“It seems that only in moments of desperation is the soul most truly revealed.” – Everett Ruess
Wow, great sleep last night, finally – 10 hours. I leisurely break camp, watching the orange-crowned warblers in the trees, enjoying my breakfast (including an awesome fruit and protein smoothie) in the tent vestibule as a light rain moves in. I explore Moody for a while, looking unsuccessfully for the spring – is that it right next to camp at the canyon mouth? If so, I’ll take my chances with the silty Escalante River water, and I drop a pill into my Nalgene. I’m figuring that today will be like yesterday, thinking I will only get better on the water, so I’m in no hurry to get moving. I say my goodbyes to the Moody Canyon camp and shove off under a drizzly, cloudy ceiling just before 11 a.m. But quickly, everything changes today…
I’m not sure how I didn’t see this from the Port of Moody Canyon, but my first rapid, the one that lulled me to sleep last night with its soothing gurgle, turns out to be a 5-foot drop. There’s no avoiding it, no time to stop and portage, so I face my bow towards the fall and prepare to paddle hard through it. I’ve seen packrafters handle worse on You Tube.
But those packrafters had experience – I don’t, and after maintaining uprightness down to the bottom of the falls, I just can’t get out from the tumbling water. It quickly fills my boat, which has bogged down and is no longer making any forward progress. Stuck, and now panicking, I thrash around, trying desperately to get freed of the trap. It does no good, and I only succeed in somehow getting myself thrown out of the raft. I keep a death grip, one hand on the paddle, one hand on the boat, even while underwater. I’m surprised the water is this deep, and this cold – it shocks me, spurring even more adrenaline, and I’m not sure how I get free of the waterfalls hydraulic. A minute later I’m safely on the rocky shore, trying to calm down.
My first reaction is a nervous laugh that no one hears, so I let out a whooping “Holy shit!” Because of the drizzle, I am dressed in my gore-tex rain gear and hiking pants, but I’m thoroughly soaked, and it begins to sink in that maybe this isn’t something to laugh at – I’m in the middle of nowhere, and I might be in over my head. I empty my nearly full raft while wishing I would have gotten the packraft spray deck – would I have made it through that rapid if I had it? No use musing, I don’t have it…
I remember when I was teaching my sons to ride their bikes; a fall is inevitable, and I knew I had to get them right back on their bikes so that they wouldn’t dwell on the fall. So it’s right back into my green packraft, before I can think too much on this.
The ominous beginning is just a portent of a bad day – the light drizzle builds to black sky thunderstorms, and I take another swim after another surprise rapid. I’m on high alert now, focusing only on the next river challenge, adrenaline pumping. And then I come to the infamous portages near Scorpion Gulch. Boulders the size of houses choke the river, often times not leaving enough room for a raft to squeeze through. So I pull the raft out, untie my gear and move gear and raft around the obstructions. This is not a nice easy walk along a sandy river bank, but a scramble over the rain-soaked boulders and through the shoe sucking quicksand to the next raftable river section. And it takes me three trips for each portage – first my heavy drybag, next my backpack and paddles, then the raft itself. The process is repeated countless times today, no doubt more than would normally be necessary because I’m now gun-shy from my two swims; lots of hard work…
With all of the excitement today, I have totally neglected my map watching duties. I haven’t figured out a good way to keep my zip-locked map handy, and I’ve tired of pulling it out at portages, so I’ve not been counting canyons or looking for landmarks. I’d planned to get to Camp George Canyon, but around each bend comes nothing familiar that I can find on the map, and I realize I have no idea where I am. Great, just as a clap of thunder reminds me that I would like to be exiting the water well before dark, to set up a good camp out of the flood zone and dry all my clothes. Now I’m watching the time, too, its 4:30, and the sky to the west is completely black. Surely my canyon is just around the next bend…
But it is not; every landmark I’m looking for never materializes. I’m cold now with the sun completely clouded over, and I decide I will make camp at the next acceptable spot.
