Back Porch Farm

White water, rivers and camping have always been in my blood. To some degree I assumed it was an inherited trait. My father and Uncle Fred were sent to Camp Mondamin in Tuxedo, NC when they were young boys. Grandmother Cecil, an avid outdoors woman who found herself a sudden widow with a 5 and 7 yr old, started them early. The founder of Mondamin, Chief Bell, always gave me “special attention”, telling me time and again what a soft spot he had had for my grandmother and what a fine woman she had been. Unfortunately, I never had the pleasure to have known her, though I think we would have gotten along swimmingly. 30 some years after the founding of Camp Mondamin in 1921, Camp Green Cove opened for girls, just a mile or so up the Green River. In later years, me and my cousins attended Green Cove while the male contingency of the Scott Clan descended upon Mondamin for the second generation. But of all the Scotts, I think my little brother and I took camp the most seriously. Both camps have put out many Olympic white water competitors, and many more white water paddlers that competed at a high level and still do. My brother Norwood is one of those. Not only has he competed in his C-1 (closed or decked canoe) in countless competitions over the decades since camp, and participated in serious, backcountry paddling expeditions in several remote countries, he was also on the US C-2 Wildwater Team 3 different years. Now he is president of the American Whitewater Association. Can you tell this big sister is just a teeny bit proud?

After 8 years as a camper, and 4 as a counselor, I tackled the rivers with the eye of the recreationist. I tried kayaking but it never fit for me. Solo whitewater canoeing has always been where my comfort lies. My husband, Randy, trained me to row a raft, starting me with a 14ft one laden with 2000 lbs of gear, down the Grand Canyon for 21 days! Some initiation! I rowed as many of the class 5 and smaller rapids I had the balls for, and Randy rowed the remainder on up to the famous Class 10 Lava Falls (The rapid rating system is different for the “Grand” – it ranges from an exciting class 1 to a sphincter-clenching 10. Therefore, when my sphincter clenched on the first, unclassified rapid, I knew I was in deep doodoo – or lack there of!) But it’s still back to our gentle home waters and my purple Dagger canoe that I am most drawn. Isla was conceived the summer after our Grand Canyon trip. I had time for one last Chama River 3-day in my canoe before our little blastocyst started her journey into our life, and I haven’t been since. I’ll do the math for you – that’s 3 years. 3 long years of sacrifice, pain and suffering while my canoe and river gear collected cobwebs. It’s rough being a mom.  With this family history, I was not surprised when a clairvoyant said my fetus was very excited to go rafting with us! I kid you not! This is Taos, after all!

Planning, organizing and packing for trips has always been my forte…. until I became a Mama. Now, with the addition of “Mommy-brain” and the 2 yr old responsible for it, it takes an entire extra day to pack with both adults participating. But plan, organize and pack we did – slowly but with forward progress. Isla…. “helped”. The day before our departure, she also developed diarrhea. I watched the signs with concern, taking her temperature constantly. No other symptoms developed and she remained in good spirits so we continued with our plans. The day we were leaving, her diarrhea became worse, and I started to feel some of my own rumblings deep in my gut like the warning of distant thunder. Hmmm….

We reached the BLM cabin on the banks of the Chama River in good time, excited to begin our adventure the next day. I immediately soaked the rice I had bought on the way out of town – a remedy for diarrhea recommended by a mama friend. But before Isla had time to consume the rice water, the explosions began (and thank god I had the foresight to put a diaper on her…. that time.). After perhaps the most cathartic experience in her life, next to being born, she downed the rice water, happily pronouncing it “yummy!” And then, in perfect synchronization, my “moon time” started. Funny how my body always seems to know when a river trip is about to begin. As I know all things come in threes, I wondered enthusiastically if perhaps Randy might join us with a urinary tract infection. There was still one more Important Orifice needing representation.

But no matter, our attitudes adjusted to our handicaps quickly and we had a fine sleep, lulled off into watery dreams by the song of the river gurgling past the head of our bed. The next morning, Randy donned his BLM uniform and went to work. He is fortunate to have the highly coveted job of park ranger/manager which includes patrolling the Chama River – on the clock! He would be paid wages and per diem while rowing his family down the river for 3 days. Isla walked with him to the gauging station to log the 1000 cfs of river flow – perfect amount! And with the Nugget on his hip he checked in the early boaters while I whipped up some coffee for us and rice cereal for Isla’s sick little tummy. We took a family stroll over the upstream swinging bridge to the opposite bank. There, Papa and daughter rescued a stranded fish from the entrapment of the tall river grass. My bad to look down mid-river through the grate floor panels on the return trip. I experienced instant motion sickness which was still perceptible 2 days later!

