Cleaning Up

May 11 was National River Cleanup 2013.  One of the participating parties here was Quiet Waters Paddling, an outfitter from Bernalillo which provided canoes and shuttle to anyone wanting to take part.  Any reason to spend a day on the river is a good one, and helping to clean up is an especially good one.

The Quiet Waters group is a small one, five of us and three canoes.  A sixth person from Albuquerque Open Space meets us at the put-in somewhere around 8:30.  I can’t say for sure since I’ve deliberately dispensed with all timekeeping devices for the day.

I step into the cool mud to give the second canoe out a push-off.  It’s a rough start.  One of the paddlers overshoots on the initial attempt at sitting on the small webbed seat in the boat’s stern and goes ass over teakettle into the rear compartment while her paddle goes flying into the river.  I go wading after it and retrieve the paddle, nearly going ass over teakettle myself trying to navigate through all the submerged and slippery roots and rocks.

“Whew,” hoping that will be all the drama for one day.  It won’t be.

We’re preparing to drag the third and final boat, ours, to the water when my boat mate asks me a question you never want a boat mate to ask you.

“Do you have another paddle?”

I stare back blankly.  That would be a ”no.”

Our van driver has just left, but she’s got his number and gets him on the blower.  No, there is no extra paddle on the van.  Screw it, we decide.  We can trade off taking the stern.  There’s a current working with us and we can get down the river just fine with one paddle.  As it turns out, there’s another person from Open Space who’s going to paddle solo in a kayak and he has an extra kayak paddle.  Snafu #2 averted.  Our kayaker friend gives us an extra breakdown paddle to keep on board for good measure and we’re soon clear of the tree tangles and moving with the current and dipping paddles and all is right with the world.

I had my doubts about the water level for this trip, but there is still good flow on the river.  Things also have greened up considerably since my last time on the Rio Grande.  The cottonwoods, just beginning to grow their leaves then, are now leafed out and shimmering in the breeze.  And the willows, taking more time than any to come out of their winter dormancy, are finally showing tender shoots.

Le Barge

We zigzag and ping-pong between the left bank and the islands in the middle of the river, beaching the canoe and walking along shoreline with two bags, for recyclable and non-recyclable garbage.  I’m glad to report there was less trash than I thought there would be, but then again there are others in front of us on this sweep, plus it hasn’t rained in quite some time, which would flush all kinds of debris downstream.  There’s plenty of the usual suspects still: primarily plastic bottles and Styrofoam.  Lots and lots of Styrofoam.

“A tight trip is a safe trip,” goes the whitewater maxim.  It’s a good thing we’re not in whitewater because we’re anything but tight.  We won’t see the other two boats in our party once  along the five miles of river we’re covering.  In fact, one of the boats is still AWOL an hour after we rendezvous at the arranged take-out area, leaving four of us speculating and scratching our heads as to their whereabouts.

Old School Art

The twilight hours are the best time here.  All the other times I’ve come have been during the brightest part of the day, which tends to bleach out some of the mystery of place as well as make the mind more restless.  In the quiet of early morning, however, there is room to let your imagination roam at its own speed.  And that’s really the way to see the petroglyphs – slowly, finding a pace, staying open to whatever the images evoke, hearing only your own footsteps.

Following that line of thinking, or non-thinking, I find myself heading in a new direction, walking to the north-facing side of the canyon where I haven’t been before, picking my way through the sand past saltbush and sandsage brush.  Everything looks dead out here, but if you look closely you see it is not.  The plants have managed to send out the faintest of greenery, a leaf here and there, but you have to seek signs of life.  They’re holding out for some life-giving monsoonal moisture in July, and sacrificing limbs until then if necessary.  You wonder about the animals.  Where are the jackrabbits are finding water out here?  But, they too are survivors.

There is no art on the north-facing rocks on this side of the canyon.  Why did they not adorn the rocks on this side?  The first of many questions.  Soon enough, though, reaching the dead end of the box canyon and turning north, they will begin to appear, and in large numbers.  Petroglyph National Monument contains over 25,000 individual images that have been etched into the basalt boulders, most between 400-700 years ago by ancestral Puebloans.

They come in clusters.  Up the canyon wall on one rock is a horse, a man, a crab, a turtle, a snake, and what looks like a rack and a spine (to me at least).  Here is a figure made of three diamonds forming two arms and two legs with an oblongish, sideways, alien head perched on top.  There is a snake with two antennae protruding from its head.  Over there – a two headed bird.  A sun-head with two eyes and a wide, flat nose.  A square Martian head with two antennae.

Why all the Martian forms and the antennae?  Did the ancient Puebloans play host to visitors from outer space or were they imagining what they might look like?  Or, were they just messing with the future generations whom they knew would see their work?