Acceptable in this case means I stop on a rocky sandbar before another big portage – I just don’t want to unpack and make the three trips – and use all that valuable daylight – doing another portage. Camp will be right here tonight, wherever here is.
The first action is to get out of all my wet clothes and get them drying. My drybags worked great, despite being submerged, and I’m really glad I double bagged my sleeping bag, base layer, and down jacket, which quickly warms me. Now for a tent spot…
Damn, there is nowhere on this little sandbar that is above the debris line – the canyon walls become too steep too fast, and the best I can do is tuck in to a rocky section next to the cottonwoods. There is debris from the last big flood still ten feet above me in the trees, but it’s the best I can do. I’m sure the thunderstorms will pass once the sun’s energy dissipates, right?
I take some time before dinner to try to figure out where I am. I can’t climb up high enough to get any unmistakable landmarks, but I know the river is flowing west here, and there is a small, pointy mesa that might be on my 7.5 USGS topos. But there are two possible places on the map where I think I might be, the most likely one only 6.5 river miles from Moody Canyon.
Holy shit, did I only do 6-1/2 miles today, in 6 hours? I guess that might be true, given how much time I spent in the water, and how many portages I did. Ouch, if that’s the case, I’ve still got a long trip in front of me, and if the remaining 22 river miles are like today, I might be in trouble. My spirits sag as the lightning flashes to the west and the thunder rumbles through the canyons…
The panic begins to rise as the rain starts to fall; I retire to my tent, stowing all my gear to dry under the vestibule. Okay, I’m kinda lost, I’m not doing too well on the river, with a boatload of river miles ahead, I’m shivering and worried about hypothermia, I’m starving because I didn’t have time to eat today, I’m camped below the debris line, and I’m completely alone in a remote wilderness – no one can help me, I’ve got to get out of here on my own. I double check the map – there is not way out from here except via the river; any walk up any side canyon would not have reliable water, and the topos lines are too close together to guarantee I wouldn’t box myself in to some dead end. I’ve got to stick to my plan and run the river down to Coyote, there is no other choice.
I have to settle down, so I launch into doing what needs done – get my bed and warm clothes set up, keep drying my outerwear, and get dinner going. I cook in my vestibule again, in a soft rain at this point, but with the thunder still rumbling in the distance. I decide tonight on my old camping standby, Barilla spinach and cheese tortellini; the familiarity and fillingness calm me. A few cookies, and a few more core body degrees added by my down jacket – and a few sips of whiskey – and I’m much calmer.
Definitely out of my comfort zone now, my focus shifts to what is really important to me. I think tremendously of my family. It is Easter eve – I’m sure the boys, age 11 and 8, are excited to look for their baskets in the morning, and I’m sure my wife has done a fantastic job
with their baskets, filled with exactly what they want. My god, what am I doing out here??? I should be home with my family, goddammit! What the fuck am I doing out here, playing some wilderness survivorman hero? How selfish is that? What if I don’t return? What if my kids have to grow up without a father, like I did? Christ, how many times has my heart terribly ached, missing the guidance and strength of my dad, who died when I was just a kid? What the hell, why would I even take the chance of doing that to my own kids, doing it voluntarily? How selfish it that, goddammit???
“STOP IT!” Nobody is here, so I verbalize my command out loud. “Stop it, dammit, stop it!” Calm down, I am NOT going to die. I can do this – I’ve worked out for months, I’ve trained, I’ve prepared, this is doable. Tomorrow, I will get up early, I will be in the river by 9 a.m., and I will fucking just pound it out, through sheer determination and sheer strength of will – JUST FUCKING DO IT!