And then the repacking began.

It is no small task to prepare for a multi-day river trip. Add to it 3 years of “rust” to brush off my packing skills, and the addition of a needy, sick, 2 yr old, and I might as well be climbing Everest! We deliberated on cancelling at the eleventh hour as I was quite concerned about Isla’s bowels, but she seriously had NO other symptoms and seemed as happy as a lark. So we continued. We were rather fortunate to have a group of 4 rafts and four families (7 parents and 9 kids) rigging and packing their boats directly in front of us. Isla was entranced! And this gave me the break I needed to GET THINGS DONE. She was so puppy-eyed for all the “big kids” that an indoor lunch was cause for a MASSIVE meltdown! To keep sanity for us and all the boaters in ear shot, we compromised by eating lunch on the porch, sitting on the cooler. As her mouth was continually open in amazement, I was able to shove an entire meal into her pie hole, one spoonful at a time. I should have filmed the entertainment for later meals.

Finally! Randy felt that he had fulfilled his duty, the raft was loaded, the family strapped into PFDs, smeared with sun screen, and topped with river hats. We eagerly shoved off from shore.

Wow! We were on the river again, and this time with our amazing little daughter, our mini river rat, our Isie. We beamed with teary pride as Isla stared with wide eyes at the river banks slipping past. We drifted next to some overhanging cliff walls…. “Look Isla! See there?” I pointed under an overhang. “That is a little birds nest made of mud. And there is a swallow hanging on upside down! And look downstream… that way sweetie. See those ducks?” Time sped by as the river carried us to new excitement around each bend.

We were quickly at our first stop – Ward Ranch. This is the ruin of an old cabin built in the late 1920’s by a homesteading family known as the Wards. They had the amazing foresight to build their cabin over a hot spring! Talk about hot water on demand! We explored inside the tiny cabin and around the toppled corral. I showed Isla one of my most favorite rocks. I love textures of Nature and this particular rock, riddled with pockmarks, is near and dear to my heart.

Once back on board our craft, Isla took the oars for the first time. Boy was she serious about it too!!

And then, sitting comfortably in her Papa’s lap, lulled by the slapping ripples and gentle motion of the boat, exhausted from the stimuli of an outrageous day, first one hand, and then the other, slipped from the huge oars. She slumped again her Papa’s padded chest… and was deeply, and happily, asleep.

Our first campsite was a sweet little spot tucked in a juniper grove and nestled against a lichen covered outcropping. It was perfect for just us. We unloaded and started setting up camp – a task Isla eagerly participates in. The girls set up the tent and our cozy little sleeping nest, while Papa set up the kitchen. After our apres-river ritual of a frigid bath and change of clothes, Isla and I went off exploring leaving Randy to stir up a fajita dinner. We poured enamel cups of river water onto patches of dry, brown moss, just to watch them plump and green-up before our eyes. We crawled through jumbles of massive, flat boulders pretending we were caving. We sat on a riverside rock and watched fish jump for their dinners. And we collected wood for our dinner time fire, although half the sticks were confiscated for fairy house construction.

Our second morning on the river we arose late after a restless, hot night spent on top of our bags. We chowed down some excellent cheese grits with bacon, broke down camp, loaded the boat, and hit the water for our second day of adventures. And this is where the fun begins.

Warning: if you are at all squeamish about bodily functions, STOP READING HERE. (I am serious)

Our first big (class II-plus) rapid was approaching – Aragon. We had originally planned to pull over above so Isla and I could walk down the flat flood plain. Randy would navigate the rapid and pick us back up at the eddy below. But as the class I rapids soon failed to crack a smile, and the class IIs were being greeted with a yawn, we quickly concluded our 2 yr old was up for the challenge. “I need to peepee Mama.” Oh, well OK. That was good timing. We pulled over just above Aragon and Isla squatted on a partially submerged, flat rock to raise the level of the river a hair. With her safely back on board I commenced to do the same while Randy held our position in the eddy. Little did I know I was about to get a taste of my daughter’s illness. Is there anything worse for an adult than the sudden, panicked realization that you are about to shit on yourself? Excuse me, but I warned you. “WHOA BABY! What the F–k? Where did THAT come from?” I was paralyzed with horror as I watched the insides of my gut churning about my ankles in the eddy current. Randy discreetly turned his face downstream as his shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I could give you a clue honey,” he snorted sarcastically. Having traveled extensively in India, he was no stranger to this exact experience. “Crap. So much for the Wild and Scenic designation. Not exactly “low impact” camping,” I mumbled, sloshing my sandled feet in fresher water. Randy dug out the “groover” and swung it over to me. With my head hung low with shame, I shuffled into the woods to finish what had begun without my consent or control.

