Thursday, May 21st

Got up early and made coffee.  But it was much warmer this morning than it had been the other mornings on the river, so a fire wasn’t necessary.  We had been toying with the idea of spending another day on the river, and doing the entire seventy-six miles or so of the Wateree River, if we made good enough time.  But since we hadn’t yet hit the 76/378 Bridge—which is the fifty-mile mark—we decided that today would be our last day.  This meant that we could take our sweet time this morning, and enjoy the excellent campsite we’d found.

Fully recovered and raring to fish, Jerry had a fine morning with his fishing.  He caught several nice bass, two of which were definitely keepers—a striper and a largemouth.  Also, Jerry spotted the snaking trail of a freshwater clam in the sand.  We dug him up, and I shucked him, for my trouble getting a handful of firm white meat.  We also found the tracks of a mother turtle that had crawled up out of the river and laid a clutch of eggs in the sandy bank near our camp.  We debated as to whether we’d like to have turtle eggs for breakfast, but decided against it.

We packed up camp, loaded the canoe, and got onto the river a little before 11 a.m.  We paddled through more swamp and past more towering trees and saw not a single campsite below the sandbank we’d been lucky enough to find before dark.  We finally hit the 76/378 Bridge around 1 p.m.  We tied up at the excellent boat dock just above the boat ramp, on the right bank between the two bridges.  I called my lovely wife, Emily, to come and pick us up.  And then we unloaded some of our gear and settled in to feast and drink beer until she arrived.  I took the fish fillets and the clam, sautéed them in olive oil with sausage and tomatoes and garlic and onion and green bell pepper that I’d brought along, then added it to a potful of boiled diced potatoes.  The resulting no-rue gumbo was tasty indeed.  Jerry and I ate our fill, and washed it down with ice-cold beer.  Not a bad way to finish off the trip.

Emily found us just fine, and she took me to get the Xterra back up at the Lake Wateree Dam.  I found Jerry fishing off the dock upon my return, and we unloaded the rest of our gear, took the canoe out of the water, then loaded up and said goodbye to the Wateree River.  It was an excellent river excursion, and I look forward to another next May.

Wednesday, May 20th

Got up early and made a fire and a pot of coffee.  Jerry was able to drink coffee this morning, and even eat a light breakfast.  Afterward, he tried his luck with the fish while I took my time packing up the camp.  Fishing turned out to be a no-go, so we loaded up and got onto the river a little after 10 a.m.

We paddled all day.  I figured that we would reach the Highway 76/378 Bridge by 6 p.m., but it didn’t happen.  The river had receded a great deal since the high water mark on the first night of our trip, and the current was much reduced.  But despite all the paddling, we had a really nice day.  We saw bald eagles and great blue herons and a plethora of bird species.  We saw deer and turkeys.  We saw turtles and even a couple of alligators.  One of the gators was at least twelve feet long.  He scrambled into the water as we approached, and it was a little disconcerting sharing the river with him.  But he left us alone—and we were happy to reciprocate.

We stopped for lunch on a nice sandbank where I took a much-needed bath in the river while Jerry fished.  The bath felt fantastic.  The river ran clear and strong and cool around the bend that held the sandbank, and I swam for a while and had fun fighting the strong current after I was done getting clean.  I dove deep near the middle, and the water was cold and clear-green all the way to the bottom.

We spent the afternoon paddling and drinking beer.  There are not many places to camp along this stretch of the river.  The banks are steep and wooded, and very muddy.  The occasional low, sloping bank is silty black mud.  But finally, around 8 p.m., we came across a perfect sandbank.  We immediately took out and set up camp.  And even though we were tired, we made a fire and spent some time taking in the quiet, lovely evening beside the river.  Then we hit the sleeping bags, and slept the sleep of the truly exhausted.

