Back Porch Farm

(Continued from PartI)

The next morning was all about packing gear, food, personal belongings and loading it into truck and trailer. Packing for a group, multi-day raft trip is never a simple task, especially when a pack of kids will be part of the crew. But we were rolling down the highway by noonish, bound for the Rio Chama put-in below El Vado dam. The sky grew more ominous the closer we got to our destination. Although we had told our friends to go ahead without us, they were still on the bank waiting patiently. I liked thinking they loved us too much to leave but also realized we were the only ones who knew the river. In any case, we were grateful for the help rigging the raft and loading our gear as we raced the fast approaching electrical storm.

As Randy and I like to say – If you want it to rain, head out on a 3-day Chama trip!

Jagged bolts of lightning streaked the grey clouds and booms of thunder rumbled above us. Isla huddled on the porch of the BLM cabin, whimpering in her river clothes and rain suit as I simultaneously sung cheerful songs to her while swinging gear down the bank to Randy. But the pelting rain eventually drove us all under cover. It was the first rain we had seen in a long, long time and we sucked in deep breaths filled with the pungent smell of wet sage and damp earth. I was sure I could hear choirs of angels singing all the way from our garden in Taos!

Lars helps Randy with the loading of our raft.

Despite the storm, by 3:10pm the 3 families and 3 rafts were finally launched and drifting downstream under a bruised sky and light drizzle. We waved to the ever present geese, and oggled at the mud swallow’s nests, hanging incredulously from beneath the rock cliff ledges. A mother mallard tucked herself and her 10 ducklings into the overhanging grass of the river bank as we drifted quietly past. In no time at all we had arrived at the hot springs, across from the ruins of the old Ward Ranch. This historic ranch had been vandalized and burned to the ground the previous year. It had always been one of our favorite stops and left a heaviness in my heart as we cruised past the twisted pile of tin roofing. We tied up and lowered our chilly toes into the hot spring, which immediately surrounded us with it’s stench of sulphur. Happy smiles lined the grassy edge of the steaming pool. 6 yr old Nils and his 8 yr old sister Ella slipped further and further into the stinking, grey muck that was hiding our feet, eventually floating happily on their backs. I gave Randy, who was holding Isla between his legs, a stare that could level a city. My message was clear,”If you even THINK about letting our child into this reeking pool past her knees, the two of you will be sleeping out in the rain!” He got the hint without losing his warm, dry tent space.

Our ever present companions.

Toasty toes for all!!

I could smell the sulphur on these kiddos 48 yrs later – I jest not! But Ella and Nils sure enjoyed it.

Wet and chilled, we pulled our flotilla ashore at the next available campsite on river left. Boats were secured onto stout juniper trunks, gear hauled up the bank, and river wing (massive tarp) set up with the group kitchen beneath. Then each family found their own tent spots and changed into warm, dry, evening clothes. In the process 2 perfect snake skins were found, compared and admired by kids and parents alike. Then blessed Amber made all the adults G&Ts, winning our hearts and devotion for the remainder of the trip. Dinner was cooked while Lars serenaded us with his ukelele, the rushing river contributing subtle harmonies. More accurately, a few dinners were cooked. Like I said, we weren’t going to starve on this trip! As we sat in folding camp chairs, laughing and eating hearty platefuls of Mediterranean pasta and brats, the setting sun illuminated thousands of cedar moths that were alighting from the trunks of the massive junipers surrounding our camp site. They fluttered in an enchanted, back lit aura around each tree like millions of tiny fairies come to bid Father Sun adieu. As dishes clunked in the wash basins and dusk began to fall, Brian pulled out his banjo and began to accompany Lars. I was itching for an instrument and could not believe we had left our guitar behind!  However, I donned my headlamp and helped a bit in the vocal department until the insistant cedar moths drove us all to our warm, cozy nests. When Lars pulled out his music book in the morning, dozens of moths had been perfectly pressed and preserved between it’s pages.

2, 4, 6, 8! Who do we appreciate!? Orrin (2), Isla (4), Nils (6) and Ella (8).

Serving up dinner.

Lars entertains 2 year old Orrin.

Our second day dawned with promising sunshine and we made comfortable time eating, packing and launching. The morning was spent teaching Ella and Nils to row, watching the flight of osprey and heron, and being escorted downriver by a small flock of Western Tanagers. Their vivid yellows, oranges and reds blew the dull brown dipper birds right off their rocks! Then, in the late morning, we began to smell smoke. We speculated without concern that perhaps the wind had shifted, pushing smoke from any of the many neighboring wildfires into the river valley. Then we heard, and soon saw, a spotting plane… and in another 1/4 mile could clearly make out a dark plume rising over the ridge. It was looking like we had our very own wildfire! The 3 families eddied out to discuss the situation and decided to head on down regardless. Afterall, what else could we do? And we would not truly know the location of the fire until we got further along. Within 30 minutes we were there. And I mean THERE. The fire was RIGHT THERE, already over the ridge and descending into the river valley. Randy used to fight wildfires, so this was not terribly new to him. But it was the closest I had ever been to a wildfire! We drifted past, looking high on the slope, searching for flames. I guiltily hoped to see a tree explode or something equally impressive. Although the smoke rising from the other side of the ridgeline told a tale of hungry flames and fully consumed trees, our side was out of the wind and merely moldering it’s way quietly downhill toward the banks of the river and Leaning Tree campsite, leaving tall, charred skeletons behind it.