Speaking of the work, that’s another thing that tickles the brain.  Chipping away at the black basalt reveals a lighter shade beneath the surface.  For these images to remain after hundreds and hundreds of years, it took a lot more than lightly scratching the top layer to make something that has lasted this long.  This is a combination of art and hard labor.  How many hours, days, weeks, working under the sun – there isn’t shade for a fly out here – pecking rock on rock, does it take to make these?

Ay Porcupine

As Moe said to Larry, “Ay Porcupine.”  This critter was spotted lounging high up in a cottonwood near the bank of the Rio Grande. Porcupines and beavers in the desert.  I wouldn’t have thought it so.

As for the river, I push off the beach under blue skies and the current grabs the boat and starts floating me south, past high walls on the west and bosque on the east.  It’s going to be a cake journey.  I only have to dip the paddle occasionally to keep the boat from drifting too close to the bank or to turn it to view something.

There is no one else on the river, not that I expected there to be, nor is there is there anyone on the land.  The only creatures I see are a dozen or so cows lazily foraging along the water’s edge, giving me quizzical looks.  Past the cows, the river opens some and there are a few Class I sections.  These are nothing much, but the small standing waves do make a little noise and produce some white color.  Going through is just a point and shoot affair that I could even take sideways if I wanted to, but keeping it straight does provide some acceleration.

The primary challenge is choosing the right channels to take.  The river is split in places by sandbars and on a few occasions I make the wrong choice and get stuck on a rock.  The water is opaque and hard to read.  I look for the channels that seem to be moving along most swiftly, but these do not always indicate depth.   Getting a boat this small off the rocks is just a matter of reaching both arms over, bracing my hands on the river bottom and crab-walking the boat forward until it’s clear.  Of course, this makes my hands turn blue as not only is the water cold, but the wind by now has stiffened and the clouds have moved in.

I break at last after passing under the bridge at Bernalillo and am drifting sideways in the current, wishing the sun would come back out and warm me up when the boat gets pinned on a rock, unseen, just below the surface.  At once the current is pushing on the hull and giving the whole thing a severe and quick tilt.  I’m sure for a second I’m going in the drink, but the current is just shy of being strong enough.  That’s how quickly it can happen.  If that’s not enough, while entering the boat after a shoreline break, my foot slips in the mud.  Grabbing for the boat to steady myself, my hand whacks the paddle from its perch and it begins rolling off, on its way to the river.  The hat that was set upon the paddle goes into the water.  I make a move for the hat, foot slipping again and kicking the boat off of its beached position.  One hand on boat and paddle, I corral the brim, gather my wits and envision standing on the shore and waving good-bye to boat, paddle and hat.  Like I said, it can happen quickly.

Ten miles and four hours later, a clearing in the tamarisk river right marks the take-out, and we’re left with two tips for any would-be travelers of a similar path: 1. Stay mindful.  2.  Learn the yogic hip openers Agnistambhasana and Eka Pada Rajakapotasana.  They’re lifesavers after four cramped and cold hours.

Whiskey’s For Drinkin’

Prior to this, my only firsthand knowledge of the Rio Grande (memo from the Redundancy Department of Redundancy:  It is not the Rio Grande River) came years ago in El Paso, walking the bridge over to Juarez, pausing to watch a cat and mouse game between the border patrol and those fording the river and making a break for it.  By the time the Rio Grande makes it to Mexico, much like the Colorado, there isn’t much river to cross.

With the El Paso-Juarez view of the river etched in my mind – muddy and sludgy and hemmed in by graffiti-tagged concrete ramparts (“Todos somos illegales” one spray-painted missive read) flanking the banks, it’s little wonder why I never considered I’d be paddling the River Big.  Every pass over the river around here, however, brought much neck craning and increased curiosity.  Staring at the exposed sandbars, wondering about the depth and the ease or difficulty of cleanly running the river essentially sealed the deal of a run down the river once the weather warmed.

There were mixed reviews on the idea, ranging from the middle Rio Grande being a good section but you have to know the channels, to don’t cross Indian land, to watch out for bodies (the last comment influenced in all likelihood from watching too many episodes of “Breaking Bad”).  I took all input with an open spirit, but my mind was made up.  By then I’d adopted the mantra of one of the fiercest competitors in the history of Illinois State University intramural athletics:  “We’ll not…be…DENIED!!”

Desire, however, will not get you down a dry river.  The timing has to be right, and it was.  Albuquerque was set to begin releasing around 200 million gallons of water a day into the Rio Grande north of Espanola for several weeks via Abiquiu Reservoir and the Rio Chama.  This gives a window for some adequate flow on the river.  It won’t last long.  The water situation is so dire that water managers are trying to figure out how to keep the water deep enough during the summer to cover the endangered Rio Grande Silvery Minnow.

