Dry Run: Rafting the Dolores River

You Are Here:

Home >> Dry Run on the River of Sorrows (cont.)

Today's Question
How do you make primitive snowshoes? answer

What should you do if you get lost driving in a snow storm? answer

Today's Question
What is the greenest ski and snowboard on the market? answer

Can I really damage a coral reef with sunscreen while snorkeling? answer

What kind of dog will make me look manlier? answer
Is there a sport that safely combines my twin passions for guns and kayaks? answer
How come most of the world's cultures enjoy eating goat, but Americans don't? answer

Online Favorites

Special Issues

Photo Galleries

Outside Magazine, June 2004

Page:

Dry Run on the River of Sorrows (cont.)


	Flatwater detour: One of several irrigation canals fed by McPhee Reservoir, downriver from the town of Dolores; the water is diverted to alfalfa fields around Cortez, Colorado. (James Fee)

AFTER A BRIEF RETURN to Moab, I met up with my friend Damon Yerkes downriver from the town of Slick Rock, Colorado, to tackle the next part. Damon is the perfect partner for an ill-conceived expedition. He used to work for a Fortune 500 company, got "reorganized," and then, he says, "learned how to live like a dirtbag for $40 a day." Now 43, he resides in Salt Lake City, where his jobs include ski tech, river guide, and landscaper.

Our destination was Slick Rock Canyon, a 31-mile stretch of the Dolores bordered by the rugged badlands between the San Juan Mountains and Utah's canyon country. But Damon had a flat tire. And when we put on the spare, it was flat, too.

"God damn," he said, and that summed it up. We were about five miles from pavement, 20 miles from a town. We hid his truck behind a juniper and pressed on in mine. From mile 63 we drove until the road got too rough, then carried our packs to a side canyon and hiked overnight to the heart of Slick Rock Canyon.

Down there, the cliffs were high and the river was wide and shallow. An owl hooted. We camped at mile 85 on a dry bench above the Dolores and set out downriver on foot in the morning. Travel was grim. The banks were choked with willow and tamarisk, which I occasionally had to crawl under on my belly. The river itself was thigh deep in places, very cold, the color of chocolate milk, and slathered with quicksand that swallowed us to the knee. After six miles of scrambling, sinking, and bushwhacking, we were scraped and exhausted.

We returned to camp and cracked open a plastic bottle of bourbon. I was suddenly very clear about why whitewater rafting is a much more popular activity than whitewater walking.

Page:

•	Subscribe to Outside and get a FREE Gift!

•	Give the gift of Outside Magazine!

•	Subscribe to Outside Online's free weekly e-mail newsletter featuring gear reviews, fitness advice, galleries, podcasts, and more.