There is something wonderful and awful
about the last swallow of water in the canteen. Chances are you have
been saving it, hoarding it away until you just can't stand it any
longer. By the time you finally commit to drink, you're not only good
and thirsty but maybe a little fearful for the future.
Never-the less, you savor the water all
the way down from the tip of your tongue, to the back of your throat
and all the way down the esophagus. Wonderful. And then it's gone and
the hand is dealt.
This happened to us the very first day
of backpacking in Grand Gulch. A veteran of many canyon hikes, I had
gone into the excursion with a cavalier attitude and was carrying
only my standard liter and half day hike ration. It had never been a
problem. The bottom of a steep deep narrow wilderness canyon is
filled with springs and potholes and rocks and rivulets. There's
always water to be found. Except today. Besides a few pot holes in
the side canyon we entered first thing in the morning, this canyon
was sandy, brushy and very, very dry. Earlier we had passed a pair of
well-heeled hikers who were struggling mightily (despite their
top-of-the-line equipment) under a load of 40 liters of water! We had
laughed at them heartily, but now were wondering if they knew
something we didn't.
Nothing we could do about it now. Ari and I were well past the point of no return. At the last side canyon we'd spent an entire hour bushwhacking around looking for a spring that the BLM rangers had assured us was there. Along with another guy we met on the trail, we looked high and low. Found one vaguely swampy area underneath some more ruins, but no standing water of any kind. We were all concerned that the canyon bottom was very dry—drier than we expected—and seemingly getting drier as we headed down canyon. Our new friend made his choice early. If he didn't find water in this side canyon he was aborting his trip—and retracing his steps back to the trailhead.
Neither Ari nor I are known for our
patience and after fruitlessly searching for an hour, we returned to
the confluence of the side canyon and weighed our options. It was
early afternoon, we were very low on water, and it was only getting
warmer. Consulting the map, we decided to press on—putting our
hopes on a vaguely defined feature on the map called “The
Pour-off.” If we couldn't find water anywhere else, I assured Ari,
there should be some kind of water at the bottom of a dry falls.
Falls, after all, denote rock. Rock holds water.
As we trudged down the canyon, however,
the sand only got deeper. Our last swallows of water had come and
gone. As the day wore on, the packs got heavier and the legs more
sluggish. In many ways the first day of a multi-day backpack is the
worst. The pack is at its heaviest, the legs and body are at their
softest and the body is just not trail hardened. The day was growing
to be a long one and we were putting in miles we hadn't counted on. I
was beginning to regret not training harder for this hike—a
universal feeling of backpackers everywhere.
We came to a muddy patch of wet ground
and I seriously considered digging for water—something I've never
had to do anywhere and was frankly skeptical it could be successfully
done. Ari offered, however, to take off his pack and scout ahead. He
came back a half hour later saying he hadn't found water but there
was another muddy spot on the ground ahead and a better campsite so
we shrugged into our packs once again and headed down the canyon. It
was a beautiful site on high ground just off the main channel and as
we were trudging up to it, I glanced down canyon and saw where the
riverbed just ended. We dropped our packs and grabbed out water jugs.
“Cross your fingers.”
The Pour Off was there, a hundred yards
from camp. And, as I'd assumed, the canyon bottom slowly turned to
rock. When we arrived, not only did we discover a large brackish
water hole at the base of the falls but, even better, a series of
rock pot holes on top—the largest of which still contained water.
We were saved. But our work was not over. The water was still so
silty that it was impossible to pump more than a liter of water at a
time before the filter clogged up. So it was pump a liter,
disassemble the water filter, scrape it down, wash it, reassemble and
then pump another liter. Repeat. It took us an hour and twenty
minutes to filter enough water for the night. And this was the
scenario that would play out over several days. This canyon, it
turned out, was a very dry place.
It was easy for us then to imagine why
this canyon, once home to one of the largest Anasazi populations in
the Southwest, was abandoned. Some of the best preserved ruins in the
world dot the Grand Gulch—a 58 mile long snaking tributary of the
San Juan river. Many look as if the occupants walked away a few
months ago. Metates and scraping tools lay next to boulder work
areas. Corn cobs still fill many of the granaries. In places the
pottery shards are like litter on the ground. Large panels of
pictographs cover the canyon walls like graffiti. Some in very rare
colors of green and blue and orange. Some of the ruins still have
their floors and roofs intact. There is an actual kiva you can still
enter.
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| The mysterious "Green Mask." |
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| A sexy tomb raider. Somebody should make a video game! |
Beyond the prehistoric ruins, the
canyon itself was lovely. There were many cool rock formations,
alcoves splashed with fall colors and a sky that was so blue it hurt
the eyes. We did great slick rock climbs to granaries that seemed
impossible to reach from the canyon floor. We watched the moon rise
over the canyon walls and the star-blown skies after it set. On the
second day we found a fantastic camp above a cool clear stream with
pictographs visible across the canyon from our sleeping bags.
The place was the Garden of Eden except
for:
Water. A couple days after finding a
clear stream in a side canyon, we spend another wasted day (and all
our remaining good water) fruitlessly searching for another spring.
As we ventured deeper into the canyon and off the beaten track, the
bushwhacking was brutal. Continuing down the main dry channel meant
fighting overhanging branches, climbing over dead fall and trudging
through sticky muck. Trying to fight a path over the banks meant face
slapping, leg ripping brush and steep ascents and descents in and out
of the main channel. We even tried to climb up the canyon sides and
stay near the slick rock walls, but the prickly pear were so thick
there was no where to step. And the trail always went cold at a steep
side gully that was dead drop.
That's backpacking. For every beautiful
sunset, there's the moment you wake up and realize a rat is crawling
across the top of your tent. For every clear stream, there's a vile,
brackish puddle of ooze that might keep you alive for another day.
For every unexpected Indian discovery there's a pair of shorts ripped
from waist to cuff from a razor thorn. For every pretty picture, a
cactus needle imbedded into your calf. And for every shot of tequila
carefully hoarded, there the point in the hike when you realize that
you absolutely cannot eat another gram of trail mix.
To the hundreds of people who lived
here in America's recent stone age, I'm sure it was the Garden of
Eden. They had everything they wanted: food, water, beauty, room to
roam and time to create beautiful art and pottery. But even a garden
has limits, boundaries and needs balance. When something tips the
scales—overpopulation, a prolonged drought, warfare—then even
paradise will fail. It's a lesson for all of us. Appreciate what we
have, do all we can to protect it and strive for balance.
Watch the sunset, ignore the rats.
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| Bottom's up, y'all! |
And drink plenty of water.