 The section for this trip is approximately ten miles, from Algodones to Rio Rancho.  A gate bars the dirt road leading to the river, so I carry boat and gear the last quarter-mile, a bosque of cottonwoods to the left, an acequia to the right.  There’s a small descent down a hill to a sandy area below the dam.  There’s ample water flowing over the dam and the water looks plenty deep.  A calm eddy on this beach makes for a  perfect spot to put-in.  On the other side is a towering bluff, rust colored and crossed by a crow bouncing “caw-caw” off its walls.  There’s no one else around this morning, but others have been here, evidenced by beer cans and bottles, and an empty booze container or two.  I kick one over out of curiosity - a plastic bottle of some cut-rate brand of cinnamon schnapps (is there such a thing as a premium brand of cinnamon schnapps?).

Once PFD is strapped, water bottle clipped in, dry bag lashed, paddle snapped together, and everything overviewed one last time, I ease the boat in and look downstream.  There’s a bend immediately in front that prevents me from seeing what’s next.  Getting in the boat and not knowing what’s up ahead is why, if anyone asks.

Spring Break!

Ahh, Spring Break…Ft. Lauderdale, Daytona Beach, Algodones.   Algodones?  Never heard of it?  If not, you’re forgiven, but your homework is to look it up.  Check that, never mind.  “Homework” and “Spring Break” should never be used in the same sentence, paragraph, page, or day.  Perish the thought.

The first two locales (Ft. Lauderdale ’84 was OFF THE HOOK, and I can’t remember much from Daytona, so it must have been good) are from spring breaks past.  The latter is from spring break present.  Now that I’ve given away a ballpark figure of my age, it’s plain to see why spring break now doesn’t (or shouldn’t) involve watching  wet t-shirt contests at Penrod’s on A1A.  Still, spring break is always cool and you want to, like, do something.

That’s what brings us to Algodones.  Cancun or Panama City Beach it is not.  It is more like the center of nothing.  It may not be known for its party scene, but it does possess one spring break essential: water.

Now forgive me for jumping all over the place here, but I have much to cover in little time, one being the reintroduction of a fixture from NIIY posts past, an old stand-by that was nearly sold off before the journey west.  Yes, I am referring to (please make welcome) The Yellow Ledbetter!!  It’s been a long cold lonely winter for the inflatable kayak, stuffed in its canvas bag and all but forgotten in the car’s trunk.  If not for my big feet, the boat would still be in Florida and this trip down the Rio Grande would have never happened.  Let me explain.

Back in November during the getting-rid-of-everything-but-the-essentials period, I put the Yellow Ledbetter up for sale on Craigslist, paddle included.  Really, went my reasoning,  what the hell am I going to need a boat for in the desert?

Answer: ———————————>  

I can’t recall the starting price, but it was a decent deal and I figured it would get snatched quickly.  No replies, so I dropped the price by 25, maybe $50.  Still, no bites.  I drop the price again, then again.  With great shame and indignation, I dropped the price one final time.  I will unburden myself and confess that this final asking price was a slap in the face to my trusty kayak: $99.  Shoot, the paddle alone cost me $85 new.

The new price did get a reply, and it wasn’t even a cash offer.  It was an email from a guy offering to trade a Swiss Army watch for the boat.

I replied I didn’t need a watch, but could sure use a good pair of hiking boots where I was going.  Did he have a nice pair of Merrell’s or some such high end boots?

He had a pair of Timberlands which I would have looked at, but they were size 9; much too small, so the deal was dead.  At that point, I took the boat off of Craigslist and righteously declared, “No one’s gettin’ this boat!  The Ledbetter’s comin’ to New Mexico!”

After doing some scouting of the Rio Grande and talking to some locals, it turns out that keeping the boat was a solid decision, as my gut had told me back when.  The dam at the town of Algodones turns out to be the perfect place to kick off spring break.

Duke City to Nuke City

Feeling cheated at being denied the mountaintop by the snow and lack of trail, I climb down to the road and begin the walk of the defeated.  Adding insult to injury, there’s no shoulder and blind corners and I have to jump off into snow banks every time a car approaches.  Soon the dirt road where the coyote appeared comes into view and with it the intersection to the known trail, predictable and easily followed back.  This just won’t do.  I head deeper into the hills instead.

Still haunted by the sense that there’s a magic trail somewhere up there in the snow that leads up and over the mountain onto a vista of a great plain paved with gold and jewels (my cognitive functions being compromised by now from hours of physical exertion), I plod upward, out of earshot and view of the road I was on, but each ridge only yields another until I’m forced to concede that there’s only so many hours of daylight left and only so much reserve of energy left that had best be used for getting back and not for further exploration.