Tuesday, May 19th

We emerged from the tent into the roar of fast-moving traffic on the freeway overhead.  It was surprisingly chilly for mid-May.  So I gathered more wood, lit a fire, and made a pot of coffee.  Much of our stuff had gotten wet in yesterday’s fracas at the rapids.  So as I drank coffee, I unpacked the wet clothes and camping gear and spread it dry.  As the sun rose, it combined with the morning breeze to dry the riverwater out of our clothes.  As I alternated between coffee-drinking and breaking down camp, Jerry picked up his fishing gear and tried his luck.  I could hear him whooping over the sounds of the traffic, so I figured he was having a run of luck.  But I had no idea just how big a run.  It turns out he caught nineteen fish in all—a mix of striped bass, largemouth bass, and redeye bass.  Unfortunately, none of them were of a size to fillet.

We got onto the river late, around 11 a.m.  Jerry wasn’t feeling particularly well, so we decided to take it very easy.  I paddled and drank a couple of early beers while Jerry rested a bit in the front.  We passed towering—truly amazing—trees of the same varieties as yesterday, as well as many I didn’t recognize.  I’d forgotten how different the view is from Southern rivers, as opposed to rivers out West where the vegetation tends to be sparser.  We stopped for lunch on a sandbar below a big river house, but Jerry couldn’t eat anything and couldn’t even keep water down.  So I downed a turkey sandwich and some chips, and we headed on downriver into the Betty Neck Swamp.

The current slowed and the river bent and meandered through thick vegetation on both sides.  We saw great blue herons and bald eagles and an amazing variety of birdlife, but Jerry was in no shape to enjoy it.  Around 4 p.m., I spotted a perfect campsite on a sandy slope on the left side of the river, about six feet above water level.  So we pulled the canoe out of the river, and I set up a nice comfortable camp in the shelter of a lovely stand of sycamores and willows.  I set the tent up first, and Jerry lay down for what we hoped would be a healing sleep.  The campsite overlooked a bend in the river.  The Wateree ran clear over a sandy bottom.  A big riverhouse occupied the opposite bank, a little upriver; however, the stand of trees blocked the house from our view.  The sandy bank ran about a quarter mile, backed by the swamp.  There was plenty of firewood for the taking, and I laid in enough for a true bonfire in hopes that Jerry would recover enough to share it with me.

Sure enough, a little before sunset, Jerry awoke feeling better.  He immediately hydrated—he hadn’t had any water since early morning—and that helped even more.  So we were able to spend some time enjoying the fire and the perfect evening with a sky full of stars. 

Monday, May 18th

After a bit of trouble finding the put-in place just north of Camden, we finally go onto the river at the Lugoff Public Landing just below Lake Wateree Dam.  Although it’s difficult to find, the put-in site at the Lugoff Public Landing is excellent.  There is a cement boat ramp for easy river access, and plenty of convenient parking.  We loaded up the canoe with our waterproof-bagged supplies and got onto the river at 5 p.m.  After a couple of days of heavy rain on the watershed, the river was running very high and fast, and they started releasing water from the dam again just as put in.  No sooner had we started to paddle in the already-swift-moving stream, than we heard the warning sirens start blaring.  The current started to pick up even more, and we had to deal with two to three-foot waves that washed riverwater into the boat.

About a half-hour downriver, we hit a Class II rapid that normally wouldn’t have been a problem.  But the current was so strong, we were swept onto a rock and got stuck there.  Immediately, the canoe started to roll over.  So I hopped out of the boat, found footing, braced myself against the strength of the water sweeping by, and steadied the boat.  But I couldn’t shove the canoe off the rock.  The problems wasn’t that I was incapable—rather, just as we were hitting the rapid, two very inconsiderate gentlemen in a johnboat anchored at the bottom of the only passage through, and started fishing.  To top it off, one of them got a strike.  So Jerry and I very considerately waited for the very inconsiderate fisherman to reel in his very small striper before I shoved us off and hopped back into the boat.  We narrowly missed colliding with the johnboat as we paddled through the rest of the rapid and made our exit.

