Day 4, Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Day four started early for me. About 12:30 A.M. when I awoke to howling
wind and waves crashing onto shore. I had dreams of being stuck the cow-shit
mud-hole for another day.
We woke up at 5:30 A.M. and started taking apart camp. The wind had subsided
and the waves had gone from crashing to gentle lapping. Our opportunity
for escape had arrived. I was thrilled.
I was excited about the prospect of negotiating the lake trees by headlamp.
I thought it would feel very adventurous. But by the time we had our boats
loaded and ate breakfast, it was nearly 7:00 and plenty light to put the
headlamps away.
We enjoyed a light northwest breeze for the next 3 miles as we finished
our traverse of Lake Mohave. We were both happy to have that section of
river behind us.
We now had about 12 miles to paddle before our take-out at Katherine Landing,
just before the Davis dam.
After Lake Mohave, the river gets narrower and the mountains much closer
to the bank. We decided that we wanted to paddle about half way to Katherine
Landing and camp for one more night before the downstream section of our
trip was over. The beaches, landings and viable campsites became fewer
and farther between and the wind began to build again.
The waves never became unmanageable, but we were barely putting our blades
in the water and averaging around four knots. At this rate, we would be
at the end in a few hours and not find a final campsite. I started suggesting
small beaches, questionable landings, and campsites that were just barely
big enough for our tent. Leslie refused every one of my suggestions.
“What about in this cove? How about here? Our tent could fit there.”
Leslie was like an expectant mother picking colors for the nursery. Nothing
was good enough. We were now less than three miles from the Davis Dam
and I was having visions of a sleazy Nevada motel instead of a final quiet
camp.
We came across another cove, slightly bigger than the past few and without
asking, I swept hard on my port side and made the right turn into the
cove. I was determined to find us a good camp. As I rounded a steep rocky
peninsula, a 100-yard pea-gravel beach opened up before my eyes. I raised
my paddle above my head in victory and announced that I had found our
beach. Leslie followed shortly behind and agreed.
The cove was about 150 meters in diameter and separated from the main
channel by a high rocky peninsula. The water was deep and clear and the
beach was surrounded on all sides by steep rocky hills. The beach was
completely protected from the cold north wind and wide open to the warm
desert sun in the south. We had found the perfect spot to spend our last
downstream night.
Since we had more or less skipped breakfast to escape the muddy Lake Mohave
feral cow pasture, we were both unusually hungry for lunch. I filtered
a few liters of water and started the stove. We made a big bowl of pasta
with garlic and olive oil and ate our fill. After lunch, we spread our
sleeping pads out on the beach and napped. When we woke, we hiked up to
the top of one of the nearby hills. I powered up my cell phone, and to
my dismay, I had two bars of service. This evidence of the ubiquitous
reach of modern convenience spoiled the sense of serene isolation a bit,
but I needed only to make one call and I could go back to believing that
we were all alone on our beach. I dialed Helen’s mobile number and
she answered. I told her that we were two miles from Katherine Landing
and that we would be there in the morning. After a long, hearty laugh
on the other end of the line, Helen said that she would be there with
our car. In Helen’s tenure as an outfitter on the Colorado River,
after dropping hundreds of people off to paddle downstream, only two people
before us had made it all the way down. Now here are these two nut-balls
from Wisconsin that made it in four windy January days. The signal was
not strong enough to support idle chitchat so we ended the call and I
powered off my phone. Relieved, I stashed it away in my backpack and we
continued to explore the surroundings.
We clambered up and down several more rocks and hills, many of which were
steeper, higher and more sheer than I liked but Leslie led us up, down,
around and across every hill she could find. We walked around three more
mini-coves that were just downstream from our cove. They were so clear,
sandy and protected that I thought they must have been the inspiration
for a modern swimming pool. We both thought that they looked inviting
for a swim, but the 54 degree water always reminded us that it was winter
and we were still in North America.
Surrounded by mountains again, the shadows grew long as the sun began
its descent in the Southwest. Soon the bright afternoon was nothing more
than a pink glow from the other side of the Nevada hills. We spent the
evening reflecting on the past four days and enjoying the fact that we
were only half way through our vacation.
We skipped the tent again and laid there in our sleeping bags with nothing
but the stars over our heads. After a fitful night in the mud-pit listening
to the wind howl, this was just grand. I fell asleep early.
Day 5, Wednesday, January 10
For a chronic insomniac, an early night means an early morning. I crawled
out of my sleeping bag and tiptoed around the beach as quietly as I could
given the pea-gravel. I set up my camera and tri-pod and awaited the rising
sun like a hunter waiting for his quarry. I was rewarded with one of the
most beautiful sunrises I have every seen. Not being a very experienced
photographer, the photos included here do not come close to capturing
the full beauty of the experience.
The plan called for an early rise and a leisurely paddle for the remaining
two miles to Katherine Landing before the forecasted south winds kicked
in. With many coves to explore, we wanted to be on the water as soon as
the sun broke the horizon. My experiments with film speed, shutter speed
and other camera settings delayed my packing enough that we didn’t
make the water until close to 8:30. That left enough time for a leisurely
paddle but no side trips into the coves. We stuck to the main channel
and kept the bows pointed south.
Katherine Landing was easy enough to find, but the boat launch was hidden
behind rows upon rows of finger piers hosting dozens of houseboats, powerboats,
fishing boats and even a few sailboats. When we finally found the boat
ramp, we saw the familiar headlights of Frank Cushman (our Golf) approaching
the ramp from the road. Helen came out to greet us and we gave her a brief
report of the trip.