Finding a new path on the return, I take it.  It’s leading in the predominant direction I want to go, so why not?  Another excuse to practice the gentle art of wandering.  It isn’t long before things are looking less and less familiar and the woods start playing their tricks on my mind.  Am I lost?  How much daylight left?  What happened to the road?  Man, it’s cold out here.  Thoughts of retracing the many steps I’ve taken all the way back to familiar territory come, but no, there has to be a wiser way out.  Think smarter, not harder.

 I come to a clearing in the trees and the large globular object appears in front of me, emerging like a full moon, only this moon wears a crown of antennae and transmitters.  The writing on it identifies the water tower as belonging to Los Alamos National Laboratory.  My mind is off and running and there’s no stopping it now.

Have I infiltrated the perimeter of LANL?  If so, no doubt they know I’m here.  I crouch and look around for drones, for cameras in trees.  I’ve got to get out of here, but how?  There is a road below I don’t recognize.  Cars on the road  are driving to the gate.  Yep, I’m convinced I’m breaking federal law here.  My mind whirs and informs me I’ve got three things working in my favor if I make the precipitous climb down to the road and appeal to the mercy of the guards:

1.  It’s an honest mistake, right?  I’m just a wayward hiker.

2.  The sequester has just gone into effect.  Maybe Homer Simpson is manning the gate, given the latest round of budget cuts.

3.  I can employ a little nuclear humor to break the ice. Q: How can you tell if a physicist is an extrovert?  A: He looks at your shoes when he speaks to you instead of looking at his own.  That ought to work.  The feds are known for their sense of humor, aren’t they?

As it turns out, the whole arrest-detain scenario proves to be just a figment.  Upon reaching the road, my disorientation reveals itself fully.  I was one hundred and eighty degrees wrong.  This stretch of road is not inside the lab at all.  The cars I watched from above were heading to, not from, the lab.  Can I just get a burrito and go home now?

No Smoking, Please

I’ve driven too far.  The road I’m on dead ends at the guarded front gate to Los Alamos National Laboratory, as in Manhattan Project, know whadda mean?  Luckily, there’s a turnaround before the final approach to security.  I’m not the first one to get funneled into the one-way, and am grateful they’ve provided an easy turnaround.  It’s much easier to pull a you-ey than drive up to the gate and make small talk:  “Hey, fellas, what’s cookin’?  I seem to have taken a wrong turn back in Albuquerque,” and so forth.

Glad to be out of there, I’m soon on the road leading to the ski area.  A half-mile later, I pull off and dock it.  The Race Director has told me where to pick up a trail used in the major climbing portion of the Jemez Mountains Trail Runs, starting at about 8,000 feet and climbing to the top of the mountain at 10,400.  “That should make for a hearty little jaunt,” methinks rosily.  The best laid plans…

Across the road, things are dismal, and I am compelled to go look.  What I see can only be described as brutal.  In front of me is a deep, deep gorge – Los Alamos Canyon - turned into the world’s largest ashtray, a landscape burnt to a powdered gray.  Los Alamos isn’t the place you’d say this lightly: It looks like a bomb went off here.  That’s the way it will be looking most of the way up, save for this patch of surviving trees amid the burn zone, tickling the imagination with the question, “How on earth did they not get consumed?”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the road, things look healthier.  Apparently not all the flames were able to make it out of the canyon and jump the road, but there’s ample damage here, too.

Following the cairns that mark the single-track through the forest,  I follow the gentle upslope, losing  the trail a couple of times.  It is not very well limned, but the road is close-by and it would be hard to get lost.  After crossing an intersecting dirt road, I spy a coyote about fifty feet ahead.  Beyond the coyote is the road and a car that has stopped.  I suspect whoever was in the car saw it and pulled over for a better look, thus spooking the coyote and sending it running my way.  The animal is looking toward the road, having no idea that I’m standing there clearly in its line of sight.  After a moment, it either picks up my scent or senses someone standing there.  It turns its head, sees me, and takes off in a brisk trot.

That’s it for the trail.  I go in circles, backtrack, and look everywhere for more cairns to point the way, but find none.  I finally give up and continue along a northern tack, wanting to follow a similar path as the runners in the race so I can write about the course with some authority.  The going gets tough.  First, all avenues begin getting choked off by outgrowths of thorny shrubs that stand around two and a half feet high, just the right height to slice at my hands if I let them dangle, which I do.  Unbeknownst to me, the thorns are undaunted by denim and are cutting roadmaps on my legs as well.  In addition, the snow is getting deeper.  It might be time to reassess the sitch.