After that, we had more problems with the big waves, but there were no more real rapids.  It was fastmoving flatwater for the rest of the day.  We passed underneath the Hwy 601 Bridge and started looking for a campsite.  But although there were big beautiful trees on both banks—sycamores, cottonwoods, sweet gums, water oaks, elms, and pines—there were no places to set up camp.  Finally, we hit the I-20 Bridge and pulled out.  There was a campable site on the left bank, almost directly beneath the eastbound lane, and we headed for it.  The traffic noise was awful, and the bridge infrastructure was less than scenic.  But darkness was falling fast, and we had to take what we could get. 

Jerry helped set up camp, then tried to catch a fish for dinner.  I finished setting up camp, then gathered more firewood and got a fire roaring not far from the tent.  Jerry not having caught any keepers, I made sandwiches and cracked open a couple of delicious beers, and we sat by the fire and relaxed as much as possible under the circumstances.  But it wasn’t long before we noticed that the river was rising again.  It was hard to tell how fast.  So we set up a line of sticks between the river’s edge and the tent, and waited with our beers beside the fire to see what would happen.  Gradually, the river swallowed the line of sticks one by one until it was too close to the tent to wait and watch any longer.  So we pulled up the stakes and dragged the tent through the grass uphill to another relatively flat spot.  Then we reset the stakes and moved the rest of our gear uphill next to the tent.  After that, it was time to collapse into our sleeping bags and hope a wall of water wouldn’t wake us in the night.

Friday, May 23rd

We woke early, to the sound of a turkey serenade from the far side of the alluvial plain.  Jerry took this to be a good omen, since our Colorado River trip also started on Day 4 with a turkey serenade, and immediately headed down to the riverbank to try and catch a trophy fish.   What follows may be thought by some to be merely a fish story.  However, having witnessed these events myself, I am able to vouch for their absolute veracity. 

As I was alternately striking camp and drinking coffee, I heard a strange gurgling/choking noise from the direction of the river.  I looked over to see Jerry’s fishing rod literally bent in half, and Jerry charging into the river to relieve the tension on his line.  Naturally, I paused in my camp-striking and gave myself wholly over to coffee-drinking and spectatorship.  I watched Jerry fight the fish he’d hooked, masterfully playing the big striper up close enough so that Jerry could scoop him out of the water.  It was one hell of a fish, the biggest striper I’ve ever seen caught without the aid of a boat and fishfinder.  I watched Jerry catch hold of the fish and start to remove the hook, which apparently was on the verge of coming out of the fish’s cavern of a mouth.  But just as the hook came free, I saw the striper give a giant tailflop . . . and splash back into the river at Jerry’s feet.  Again, for those to whom Jerry may have already told this story, I must testify to its complete veracity.  But the story isn’t over.  Rather than quitting (as I would’ve done, quite probably never to fish again), Jerry shrugged off his loss, and soon caught a strapping big catfish that we filleted and pan-fried with garlic and onions for a delicious last-day-on-the-river breakfast.

After breakfast, we loaded up the canoe and headed downriver toward the take-out point.  There were signs of habitation on both banks; cows and fences to begin, then later houses and finally cars on a highway we couldn’t quite see but could hear quite plainly.  We hit the Highway 180 Bridge a little after 11 a.m., and took the canoe out of the water. 

There was a giant dead gar lying swollen on the bank that lent a pungent aroma to the entire take-out process.  We loaded up Jerry’s truck with a bit more alacrity than we might otherwise have done, and headed into the town of Palo Pinto to eat a barbeque lunch.  We both had  brisket sandwiches that were tender and delicious.  After lunch, we drove back up to the Highway 16 Bridge, traded out our gear, and switched the canoe to the Xterra.  Then we said our goodbyes and headed off in separate directions. 