Now for a quick explanation of a “groover” for those of you uninitiated with rafting. With the high use from recreational boaters, it is required that all solid waste be packed out on river trips. This of course would include garbage (and food scraps too), but also human feces. In the not so distant days, large ammo cans were used without seats, which created the telltale grooves the appliance was named after. Sure, it can be a bit gross to be on groover duty and have to pack it back up to load on the raft again. But with the high tech portable units available these days, and a sanitary, systematic way to handle them, it’s truly not that bad. Plus, sitting meditatively on the river bank, it can be the best seat in the house. I pondered as I sat, staring blankly at the view, whether my “accident” qualified as “solid waste” or not.

Aragon got an ear to ear, toothy grin from our toddler. “More rapids mama! More big waves!” As the wavelets settled back to ripples, she climbed astraddle my lap and worked hard at unzipping my life jacket so she could “say hi to My Boobas”. I hadn’t nursed her in 3 days, hoping the last time would truly be the last, so I granted her this little act of intimacy. She could only get within 2 layers of “her boobas” anyway. Within minutes she was limp and breathing heavily, face crushed against my rash guard shirt, zipper imprinting a tire track across her soft cheek. Much to our dismay, she then proceeded to sleep through the biggest rapids of the entire trip.

Near starvation drove Randy and me to the shore for a lunch stop. Isla awoke cranky and sweaty as the raft bumped the bank. We settled under a massive box elder with folding chairs and a lunch bag and surveyed the brooding sky. Isla walked with confidence up a thick, gnarled branch, holding lightly to Papa’s big hand.

Another group of paddlers drifted by. A green canoe diverged from the group and paddled towards us. “Hey Ranger!” he called out to Randy and lobbed him a cold brew. Ahhh. A sweet life it is.

Our second campsite wasn’t too much farther downstream and we reached it within an hours’ row;  Chama Wall. We had camped here 3 years ago on our last Chama trip together, across from the massive, towering red rock face. Thunder rumbled as we unloaded and hauled gear up to the site. We shuffled to get tent and large tarp up quickly. Kitchen was set, wood collected for our fire, and we had time for a quick, chilly dunking before a change into night time clothes. It was in the tent while dressing that I noticed an odd, unpleasant, and too familiar odor. I was drawn to sniff the running shoe I was tying on my clean, waterlogged foot. “Aaaack! Cat piss! F-ing One-eyed Murphy!” The representation of the third Important Orifice had arrived in an unexpected package. As I dug into my dry bag for wool socks, recalling recipes for Kitty Kassarole, I calculated how many hours I had already spent sockless in these shoes since leaving home. Grrr…oss. And then, with a long, deep throated BAROOOM!, the rain began.

Being veterans of the outdoors, we were, of course, prepared for these stormy occasions. We were warmly clothed, topped off with wool hats and rain gear, and quite comfortable in front of our portable fire pan under the huge group tarp.

We stoked the fire and let the coals get just so, then nestled 3 ears of corn into the glowing embers, roasting our cats, I mean, dogs above, impaled on freshly whittled willow sticks. Ice cold Guinness cleansed our palettes for the second course – S’mores! It had been years since I had eaten s’mores, and Isla had no idea what she was in for! The camera clicked madly as she covered her grinning face in sticky marshmallow goo and melted chocolate. So much for raising my child without sugar.

