A huge boulder field blocked the river before us and it was clear that it would take us more than a few minutes to get or boats across the obstacle.  We all looked up to an apparent side canyon.  Could this be the one that I had attempted to hike down earlier in the day, only to turn back before reaching the river?  It was impossible to tell.  The canyon looked like every other side canyon and none of them looked like they would provide an easy way out.  We decided it was worth checking out given the hour so I made the move to climb up.  The climb was not tough, but it was extremely nerve racking given our lack of safety gear for climbing and my own limited knowledge of what I was doing.  My fingers carefully tested each hold as I made my way up the first pitch of no more than twenty feet or so.  I then reached a field of loose gravel and rocks.  I could hear Mike shout encouragement from below as he videotaped the adventure.  Suddenly my heart stopped as I realized that I had just dislodged a rock about the size of a bowling ball.  It bounced randomly down the cliff, each bounce changing its trajectory in an unpredictable manner.  Spike ducked out of the way in time, but it was a wake up call for all of us to take this seriously and be a bit more careful.  Mike, Tom, and Spike took cover and I was more careful of my footing.

I scampered up the loose gravel slope and made it to the rim of the canyon which was a few hundred feet above the river below.  Desert surrounded me and three things were evident: the van was nowhere in site, few landmarks existed, and the sun was setting.  I made my way back down to the top of the first cliff about 20' above the others.  It was difficult to yell over the sound of the river as it churned through the pile of rubble where we had landed.

'What did you find,' Mike yelled.

'Nothing,' I answered.

'Should we take out here?'

'I don't know'

'Well do you have any idea where we are,' Mike yelled, noticeably a bit frustrated with my responses.

'I have no idea where we are, but we must be close to the van.  Maybe we should take out here.  I think we can get our boats up to the canyon rim,' I finally replied.

Tom climbed up the short cliff and joined me to set about the task of hauling the boats up.  Even with our throw bags totaling about 180' of line we would not be able to get the boats all the way up to the top.  Tom and I had to set up in a position only about 1/3 of the way up the slope.  Below, Spike and Mike tied in the first boat and we began the backbreaking ordeal of raising our gear from the canyon floor.  Probably an hour later we had our four boats partway up the slope precariously wedged in little crevices that were few and far between.  My only fear was that one of the boats would dislodge and go crashing back to the canyon floor below.  Spike and Mike climbed up to join us and we set up our lines to raise the boats another 1/3 of the way up.

We took a moment to rest and called a short meeting.  Mike, Spike, and Tom would continue the task of hauling the boats up to the canyon rim.  I would go find the van while it was still daylight and then drive it to a spot on the road as close as possible to the place where we had taken out.  I grabbed my water bottle, flashlight, and compass and began my hike across the desert.  After only about 10 minutes the absurdity of the situation struck me.  Here I was in a wetsuit and neoprene booties hiking across the desert with no clue of where I was going or how I would ever find our takeout site again.  It was almost dark, the van was nowhere in site, and aside from Mexican Mountain, there wasn't a landmark that I recognized.  I hiked back to find the others while there was still some light.

I walked back to the canyon rim and to my surprise two boats had already completed their journey and were resting on the canyon rim.  I looked over the edge to see Mike about 30' below trying to haul up his boat while he held Tom's wedged in a little crevice.  Suddenly, as I was climbing down to help, Tom's boat slipped from Mike's grasp.  It started slowly but quickly picked up speed bouncing off rocks and back into the canyon far below.  Tom was standing about 100' below us and quickly took cover behind a rock.  I held my breath hoping that Tom could see the boat coming and take cover.   He would later tell us that the thought of reaching out to stop his boat crossed his mind, but tumbling down at break-neck speed such a move would have been more than a disaster.  With a final crash, the sound of the boat plunging into the water below echoed up the canyon walls.  Mike and I sat there partly in shock.  Tom called back, 'was that my boat?'  At least we knew he was OK.

We didn't quite know what to do next.  We had three of our boats up on the canyon rim.  Tom's was now back where we had started and it was dark within the canyon walls.  Tom had clearly had enough of hauling boats and he climbed up out of the canyon, noticeably bummed out, but not in the mood to deal with his boat anymore.  The thought of retrieving Tom's boat was not appealing, but Mike began the difficult climb back down into the canyon.  I urged him not to go--I figured we would be spending the night in the desert anyway so we might as well deal with it in the morning.  However, Mike was determined and although it was not a pleasant task, we soon had Tom's boat up on the canyon rim with the others.

Now it really was dark, but at least we were safely out of the canyon.  Few words were said about the climb out of the canyon.  We all knew that we had taken unnecessary risks, which could have been avoided, had we started earlier or run the shuttle the night before.

I changed out of my wetsuit and put on some dry clothes I had stored away in my kayak.  We all took a few minutes to rest, eat, and arrange our kayaks for the march across the desert.  Mike and I had a pretty good idea of where the road was, but it was so dark that you wouldn't recognize it until you crossed it.  We reached the top of a small ridge and stopped to rest.  Tom left his boat and went ahead to scout out the best route.  We watched the beam of his headlamp as he marched far below us in a complete circle around our position.  We had no clue what he was doing until he came back to report that we seemed to be on an island.  Deep canyons surrounded us on all sides.  This seemed impossible but just the thought of it was extremely depressing.  I wondered for a moment if our only way out would be to lower our boats back down to the river in the morning and continue on downstream.  It was a depressing thought given the amount of energy we had expended climbing out.  Mike, clearly puzzled by Tom's suggestion that we were on an island, went off on an excursion of his own.  Sometime later he came back to report a narrow isthmus that Tom had overlooked and which appeared to go on for a long way.  We shouldered our boats and began the arduous task of carrying our boats across the uneven terrain and rubble of sharp unweathered rocks.

We did not keep track of time, but after what seemed like a couple hours I was completely exhausted.  Carrying the awkward kayak had taken its toll on me and my legs had all but given out as they wobbled with each step.  The others were far ahead of me, but Tom came back to help me carry my kayak.  I was ready to call it a night.  We stopped together for a long rest and reevaluation of our situation.  Above us was another ridge and I agreed to go ahead and scout it out.  I climbed up, now without my kayak, and found the first flat expanse of desert since we had launched earlier in the morning.  At least it would be much easier to make significant progress.  I returned to the others and we agreed to continue for a little longer before calling it a night.  It was well past midnight already.

Then Mike found a road.  This was great, but was it our road?  Mike shined his light down to the east and it reflected off the lights of a vehicle--our van.  I collapsed on the desert floor with relief that our adventure was finally over.