All in all, it was a fine trip.  The Brazos was a bit too low for easy canoeing, and the south wind made paddling a necessity for a sizeable chunk of our time on the river.  But the scenery was lovely, and the company was excellent.  They’ve named that stretch of river “The John Graves Scenic Waterway.”  It seems appropriate.  I hope to be able to say hello to that bit of West Texas again.

Thursday, May 22nd

We struck camp slowly, drinking a pot of coffee and eating bran muffins.  The wind had actually slacked off quite a bit as the sun rose, and things were looking up for our morning trip.  On another positive note, Jerry and I agreed to go ahead and use the icewater from our cooler to replenish the water supply that had run low in our five-gallon container due to the extreme heat and exertion of the day before.  I always keep a clean-ice cooler on a river trip (carefully bagging all food items in sealed containers); so the icewater was not only fit to drink, it added welcome freshness to the plasticky water from the big jug.

We got on the river around 9:30 and headed against a much-dimished headwind for most of the rest of the morning.  We passed a couple of lovely houses, one atop a bluff and the over just above river level (complete with a COMING ONTO THIS PROPERTY IS NOT WORTH GETTING SHOT sign at the top of the stairs that led up onto the big front porch).  We stopped for lunch on a rocky outcrop on the righthand bank.  There was some walking over the course of the morning, as the river had fallen about another three inches overnight.  But the broken cloudcover provided a welcome relief from the heat of the day before, and the beer we had with lunch was cold and delicious.

After lunch (and a second beer apiece), we continued on downriver.  We passed the ten-mile take-out sign for Rochelle’s Canoe Rental and kept paddling hard against the headwind that was stiffening now.  There were many more shallow spots in the afternoon that required Jerry and me to do a good bit of river-strolling.  The bottom, though, is gravel-covered and easy to walk on.  And the scenery is spectacular.  This section of the river is truly incredible.  Giant strangely-shaped boulders litter the grass-covered banks beneath towering bluffs.  We saw kingfishers, cardinals, a painted bunting, and lots of fat black cattle. 

Around 6 p.m., we found what I rate to be the best river campsite I’ve ever had the good fortune to come upon.  The site is a broad alluvial plain that is covered with gravel ranging from pea-sized up through big river-smoothed hunks of rock.  The variety of rock types is amazing.  At least a quarter-mile wide at its broadest spot, the plain is bordered with dead trees on the far side from the river that make gathering firewood quick and easy.  And the fishing is excellent.  Jerry caught several bass and a catfish; none of them big enough to pan-fry, but certainly well worth the effort.  Even I (not being much of a fisherman) was tempted to join in.  But I contented myself with cooking up the last of the sausage and setting up a bonfire for later.  We ate a delicious dinner, and sat around the blazing fire drinking several of the wide selection of beers we each brought for the trip.  The stars were low and lovely, and the wind died almost completely with the setting sun.  It was a perfect night. 

Wednesday, May 21st

I made coffee just as dawn was breaking.  We ate a light breakfast and Jerry caught a perch and a largemouth bass while I struck camp.  Neither fish was a keeper, but the omens looked good for eating-sized fish at bigger holes downriver.  We lollygagged and enjoyed our lovely campsite until around 9:15 a.m., when we finally put the canoe in the river.

We spent the morning alternately floating and paddling against a moderate headwind through that same mix of wide gravel-bottomed shallows and deep pools lined with huge gray boulders.  There were high banks with bluffs behind them on one side, and on the other side the low banks were thick with trees.  We stopped for lunch on another pea gravel peninsula and Jerry fished while I sat and wrote a while.  Jerry caught another largemouth bass; but once again, it wasn’t quite big enough to pan-fry.

