The Great Escape

We couldn’t have been more opposite.

Diane likes salami, soft cheese and gin. I prefer raw veggies, nuts, avocado and wine. We spread all that out on a rock once we’d set up our tents in the slim shade of indigo and rabbit brush on the banks of the stretch of Colorado River called Black Canyon. Our kayaks were bow-tied to metal stakes at water’s edge: floating refrigerators in the 54 degree water for the rest of our food stored in rear compartments. There would be cold wine and water when we returned from soaking in the hot springs pool up our canyon.

So far we were the only campers. Day trippers were coming and going by boat to visit these springs then moving on upriver before their Willow Beach Marina rentals were due back eight miles downstream. We timed our trip to avoid the Spring break college crowds. So far so good. We’d come on a week day, stopping overnight in Boulder City to sample the new brewery there.

 Definitely a worthy addition to this otherwise quiet town lined with antique shops and historical murals commemorating the construction of Hoover Dam. Even the food and service in the restaurants and breakfast diners were good.

It was springtime. Red barrel cactus dotted the canyon walls as we paddled up from Willow Beach the first morning. A fisherman barely visible through his personal cloud of cigarette smoke gave us advice on where to find eagles and the dock hand at the marina shouted his envy of our trip as we paddled by. Inconceivably purple flowers exploded from beavertail cactus. The glorious indigenous canyon nettles sprung like bouquets from tiny impossible cracks in granite boulders perching over the river. Something in the wet stones smelled like sweet fresh cigars.

I had dreamed of sheep. Not so I could sleep better, but to make up for not seeing any the last time I’d come here, years ago. I was ready. We must have pleased the canyon gods. Across the river near mile marker 56, six Bighorn Sheep made their way up a ridge onto a plateau where four others were already munching on ground cherry bushes. We could make them out when they moved. In stillness they were stone and sand.

Still smiling, we were further gifted after kayaking another mile upstream, seeing  two absolute fur-ball babies, one not more than three months, another less than six months old, following four adults to the water for a drink. Slowly we crossed the river to get closer. Two small power boats cruised up river, turned off their engines and watched with us. Does it get any better?! We hadn’t even gotten to our campsite.

The hot springs are the reward after climbing a 20-foot ladder up a broad waterfall. The pool is maintained with sandbags positioned between waterfalls of 95-130 degree groundwater heated far from the surface by contact with molten rock, then moved through faults at 400 gallons per minute. Steam rich in chloride, sulphate, sodium, potassium and calcium has painted white and green mosaics around the pools. Small candles are stuck into hand-sized nooks.

In ours, we found Jackie and Lloyd from British Columbia, lounging with Las Vegas John, who comes to the Black Canyon once a week, volunteering with rangers to monitor wild life, both human and critter, and collect trash left by the former. John had local knowledge and a lot of red wine. We shared our meager fire with him for two nights and he was gracious enough to show the Canadians and I the sometimes subtle six-mile loop up the steeper hot springs trail to the top and back down the main White Rock Canyon.

The gods were still with us. We paused at one point to let a stream of Bighorn Sheep cross the trail. Half a mile later a boulder covered in petroglyphs revealed the Native Americans here nearly a century ago built hot air balloons. John knew the way around, instead of up, a 25-foot stone dry waterfall that actually leaned out at the top and had turned other hikers back all the way to the river. Above the canyon, where the desert became the frighteningly flat, shadowless landscape that keeps me west of the Cuyamacas, grasshoppers swarmed in the flowering creosote bushes.

We wove our way down on the mercifully sandy path sandwiched between walls of granite and lava, watched by more than one Bighorn silhouetted against the creeping twilight above us. The new moon was no match for the swath of stars rolled out to cover our canyon bed.

The Colorado River conjures images of melted milk chocolate churning over massive boulders, dragging snags and kayakers into voluminous spiraling water troughs for hundreds of miles. Yet here we struggled only slightly up a wide flowing current of clear, emerald green waters. Ducks dogged us every mile, cormorants sped past inches above the water, egrets elegantly perched, the ineluctable vultures circled and stared, and a pair of bald eagles rode drafts straight up a cliff into far thinner atmosphere high above.

Diane and I spent the better part of a day paddling up to the dam, as close as was allowed, then bobbing into the sauna cave, lounging on semi secret beaches, scaling waterfalls with help from sturdy ropes left dangling, eating the rest of our (her) salami and (my) raw red peppers and pumpkin seeds. Only twice were we in current so strong we were sent back downstream till we found the right line.

The strong current comes from water being released beneath the dam. A big water day means everyone in Las Vegas is using their air conditioners. I had never seen the water so high here. My favorite waterfall that drops between Mexican palm trees onto a gravel beach found no such beach, only deep water as we paddled by. No shower today.

The night before, while sipping wine after dinner, I had heard that sound that makes any kayaker come fully awake. Fiberglass knocking against…. something, anything. Not good. I raced to the water to find our kayaks floating in three feet deep water, fortunately still tied tightly to the metal stakes beneath the tamarask trees. Up the beach we carried them.