The rain, though mildly inconvenient, was also delightful. When the downpour lessened, we ventured out into the drizzle to collect more wood, point to sleeping dragons encircling the red cliffs, shimmering with runoff…

…and check on the nearby wash. I was determined to witness a flash flood. Although our neighboring wash never ran, the river gave strong evidence of a large blow out upstream. The Chama is never clear, per se, but the change in personality was dramatic. As I squatted on the river bank to release my Guinness build up, I marveled at the churning, foaming coffee milkshake before me, tumbling branches and debris in it’s current. Impressive! The rain continued throughout the night, very hard at times, and the river had risen perceptibly by morning. As we stirred in our little nest, I discerned a clammy dampness around me. It’s usually rather sweaty sleeping on a rubber Paco pad, specifically made for rafting. But as I sat up and cleared the crusties from my eyes, I saw we had had our very own flash flood – in our tent. Isla had wet the bed. Hadn’t we taken care of that orifice last night, I thought? It was a mere sneak preview of what was yet to come.

Randy fried sausage patties and simmered a pot of oatmeal while Isla and I peeled hard boiled eggs brought from home. “Who do you think laid this blue one Honey?” I quized. “Mmmm… I think… Dot. Or Jackie. Or maybe Dusty.” Isla had listed our 3 Americanas, also known as Easter Eggers for their blue-green eggs. The drizzle continued off and on as we huddled groggily beneath the tarp. I stole Randy’s mug of coffee back once more, tucking it furtively behind my calf. We were quietly eating our warm meal when Isla announced she needed to poop. So, we pulled our hoods back up and trudged to the groover for a poo with a view.

It was too late. “Raaaandyyyy! I need you!” WAY too late. Hazardous waste had leaked through undies and tights. But the clean up was tolerably simple with a change and wipe down of the bottom half, and we were soon back at breakfast. Then she got that look again… that “uh-oh” look of a potty trained toddler. Uh-oh was no joke. This time, she spare no effect. Shit was EVERYWHERE. Poor little Nugget. It was definitely a family affair. Randy brought a bucket of river water, cloth, peppermint soap, and a change of clothes (we were running out of options). And THIS time, I had him dig out an emergency diaper! (Soooo smart. Soooo late.) It took 45 minutes to get back to ground zero. I had to wash, not only my kiddo, while she stood happily in the rain in a 5 gal bucket, but also both her rain coat and rain pants. Meanwhile Randy washed dishes and started packing up camp. 5 minutes after depositing my squeaky clean, 5 lb lighter daughter back under the tarp, I returned to the groover once more for my own personal expulsion. At least the raft would ride a bit higher today.

We launched at the butt crack of noon – 12:21 to be precise.

As we drifted down toward a bruised, foreboding skyline, all jokes were of the toilet variety: “Hey! What was that sound? Was that a duck? I think it came out of Papa’s butt quack!” And Papa’s butt was the ONLY butt quacking with confidence on our raft. I wondered what it felt like to wear an adult diaper and almost wished I had brought one. But spirits were still high and attitude pretty good, considering. We sang silly songs, taking bets on the storm ahead. Should we take off our rain gear? Should we leave it on? “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream!!!” we yelled. We came to the flat section of the 3-day run, drifting lazily past Christ of the Desert Monastery. I took the oars for a bit with Isla as first mate. Isla took the oars alone with a great sense of responsibility.

“Mama! I made the boat move!” she smiled with delight as she pushed slowly on the very heavy oar. Papa slipped over the side for a quick shrinking of the family jewels, and Isla insisted on joining him. Cold water has never phased her. We passed a side stream washing thick red mud into the main river, rolling clouds of red and green-brown along the right hand bank. The storm rumbled around us but continued to hold off. And then our early take out at Chavez landing was in sight. “Next year we are doing the bottom rapids and taking out at Big Eddy for sure,” we both agreed. Isla could have not only survived it, but really enjoyed the final hour of continuous class II and III. Once again, we underestimated our little adventurer.

Back to unpacking, hauling gear, de-rigging, and repacking into our waiting pickup and trailer. One last chilly plunge, clean clothes, goodbyes and thank-yous to the River, and we were “Ready to rock and roll Mama!” Isla, our happy, exhausted, river monkey, was asleep in her car seat within minutes. It had been a wonderful trip.

As we drove out along the dirt road, past the red and white sandstone towers, and towards the flashing bolts of lightening in our path, I felt a deep contentment. I had FINALLY gotten my river fix. Next year we would take our little fish down both the Chama and San Juan Rivers, hopefully with a handful of other families. And with the addition to the raft of a certain babysitter I know, I MIGHT even be able to get those cobwebs off my canoe. I know one thing for sure – I’ll be adding a few items to my pack list. Most importantly: a full haz-mat suit and a few pairs of adult diapers… just in case.