We battled a fierce headwind for most of the afternoon.  As the Brazos twisted and turned, the headwind would occasionally become a tailwind; but since the wind blew straight out of the south, it stayed mostly a headwind.  This section of river consists of wide lakelike sections with almost no current, alternating with a series of shallow rapids.  Many of the rapids were so shallow as to require both Jerry and I to get out and walk.  The bluffs here are much taller, some rising as high as three hundred feet; and the salt cedars with their lavendar blooms, along with the Indian blankets and blackeyed Susans, make the walking lovely.  But I highly recommend a pair of good water shoes. 

We finally reached the Highway 4 Bridge around 7 p.m.  This is the halfway point to the Highway 180 take-out.  We pushed on a ways, and took out on a high sand bank about a mile and a half below the bridge.  We were tired, and the wind was gusting hard enough now to make setting up camp difficult.  We pitched the tent, had a cold supper, and hit the hay early, still tasting the sand that the wind kicked up.  In the night, a particularly fierce gust ripped the raincover off the tent.  I had to get up, chase the raincover down, and anchor it with the icechest.  Otherwise, we slept like the two exhausted paddlers/walkers that we were.

Tuesday, May 20th

I drove to the Highway 16 Bridge on the Brazos River just below Possum Kingdom Dam and unloaded the canoe, the ice chest, and some of the waterproof-bagged supplies.  Then I drove back to the Highway 180 Bridge outside Mineral Wells and picked up Jerry.  We finished loading the canoe with both of our supplies and put in around 5 p.m.  The put-in spot at Highway 16 is ideal.  There is a cement ramp leading down to the river’s edge from the road, and a nice broad bank on which to load supplies into the canoe.  Since the bank slopes gently into the flow of the river, it’s easy to get a heavily-laden canoe into the current without losing any of the load.  The channel here is quick-moving and fairly shallow.  The river, lined on both banks with a wide variety of trees and shrubs, is clear and cold and lovely.

We paddled and floated down past desert-varnished bluffs and salt cedars and mountain cedars and pecans and hackberries and elms and ash trees.  We saw great blue herons and cardinals and a pair of Rocky Mountain bluebirds.  Of course, there were also loads of bluff-loving hawks and buzzards riding the spiraling wind currents and looking for prey below.  The river here alternates between broad gravel-bottomed shallows and deep clear holes full of fish.  I had to get out and push a couple of times, but Jerry was able to stay in the canoe.

We took out around 7 p.m. at a little peninsula that offered an ideal campsite.  There are plenty of places here to pick from, campsite-wise, and Jerry and I found a nice one.  The gently-sloping peninsula consisted of pea gravel mixed with bigger rocks, and the campsite was easy to set up and had perfect river access.  I went about the business of setting up camp while Jerry tried to catch some supper.  He landed an eight-inch striper, and had a bunch of strikes.  But it was sausage and onions and green bell peppers sauteed in olive oil that wound up being the main course.  We ate it with potato salad and sliced tomatoes.  Delicious.  After clean-up, we celebrated our first night on the river with a Maresdous triple ale and a couple of Horned Dog barley wines around a blazing fire.  The river was quiet, except for the birds and coyotes, but we were still close enough to civilization to have cell service.  We couldn’t have asked for a better start.

When we left our intrepid explorers, they were camped in a soggy bog of a site somewhere between Colorado Bend State Park and Lake Buchanan. We’ll pick up as they awaken in their tent to the serenade of an unexpected visitor . . .

Friday, May 18^th

We were awakened before dawn by a turkey calling not ten yards from our tent. I raised the window flap, and Jerry and I got a perfect view of our solitary gobbler standing on the riverbank and lifting his voice in song or complaint—it was impossible to tell—over the water. We brewed a pot of coffee and watched the sunrise over the low rolling hills. The sight was spectacular, and went a long way toward making our cold muddy camp more hospitable.

