The Colorado River: Day 2
When we left Jerry Craven and myself, the two of us were camped on an island in the Colorado River. We were sitting around the campfire telling stories, sipping intoxicants, and looking at the stars. Not a bad way to spend a Tuesday evening. We’ll continue the trip the next morning, just about dawn . . .
Day Two: Wednesday, May 16th
We woke up early, but took our sweet time getting back on the river—which proved to be a mistake. The early morning was incredibly lovely from our campsite, the cliff casting deep shadows onto the river and the whole world alive with birdsong. What had been an island when we finally turned in was now a peninsula firmly attached to the bank. The river had fallen at least a foot overnight. I made coffee and some toast, and then while Jerry tried to catch some fish, I broke camp. After some minor repairs to the canoe, we loaded up our gear and headed downriver.
The river widened as we went, expanding noticeably after the San Saba River flowed into the Colorado, spawning a series of fun Class Two rapids. We stopped for lunch at a beautiful bend in the river not far past the confluence with the San Saba. We pulled the canoe up onto a shoal just across from a giant boulder and ate sandwiches and fished. There was much flint and shale in the rockfield beside the river, and Jerry found two perfectly-worked scrapers, remains from the time when Comanches roamed this rockfield and hunted and fished where Jerry and I were standing now. While we were fishing, we saw a little pack of feral hogs start toward us out of the treeline. I had just pulled a baby gar from a little pool left over from the river receding and was going to try and use it as bait for catfish—the only fish that we figured might be biting in the muddy water—but seeing that the pack of hogs headed our way included a sow and young piglets, we decided to wind up the fishing and get downriver.
There were more cottonwood trees today than yesterday, and we started to see great blue herons, including several nesting colonies. The nests were made of sticks woven into the tops of giant cottonwoods. The top branches of the trees had been stripped of leaves so that the nests—a couple of which contained chicks—were plainly visible from the river. The croaking coughs of the big birds let us know that they were none too happy about our presence in the neighborhood of their nurseries. We also saw cardinals, snowy egrets, red-tailed hawks, and the ever-present buzzards. Rapids were mostly Class One and Class Two. But on a small Class Three about two hours downriver from our lunch site, the strong current shoved the canoe into a dying oak tree that had fallen into the river and partially blocked the channel we’d chosen, and I took a long bloody-bruised scrape up my right leg as the river pushed us into the limbs of the fallen tree and almost flipped us. If not for Jerry’s quick thinking, fending the boat off the branches while I struggled with the limb that was tangled in my shorts, we would’ve spilled for sure. Instead, thanks to Jerry, we scooted past the rough spot. Not long after I’d finished disinfecting the wound with alcohol that Jerry had brought along, we saw a feral hog swimming the river ahead of us, and Jerry got a great picture.
As we floated and paddled through this lonely stretch of river, we got into the limestone cliff country. Cliffs of more than a hundred feet towered above the river, topped with juniper and Spanish dagger and prickly pear. These tough plants grew down the cliff faces as well, past mud swallow colonies in the lees of overhanging crags where they were protected from the rain. Wildflowers were particularly abundant here, with incredible stretches of Indian blankets, two varieties of Mexican hats, white and purple thistles, yellowtops, bee balm, delicate white Spanish dagger blooms, and both yellow and orange prickly pear blossoms. The best section of river for the limestone cliffs starts just above Highway 190 and stretches all the way to Lake Buchanan. Just before the 190 bridge, we passed beneath a big metal railroad bridge and saw a truck outfitted with railroad wheels parked above us. The man in the truck called down to us and asked if we were catching anything—to which we reluctantly replied, “No.” At the 190 bridge, we saw a set of metal steps leading down to a put-in place for canoes and johnboats. It looked less tricky than our put-in up at Highway 16, but still no picnic.
We passed underneath Highway 190 at 1:30 p.m. and started thinking about positioning ourselves for day three. We had been informed by our research that two rough rapid patches lay ahead—at Barefoot Falls and below Gorman Falls, respectively. We hoped to get far enough downriver to take those two hazardous spots in the late morning, giving us plenty of time to scout if necessary. But as we paddled along, ogling the breathtaking cliffs and the amazing abundance of wildlife, we saw no promising campsites. The bank beneath the cliffs was steep and rocky; on the side opposite the cliffs, the bank was steep and muddy. We kept moving long past the point where either of us was comfortable on the river. Finally, at 8:30, just as the light was beginning to fade and we were worrying about finding a place to set up camp at all, we came across a big island in the middle of the river. The island was mostly rocks, with some sand mixed in, sloping up to a high point about four feet above the water level. Fish were feeding all around the island. We pulled out, and I hurriedly started to set up camp while Jerry tried to take advantage of the perfect fishing situation. The evening-sky-reflecting water was puckering with bass strikes. It was too late to cook for tonight, but we were both thinking about fresh fish for breakfast—sick of sandwiches and not wanting to mess with the breakfast taco makings I’d brought along, in addition to supplies for cooking fresh fish. But again, the bass refused to bite anything but live bugs in the murky water. And Jerry and I resolved to bring catfish gear next time we ran the Colorado.
There was no time to gather firewood, so we had a fireless camp. But the country around our campsite was lovely in the gathering twilight. We sat and drank beer and listened to a hoot owl serenade the stars as they faded in above the cliffs. There was no sound of human habitation, and the early 21st century could easily have been the early 19th, when the only two-legged inhabitants of this area were Comanches. It was easy to imagine, in that most magical of places, that time had indeed turned back a page in its picture book and that Jerry and I were surrounded by a scene from days gone by.
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Sounds like a fun trip.
Notice the photo of my brother, who, like all our family, is extremely good looking.