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Canyonland National Park, Utah

By Martha Hollis

You have a sense of intimacy after spending the night in a man’s tent-- even if he is not there. This shelter, like a sarcophagus with a mini-cathedral ceiling, known to campers as a tadpole, was the perfect width for my sleep pad and mummy bag. The owner, David Focardi, was sleeping on the gently rocking river raft in the Cataract Canyon section of Canyonland National Park near Moab, Utah.

Our meeting came about three days into a four-wheeling and river rafting trip with OARS, the twenty-five year old outfitter based in Angel’s Camp, California. With two passenger and one gear raft eleven of us set out for a wild adventure. Our ages ranged from twenty to late seventyish years. Even if we added our collective years on this earth we would not even come close to the ages of the rocks. Each rock chronicled the history of the world as a gentle reminder the insignificance of our problems.

The guides could recite the 20 or so sedimentary layers as comfortably as a second grader rattling off the alphabet.  While answering questions they revealed their love and awe of the land. The first part of the adventure was four-wheeling in the Island of the Sky, the mesa between the Green and Colorado Rivers with views so commanding the area is called the “observation tower.”

Petroglyphs, etched into the rock, and pictographs, painted on, were abundant reminders of early civilizations in the Four Corners area. These markings date back more than 2,000 years ago to the Anasazi (ancient ones) and Fremont inhabitants. More recent art is from the Ute tribe which surrender to the U.S. Government in the 1880’s.

The art and the remaining rock granaries, dwellings and kivas throughout the canyon gave hints of these inhabitant’s agrarian and hunting and gathering lifestyles. Hiking in this desert highlands in the Island in the Sky section and seeing brave vegetation existing on an annual rainfall of seven inches gave new meaning to the gathering aspect. Several species of yucca plants provided the materials for basket weaving. The flowers, stalks and fruits were edible while the leaf fibers were woven into baskets, sandals and cloth. Soap was made from the roots.

All of us were aware that we had traded the five-star amenities of luxury travel for the billion-star wonders of nature. We traded our electronic gadgetry for soul-searching conversations of people, one on one.

Survival was just how we met up with my nontent partner, Dave. Associated with the Sherrie Griffin rafting outfit, Dave was part of the team which rescued four of our members from the 48 degree F water after a harrowing 20 minutes in the mile-long rapids just after a flip in rapid number 23 between the powerful button and Little Niagra. Cataract Canyon’s fourteen-mile section below the confluence of the Green and Colorado  Rivers during May and June is said to be one of the most treacherous white water rafting experiences in the United States. Flipping in rapids is de riqeur for white water rafting, but the rescue team was a river bonus, a sign of cooperation and love of one’s fellow man out in the wilds.

“On the river we all work together,” said our OARS leader, Christian Dean. “We are one big family always ready to help each other out, no matter what the situation.”

Dave’s group just happened to be pleasure river rafting. Dave, an emergency medical technician and fire fighter, along with several vacationing nurses, and OARS well-trained staff, immediately went into action when the wet ones were brought to a sandy beach. Stripping off their wet-suits and clothes, wrapping in sleeping bags, making body sandwiches, rubbing body extremities, making a fire and administering warm liquids were well-needed remedies for hypothermia.

I was sleeping in Dave’s tent as mine was lost in the flipping of our supply boat. And in the flip, much of our food had been compromised so we joined forces for camping and dinner.

As the sun was setting and proper hors d’oeuvres served, Dave pulled out his five-string banjo, tuned up, and ran through some warm-up rolls.

Having spent two years in the same house with a beginning banjo player who almost had mastered Cripple Creek in slow-motion, kind of a mantra for personal relaxation guaranteed to send those blessed with any hearing at all hunting for their ear plugs, I initially cringed. Here we were in the wilderness, away from the man-made cacophony, only to have a banjo.

Wasted worries—here was talent. He, of course, kept his audience happy when they requested Duelin Banjos, and played from his vast repertoire until a lasagna dinner cooked in the Dutch ovens, a marvel of five stacked ovens, soothed our ravenous food passions.

When asked about keeping his banjo safe coming down the river he said “I have a special waterproof case and keep my best banjo at home.”

Dave loves this canyon so much that he has even named his dog, Cataract, after it.

Leaving the adventure, I mused over the ties that will always bind our group. Memories of raft ropes for fearlessness holding and high-siding while running the rapids, tent ropes anchoring the fabric to the ground in the wind, strings holding on our sunglasses, and Dave’s banjo strings.

For more information contact:
Outdoor Adventure River Specialists, http://www.oars.com
 phone 1-800-3-GO-OARS

Images by Martha Hollis

-Updated 10-21-98-
 
 

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