We got on the river around 9:30, after taking time to clean as much mud as possible off everything as we packed our gear into the canoe. We paddled hard for the takeout point, a strong south wind blowing up off Lake Buchanan. We made slow headway past the desert-varnished cliffs and low hills that lined this section of almost currentless river was it meandered past Jim John Creek and Deer Creek into Lake Buchanan. The most beautiful part of the this part of the trip, though, was Fall Creek Falls just north of the lake, cascading in multiple plumes over a sixty foot limestone cliff into the water. The falls were once a sacred site for the Comanches, and it was easy to see why they would sanctify this ground. Jerry and I paused a long time for photos, and to soak in the incredible natural beauty commingled with passing human history before we turned back into wind and paddled on.

Finally, we rounded the last big bend in the river below Deer Creek and got into the main body of the lake. We paddled hard into the whitecaps kicked up by the stiffening south breeze. The swells were topping out above a foot, the boat was taking on water, and the going was tough. When we had to paddle across the wind, we were constantly in danger of being swamped by the waves. Progress was impossible without constant effort. But we dug in and paddled our slow way past Tow, past the stretches of false willow, and past the boat docks that jutted out across the bare lakebed. Despite the low lake level, there was much evidence here of a recent flood—driftwood and flotsam and jetsam of all types. Finally we rounded a rocky point and saw Jerry’s bright red Ford parked at the take-out spot. Our objective in sight, we paddled with renewed energy toward the LCRA boat ramp.

We took the canoe out of the water at 1:30 p.m. After we unloaded our gear, I washed the mud off as much as possible while Jerry pulled the truck around. Then Jerry loaded the gear into the back of his truck while I washed the mud off of—and out of—the canoe. We flipped the canoe upside-down on the bank and quaffed a celebratory beverage while calling our loved ones via cell phone. Finally, we loaded the canoe onto Jerry’s truck and headed for the put-in point at the Highway 16 Bridge. We had hoped for another round of soft tacos at Larry’s Corner Café; but by the time we got to San Saba, they had closed for the afternoon. So we settled for Sonic instead. After a very late lunch, we drove back to the Xterra—still parked safe and sound between two concrete bridge columns—and transferred the canoe and my gear back into my own vehicle. We took a few pictures and shook hands, capping off a fine four-day adventure through the Texas Hill Country.

It was an incredible trip. Having multi-dayed many rivers in many states, I must say that the Colorado River between Highway 16 and Lake Buchanan is as lovely a stretch of river as any I have ever had the good fortune to savor by canoe.

Thursday, May 17th

We got up early and I made coffee while Jerry took some pictures. The mist on the river and the coming sun over the cliffs combined to extend last night’s almost mystical experience on our rocky island. Jerry tried casting a bit, but the bass had apparently eaten their fill yesterday evening.

We got packed up and headed downriver around 9:30 a.m. Not long after we got started, we startled a bald eagle up from a kill on the riverbank. The eagle gained height quickly with powerful and audible downbeats of its wings—something exquisite and totally unexpected. In our excitement, we almost dumped the canoe at a Class Two rapid. The boat bottomed out on a submerged rock, and as we swung broadside to the current, I leaped out into the rapids and dragged the canoe into an eddy where we could collect ourselves before continuing downriver.The entire morning consisted of one great blue heron sighting after another, with nesting colonies in the tops of giant cottonwoods on both banks and the croaking coughs of unhappy parents circling away from chicks left in gray thickly-woven nests. We were graced with the sight of a river otter paddling and diving his way downstream not far ahead of us. This was a particularly peaceful and beautiful part of the river, and we were sad to leave it.

After winding through limestone canyons full of wildlife and breathtaking stretches of wildflowers, we stopped for lunch at Flat Rock, a wide limestone slab that juts into the river at the FM 580 Bridge. We ate the last of the sandwich stuff and looked at the houses of Bend, Texas, stretching away from the river just below Flat Rock. Below Flat Rock, there were a series of private campgrounds and some isolated houses. NO TRESPASSING signs began to appear on both banks. The river, though, was still beautiful and the swifter current made the ride a bit more exciting.