The 10-minute drive back to her shop was more like a tour through Colorado
River history. If you are ever stuck in Bullhead City, AZ and need to
kill a few minutes or several hours, I would highly recommend a stop at
Desert River Kayak. Throw out any topic if only tangentially related to
the Colorado River and you will get a lesson with as much detail for which
you have time. Helen is a fascinating woman and a walking, talking resource
for all things Colorado.
Leslie and I now had roughly 48 hours before we needed to meet Dave and
Michelle back at Willow beach for our upstream section of the trip. The
marquee lights outside of Gretchen’s Inn, across the street from
Desert River Kayak, touted a Laundromat open to the public so we stopped
there to wash our now stinky camping and paddling clothes.
We considered camping at Davis Camp County Park, essentially a parking
lot along the river divided into small rectangular plots for tents and
large rectangular plots for RV’s. For a mere ten dollars more we
could stay right in the lap of luxury at Gretchen’s. No extra charge
for the beautiful view of all the casinos and hotels across the river
in Laughlin, Nevada. Gretchen’s looked like the type of place where
you bring your sleeping bag rather than brave the sheets, but the proprietors
seemed friendly and the sheets actually clean, so we splurged for the
motel room. We paid the clerk, dumped our bags and slept for about three
hours.
As long as we were splurging, we thought we would cross the bridge and
head into Laughlin to find some late night dinner. A local recommended
The Boiler Room, a brewpub within the large Riverboat themed casino on
the main drag called the Colorado Belle. Skeptical, but hungry, we went
for it. The Boiler Room, as it turns out, is right were the boiler room
would have been if the Colorado Belle were actually an old river paddle
wheeler. The décor was surprisingly well done. The walls were faux
steel panels held together with faux rivets, some of which even had some
faux rust starting to appear. The decoration included maps, charts, compasses,
cylinder heads, connecting rods, big valves, old brass fittings and other
steamship scaled nostalgia. I have to say it was pretty cool. The Wisconsin
beer cheese soup was excellent, and the rest of the food was O.K. The
beer was great. Again, if you ever find yourself in Bullhead City or Laughlin,
after your talk with Helen head over to the Boiler Room for a few beers.
Day 6, Thursday, January 11
Thursday was a big question mark in our plan. We had left it as an extra
day for the downstream part of our paddle, and since we didn’t need
it, there was a gap in our paddling plan. Neither of us had done much
exercise in a while, so Leslie devised a plan. We would drop our kayaks
at Camp Davis park (the glorified parking lot), then drive 5 miles downstream
and leave our car, run back to the boats then paddle the 5 miles back
to the car. From there, we would load up our boats and head back upstream
to Willow Beach to look for a camping site where we would stay the night
and meet Dave in the morning. It was a good plan.
The drop, drive, run and paddle all went as planned. The paddle wasn’t
terribly scenic, but it was pretty cool to cruise by the entire Laughlin,
Nevada strip.
After the paddle, we made a quick pasta lunch and headed to the Safeway
to pick up a few items which we short packed: apple cider packets, cappuccino
mix and pasta sauce packets. Don’t ever try to find packets for
hot apple cider in Arizona. They have no idea what it is.
We made the drive back out to Kingman and north to Willow beach. It was
nearly 4:00 PM now and we needed to find a campsite. There were “No
Camping” signs all over the Willow Beach area. Normally, a simple
sign at a big empty park area wouldn’t keep me from pitching a tent
for the night, but the forecast called for up to an inch of snow at higher
elevations. I am a complete rookie in the desert and what little knowledge
I had of the local geology was that Willow Beach was a in fact a beach
because the valley leading down to it was a wash in times of heavy rain.
“What qualified as heavy rain? If it snows up high, will it rain
down near us? If a flash flood occurs, how much time would we have to
scramble to higher ground?” These were all questions racing through
my head. I could see the headlines: Midwest Campers Make Camp in Wash
Despite Forecasts for Rain, Wash Away in Flood. I convinced myself
that Willow Beach was not the place to camp.
We drove around for about 45 minutes trying to find a more suitable campsite.
We quickly learned that in the canyon lands, all places fall into two
categories: mountain or wash. We began to face the inevitable destiny
of spending a night in Las Vegas. I have never been to Las Vegas, and
I could die a happy man not ever going. Now, in the middle of our 12-day
adventure in the wilderness, Cheetah’s Motel and Slots could be
our only shelter.
The up side of the situation is that we would have to cross Hoover Dam
to get there. I have never seen the Hoover Dam and the early 90’s
song by Sugar (“Standing on the Edge of the Hoover Dam,” Copper
Blue) had always led me to believe that I would achieve some new perspective
on life by doing so.
I discovered that the only thing separating me from an eight-hundred foot
tumble down a concrete face into the turbulent outflow of six huge water
turbines was a four foot masonry wall. The only new perspective I gained
was that I’m not quite ready to die yet. Moving on: Las Vegas.
Only five minutes into Nevada from the dam, we discovered the Hacienda
Hotel and Casino. It was bright, gaudy, big and surely a mere sample of
what Las Vegas has to offer, but it was worth a shot. Leslie and I decided
that if it were cheaper than fifty bucks, we would call it home for the
night. I went in to the front desk to start negotiations. Surely the rooms
started at the hundred-dollar mark, and I would have to whittle it down
from there. The receptionist’s first offer surprised me. $39 for
the night. $42 with tax. Not seeing a lot of promise in trying to negotiate
this one, I took her offer. We spent the night in a hotel/casino so trashy
it didn’t even make Las Vegas.