Dry Run: Rafting the Dolores River

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Outside Magazine, June 2004

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Dry Run on the River of Sorrows (cont.)


	Unboatable days: a lonely picnic area near the mining town of Bedrock (James Fee)

EXPEDITIONS PLANNED from my trailer home in Moab, Utah, tend to be slipshod and half-assed, and this drought descent of the Dolores would be no exception. On a map, I split the river into six sections, and over the next six weeks I scanned the hourly flow updates on the Internet, kayak strapped atop the truck, ready to deploy at a moment's notice. When a certain section rose to where it might float a small craft, I figured I'd go it alone or bamboozle a friend or two into joining me, and we'd dart out across the desert in search of a river. It would be a piecemeal journey in which we'd skip around to different stretches as the flows allowed, occasionally even ditching the boat altogether.

The section that most resembles a normal river is the Upper Dolores, a 37-mile stretch that runs from its headwaters, near the old mining town of Rico, along Colorado 145 to the town of Dolores. I drove over from Moab on a cold spring morning, found a gravel pullout, and dragged my kayak down an embankment. Scraping along the riverbed, I realized I was a bit early: April snow beds lined the riverbanks, the cottonwoods were gray and naked, and the water was icy. But at least I was floating, and the canyon was fine, lined with leafless aspens on one side and tall firs on the other. Yet as I paddled by the village of Dolores, I saw banks of silt. The current died beneath me, and there I was on McPhee Reservoir. Dirt bikes whined across the sand flats that had been exposed by the dropping water level. Dust clouds blew in the crosswinds. This was as far as the current would take me.

I wanted to see the dam, but it's not open to the public, so I went back to Moab and made an appointment for an official tour. When the day arrived, I drove out to the Bureau of Reclamation office in Cortez. Vern Harrell, the McPhee operations manager, invited me into his office and made a phone call while I admired thebearskins and elk heads mounted on the wall beside framed federal-issue portraits of Bush and Cheney. Then he hung up and told me the tour was nixed.

"Code Orange," he said. "The whole country's on alert."

I thanked him and walked out the door.

Code Orange, my ass. It's a free country, and I was going to proceed with or without an official tour. If I couldn't see the dam, I'd at least get a good look at the reservoir. So I got in my truck and wound down a gravel road toward the mudflats of McPhee Reservoir. Night was falling, and snow was expected. I sped along the road, which headed across the retreating reservoir, and, as I started to fishtail, realized that this road was actually a berm. The mud was slick, and if I lost momentum I'd sink. I kept my foot on the gas, rode out the fishtails, and finally reached a dry spot where I thought I could turn around. I tried a ten-point turn, but the rear wheels of my truck slid off the edge and spun.

One of these days, I reflected, I'll buy a four-wheel drive.

I got out, pulled on a parka, and slogged back across the berm. It got dark fast, and half an hour later I arrived at a lonely gas station. I told the cashier where I was stuck.

"Been there, done that," said a lady buying a six-pack. The cashier gave me the phone book, and I began to call the local tow trucks, all of whom declined my business. By this time a gray-haired man had arrived behind the counter, and he and the cashier were listening to my ordeal.

"We could call Buck," the cashier suggested.

"Buck's drunk," said the gray-haired man.

We stood there, looking at the candy bars.

"What the heck," said the man. "I've got a truck."

With his help, we hauled my pickup out of the mud.

This was some river trip, I thought. I had made it past the dam, but if I wanted to go on, I'd have to drag my kayak over 108 miles of cobble before the free-flowing waters of the San Miguel joined the Dolores. And then—maybe—my boat would float.

You might think this is about to become one of those stories where the author sulks for days along a dry riverbed just to make you feel guilty for flushing the toilet.

Hell, no.

I ditched the boat, got in my truck, and drove the next section to mile 63. That's what roads are for.

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