Although the river had fallen another foot or so overnight, it was still running high enough so that the rapids in this section from Flat Rock to Colorado Bend State Park were actually hazardous in spots. We hit a Class Three at Barefoot Falls that occupied our full attention, to say the least. We took the leftmost channel, paddling hard to keep the current from throwing us into the submerged boulders just off the left bank. In the melee, we missed seeing the falls. But the current was swift enough at this point that we decided to hold off on fall-watching until we got to Gorman. We were not disappointed. The sight of Gorman Falls, formed at the point where Gorman Creek tumbles into the Colorado over a seventy-five foot limestone bluff, was worth the effort of getting down the river all by itself. The water splashed in clear rivulets across the limestone, and ferns and mosses grew on the slippery rocks among the falls and at its base. But caution was necessary here because of the submerged rocks on either side of the main channel.

After Gorman Falls, there were more signs of human habitation on the river. Big lovely houses, and small lovely ones as well, appeared on both banks as the river deepened from the emptying-in of a series of creeks and the current slowed. Boat docks abounded, and the yards sported upside-down canoes and johnboats. We had planned to camp for the night at Colorado Bend State Park. But despite careful watching, we saw no signs—at least, none visible from the river—announcing the park. We had been paddling by it for some time, apparently, when we hit a Class Three rapid that very nearly flipped us. The river was running swift and high as we rounded the big bend below Yancey Creek. We saw the rapid ahead of us, and instead of scouting, decided to shoot the lefthand channel—which turned out to be a mistake. As we scooted along, submerged rocks packed so close together that we couldn’t avoid them loomed suddenly ahead of us. They snagged the bottom of the boat, turning us on our side and dumping Jerry out of the canoe. He hit one of the rocks, badly bruising his right thigh. It was pure luck that he wasn’t hurt worse. We had taken the precaution of packing the boat extra tight, tying the gear to the snug-fitting cooler amidships. This turned out to be a wise precaution. Although Jerry’s cushion and one of the lifejackets went floating away downstream, the rest of the cargo stayed put. I hopped out of the canoe and—waistdeep in the strong current—righted the canoe and wrestled it into an eddy while Jerry got back in the boat. Then I carefully walked the boat through the rest of the rapids, wrapping the aftline around my waist and holding tight to the aft carrying handle. A group of young men were playing in the strong current below the rapid, and one of them caught our stuff and brought it out to us. He had to fight hard to get across the current that I was struggling with also. But he made it, and we got moving again once everything was stowed away. We saw a concrete boat ramp below the rapid and pulled up to it, thinking that we might finally have reached the top end of Colorado Bend State Park. To our surprise, the boat ramp was actually located at the bottom end of the park. There was no camping anywhere near the ramp. So to get to a campsite, we would have had to work the boat back upriver past the rapid. We thought about it long and hard, and decided to continue on downriver in hopes of finding another campsite—like we had the last two evenings.

But to our dismay, and extreme discomfort, we discovered that there were no good campsites between Colorado Bend State Park and Lake Buchanan. To make matters worse, once the river passed the park, the current slowed to a virtual stop as the river widened and merged into the top end of Lake Buchanan. So paddling was the only way to make progress. A stiff south wind was blowing up off the lake, making paddling more difficult. We passed big impressive houses, interspersed with ranches that ran both cattle and sheep. But both banks fairly bristled with posted NO TRESPASSING signs. Further complicating the picture, because of the recent rains, followed by the steady receding of the river in their wake, both banks—where they were not rocky and steep—were too muddy for comfortable camping.

Finally, as darkness was falling, Jerry and I pulled out on a muddy patch of grassy bank just below a fifty-foot cliff. We set up a muddy camp in the gathering dark, and munched on what we could scrounge out of the cooler. On the bright side, the aftermath of the sunset over the cliffs, reflected in the water, was lovely. And the stars came out thick and bright above the cliff as we did our best to minimize the effects of the mud on our boat and our gear.