Sunburned and smiling after our upriver adventure, we arrived home to discover we now shared our beach with a father and two sons tucked in for the night out of sight, and 20 loud college students from SDSU. Go figure. They created a kitchen table by laying three canoes side by side then stacking another crosswise over them.

Though rangers rarely make it down to the hot springs, the river is managed well. Power boats are not allowed on Sundays and Mondays, and not at all from Memorial Day to Labor Day. Boaters can park free overnight at Willow Beach for two nights. There is beer, a grill deli and a store with most things a boater might have left at home by the garage door. But they are constructing a pay station at the entrance to the marina, so it will soon lose that everyman charm.

The gods clearly wanted us to stay another day. What we’d anticipated to be a casual cruise with the current was not. A strong wind growing stronger blew white caps in our faces forcing us to actually work for our eight mile journey. A few new springs, old friend cactus flowers and spiraling eagles broke the monotony of toil, and easy beach loading area kept it simple. Diane is a great kayak camper; helpful and efficient. She told me stories and managed the radio as I drove us white knuckled through 65 mph winds the entire way home. We watched dust tornados rise up and spin perniciously towards the highway. Twice we were knocked sideways, covered in dust by the force of the blow. But our kayaks held fast and we celebrated with champagne, our minds still quietly lounging in hot springs under the stars in a narrow rock canyon.

 

 

Silver Blade Regatta

I’ll admit it.

I’m really bad with numbers. Ask anyone who’s kayaked a coastal with me; I’ll be peaking at their Garmin asking how far we’ve gone, amazed at the ease with which they punch a series of buttons to learn not only distance of 14.2 but over time, how fast our average speed was. Simple for a calculator: distance over rate x time? For my brain? Not so much.

I have a girlfriend training for a half ironman. On a short bike ride hill climb the other day, she called out the slope of our ride: 3.7….. 8.2! At the top she adjusted the strap of her heart rate monitor, which dictated when she should slow down or pause for her oxygen intake rate to catch up with demand.

All I know is the SDCKT kids training under former Olympian Coach Chris Barlow paddle K-1s in the 200M sprint in the blink of an eye.

I know when I raced the 200M and felt my heart pounding at the finish like 20 tribal warriors on coca leaf tea, I can guess what the heart rate monitor would say: zero O2. I can handle simple numbers.

Really simple. Like integers of one. I can unfactor a quadratic equation, but simple math gets me every time. When my buddies and I, the folks over age 20 in surfskis, were resting on the benches after the 2000M surfski race and someone asked how old I am, I forgot, and said I was older than I am. I had to go home and do the math on paper. Sad but true!

What wasn’t sad is how consistently supportive everyone on the water is to each other. One tribe. Barb and Mark came down just to offer homemade turbo charged cookies and take pictures (all the pics of us on surfkis, including the 200M race, and onshore are Barb’s and Mark’s).  Jon Brindle was nice enough to lead us down the course, Ken was nice enough to wait til I rounded the second buoy to pass me (and not look back).

Teresa kept reminding us we were there for the kids, and certainly everyone there was. Debra also got up early and came a long way to paddle with friends and Rose didn’t rub it in our faces that she was racing grueling SUPs heats and finals all day long between our surfski finals.

SDCKT parents were up till 3:00 a.m. making sandwiches and cookies. Susie and Les Hopper got an extra birthday cake: one for their son and one for friend Thomas Maximus. Someone built the podium stands. Time keepers, organizers, coaches and trailer drivers volunteered their expertise. The Olympic Training Center let us use their facility.

Three-time Olympian Rami Zur paddles the 200M on a SUP as fast as I do in a surfski (One minute flat). And he probably wasn’t even trying.

It’s a thing of beauty to watch standout Southern California watermen and women like Zur, Thomas Maximus, gold medalist Krisztina Zur,  Sofia DeWolfe, newcomer to So Cal Austin Kieffer, in perfect form streaking across the surface of Otay Lakes like so many graceful Canadian geese  launching into flight with barely a splash.

Upcoming stars from SDCKT Jonny Espinosa, Michael Holmes, Noa Hopper, Sammie Barlow, Daniel Chevallier, Parker Roberts, Devin Bartlett and Juliette Clark all had one excellent day in the sun at the Silver Blade Regatta, a benefit for these young athletes in their quest for the top of the podium at National Team Trials the last weekend of April in Oklahoma.

I wondered just quickly they might be living here at the OTC themselves; replacing the posters of young hunks I could never name in the locker room with even fresher faces. I never got to see who the pin-ups were in the men’s locker room. More important than eye candy was the sobering reminder on the inside of every stall to be properly hydrated for your workout.

Youth have reserves from the last peanut butter cookie stored somewhere in their wrists that release when they grab a wing paddle. But at the OTC they grow from adrenalin-laced spirits to finely-honed specimens; the very best, all the time.

Somewhere in the middle of that night I woke from a dream wherein wires trailed from my wrists, knees and around my scalp, gathering data. Is it enough to just grin from ear to ear on a following swell and shout into the wind? Yes, but you have to be fit to do it. Gotta love events like SBR to bring the tribe together and remind us: with or without data gadgets, you have to be in great shape to have great fun on the water.