This morning, strangely enough, Marc did not roust until the sun cooked him out of his tent, from whence he staggered blearily looking for cigarettes. I went down and swam in the river and changed clothes, since the fibers from the shirt/short combo I'd been wearing for the last two days had started to become integrated with my skin through some matrix of dirt, sweat, and grease. I had brought my best river vee-neck, but nobody was impressed.
"What's with
the big hole, Pete?" Alicia said. "Did something chew through your shirt?"
"Girls," I said. Nobody laughed,
but they should have.
We were running late, and I was concerned about distance. Despite the long day we'd put in yesterday, we still had, by my estimate, about 23 miles to go to Goblin City at mile 37. We got on the river after a quick breakfast and a slow pack-up. At this point everyone was well-seasoned. Patrick and Steve were maneuvering like pros, and so was everybody else. At this point we started the rafting training portion of the float. We bungeed everything together and started conducting intricate maneuvers, occasionally directed by yours truly from the prow. I can't really remember too much else from this day. The Buttah went around in a languid circle. Marc and I ran out of good beer and had to shift to Modelo Especial full time. After the "raft" successfully navigated a twisting series of channels, we emerged to see the Goblin City site in front of us, several hours earlier than expected. And it was already covered with Centennial canoe adventure losers. About several million of them, it seemed. I debarked the canoe to see and walked straight into a clearing featuring a 50 something woman taking a dump in a chemical toilet. Great.
We couldn't find Group 2, who was supposed to meet us there, but the place was like a outdoorsy dork convention center and everybody's canoe looked the same. Turned out they were there, but had already started the hike; Leena being, by all reports, eager to find a place from which she could hang upside down by her toes and encourage Jim to climb faster. I was a bit disappointed that we couldn't camp there alone, but not surprised, and we were there so early! We'd made 50+ miles in 1.5 days of canoeing! Other canoists said that Centennial would unashamedly camp on top of other canoe groups; due to the enormous numbers of people they bring down the river, they can't just "wing it," but still their etiquette sucks. Note to self- check Centennial's schedule before picking a weekend to canoe a river. Apparently they make camping on the Gunnison difficult as well, and for the same reason.
Anyway, we didn't want or need to camp with the Centennial group, but we had time for a hike. We stomped up the closest ridge on a trail that didn't futz around with cutbacks or anything like that- straight up a field of loose shale went we. The view was fantastic; we were dwarfed by the plateau, the sunlight, the river snaking through the green, and we could no longer hear the Centennial noobs squealing as they splashed around in the river. The pictures describe it better.
When we got back to the boats, group 2 paddled up immediately and we stuck the groups together again. We went down the river for a bit until we found the last night "super-sweet" site we'd hoped for. A road/wash to beach our canoes on, and a raised clearing, shaded by cottonwoods, with an intact fire pit and a couple of non-folding chairs. Soft ground to put tents down on, and the whole thing faced a wide field that led up to the enormous rock cliffs, and a changing sky above it, that said rain, and meant it. Matt and Claire went into the river and emerged covered in mud. They convinced others likewise, and soon enough everyone who approached the banks was covered in greyish river mud. It was like a low-rent redneck spa. Not satisfied, Jim and Leena went and climbed the nearest cliffs. We all sat about and watched them . . . or more accurately, Katrin watched them since she was the only person in the group with telescopic sight. The rest of us fought over the binoculars while Katrin egged Jim and Leena on. "Higher! Go higher!" The afternoon mellowed, and we organized a loose circle of coolers and chatted and scratched ourselves and surrepticiously tried to remove all the river dirt boogers clogging our nostrils. Or at least, I did. The sky was now visibly raining down the canyon, and eventually it got motivated and came over to see us.
It was impossible for me to get that concerned about rain at that point, and I suspected that this was a regular afternoon thing, so when a few showers came through, we all stuck it out (except for the Patricks) and sat in the rain. Steve made a good fire, and Alicia shared my poncho. The rain went away after a bit, and dinner got underway, as did the Buttah.The rest of the evening is somewhat vague. We marched up the wash to a second level plateau, and watched the stars get stirred in the sky like a big celestial porridge, and eventually I came to grok the fullness, once again, as I always do on these magnificent trips, lying on my back listening to the crickets rage and the water roiling in the rapid downstream, half-broiled, fully intoxicated on love of the wilderness and cheap beer, and all the work was worth it. Marc and Alicia and I took turns falling asleep watching the fire whisper into embers, and eventually the lights went out.