“Always remember there is nothing worth sharing, Like the love that let us share our name.” – The Avett Brothers, from “Murder in the City”
My fears back in check, I say a silent prayer, thankful for all that has happened today to get me safely to this point, and thankful for my wonderful family – I know they are thinking of me, I can feel their prayers in return, and I channel their love deep inside, knowing nothing ever more certain in my life than of the importance of love and family…
What we think we know and what we remember about Everett Ruess mostly remains with us because of his extraordinary letters to family and friends. First, it speaks to me that Everett’s family kept his letters. His mother was the first to recognize these were not ordinary letters, evidenced by her attempts to get them published, which they were in 1940. Indeed, they have stood the test of time…
Everett truly valued his family, this much is evident by the volume of letters he wrote to them. My god, all of the letters I’ve written to my family in all of my years wouldn’t stack up to a fraction of those he wrote in just a few months. Everett wished he could share what he saw, what he felt, what he experienced with his family; he challenged them, to get out of their ruts, to pursue their dreams; he asked for their advice and opinion, and he gave his, freely, whether it was asked for or not. This freedom is only found within the bounds of a close-knit family.
These letters, they are not “miss you, wish you were here” idle chatter; they are extraordinarily well thought out, with nary an idle phrase – nearly every letter drips with deliberateness and purpose. Nobody would devote this much effort, this much time and energy, into something and someone that they didn’t care about, deeply.
My biggest regret in reading Mr. Ruess is that there is no evidence, at least at this time, of the responses people sent to Everett. How did they react to his descriptions, to his challenges, to his criticisms? We will never know, for Everett choose not to keep them, something I can totally understand – my favorite camping chair sits idle right now in a banged up SUV 20 miles from here, because out here, in the desert, in the wilderness, you bring only what you need, only what you must carry. Return letters, once read and digested – and I’m most they were most appreciated by the lonely Ruess – well, certainly they’d make better campfire tinder than pack mule burden.
I have no doubt however, that Everett’s family buoyed him, too. They hoisted him on their strong shoulders, enabling him to continue along in his pursuit of…well, I will not venture to say here that his family understood what he was pursuing anymore than we do now, but even this lack of understanding did not stop them from supporting young Everett. ER’s family’s support, whether monetary, or simply providing basic supplies, allowed Everett to repeatedly step forth into the uncaring wilderness with neither adequate funds, equipment, or experience. His family gave him a bedrock platform of values and support to launch a pursuit of his dreams, even if he couldn’t articulate what those dreams were. They gave him a receptive audience for his letters and paintings and poetry, too, knowing that at least a small circle of people would actually care what he had created. Surely this allowed him more liberties to express, unabashedly, more beautifully, his emotions, his thoughts, his feelings, much more so than an academic, or worse, commercial audience.
So I must amend the list I have been amassing over the years, a list of what makes a truly memorable – dare I say it? – what make a great wilderness experience, possible. A bedrock of family, close friends, and kindred spirits that will be there in spirit with you if they can’t be physically with you – yes, they are needed, not so much for the company and the companionship or logistical accompanionment, but because their faith in you will pull you through when your faith in yourself is put to the test…
Tonight I send my love across the cosmos to all who care and are thinking of me, and in return I open my heart to their love, and the peace and calm that fills my soul soothes me to a deep, much needed sleep. Three thunderstorms score a direct hit on my campsite tonight – each time I awake with a start and keep an ear out for the ominous rumbling of a coming flash flood. I wonder what I should save if I have only one trip to safety – my tent, my food, or my raft? What was I thinking when I wanted to experience a thunderstorm in the canyons? Well at least I can now confirm that, yes, each time the canyons are lit up for a second in that eerie, blue-light glow, replaced quickly by pitch black, each time the thunder rumbles unnervingly long through the canyons, each time the rain pounds so hard on the tent I swear it’s gonna burst through, that yes, it is much more vivid and real and scary than I imagined in the easy chair – certainly my heart didn’t flutter as much then as it is right now! But the floods never come, the rain and thunder subside, and each time I quickly resume sleep…thank you, Lord!
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