Nils was up early for some dawn fishing.

Ready to load the sunlit rafts!

OK, that is DEFINITELY a plume of smoke downstream!

Passing the Aragon Wildfire as it molders it’s way down to the banks of the Chama. Note the helicopter about to fly into the plume.

We pulled over at the Tiger Wall campsite for lunch, crashing the lunch party of another group and a solo BML ranger. The 3 groups stood chewing, eyes glued to the fire and the helicopter with it’s massive water bucket trailing beneath. Repeatedly the chopper would dive down to the river, out of our view, then rise slowly back up, laden with it’s brimming bucket of river water. It would maneuver itself over the worst of the fire, all but hidden in smoke, dump it’s load, then zoom out of the grey-brown plume, it’s empty bucket trailing almost horizontally behind it. We could have watched for hours, but the thunderheads were building and the wind had shifted. It was time to find a campsite.

Isla and Ella watch mesmerized as the fire chopper does it’s job.

Thunder rumbled between the canyon walls as we neared the high, yellow, sandstone cliffs of Chama Wall. Pit pat pit pat came the rain in big heavy drops. I scrambled to get Isla into her rain gear, which is no easy feat, saying a silent prayer that the fire would be extinguished by the storm. It had obviously been ignited by the lightning of the storm the day before – the epitome of a catch 22. We got a bit ahead of the group and pulled over to scout a campsite. It was not ideal – only 1 flat tent site, the rest off camber. So we continued downstream as the group reconvened. Site after site was taken by other groups and the rain continued to drench us. Randy, Isla and I sang rain songs at the top of our lungs to pass the wet miles: Raindrops keep falling on my head… If all the raindrops were lemon drops and gum drops…. Singing in the rain… you name it, but we could not find an available camp site. A commercial group caught up with us and together, we discussed the remaining sites ahead. It was decided we would try for the second site in Huckbay, and they the 3rd. It would be a hard grab (if no one was there already), as the eddy was tiny, the current swift, and we had 3 rafts – one a 16fter.

We were first in line. I perched precariously on the bow, flaked bow line in hand. My heart was beating loudly. “Now!” I yelled, and Randy punched the oars forward, pushing our nose expertly in just behind the grassy point. Rocks groped at the raft bottom, knocking us off course, and we were coming in fast at the bank. The bow smacked shore with a thud and I launch onto the wet grass, landing hard on my knees. I jumped to my feet and leaned back against the taut rope. There are times when my hands feel quite handicapped from my Lyme inflamation, and I was feeling it then as the rope cut hard into my palms. Could I hold it? My feet were slipping in the mud as I caught sight of Sheryl and Lars’ 16fter coming around the point fast. It was all I could do to hold my ground, my hands screaming in pain, but I knew this was our last camp site option for many, many miles. If I let go, our raft would be swept away by the swift current and this site would be lost to us. The two rafts lurched together as Sheryl leapt for the shore, arms outstretched like wings. Then we were leaning back side by side, sliding further into the willows as Brian and Amber burst around the corner, rope at the ready. I grabbed Sheryl’s line and she ran to catch Amber’s. All was chaos as boats slammed together, bouncing off rocks like pinballs! “I can’t hold this much longer! Can some one help me? PLEASE!” I don’t remember who came to my aid, but all 3 boats were finally secured to tree trunks and the 4 kids handed safely ashore.

Isla, staying obediently away from the river under threat of death and dismemberment, stretched full length in the mud, lifejacket and rain suit squelching beneath her, to help Nils excavate a new set of bank steps with sticks and fingernails. I sighed, shook out my cramped hands and stretched my back, and turned to the river to help Randy unload. It was a nice campsite that I had been to before and I was relieved to be here, although I did not remember quite so much docking drama on the first visit. The group kitchen was quickly set up with so many willing hands, the chores heavily lubricated with bottles of Mike’s Hard Limes. The rain lightened, and then stopped, the uke came out, and personal tent setup began. Once our tent was erected and Isla’s dry bag unearthed, I hauled my mudcaked offspring to the river’s edge and dunked her unwilling body into the chilly river on wash cycle. Then I rinsed her lifejacket, rain coat, rain bibs, and rubber boots, all inside as well as out, and carried her shivering form up to the tent. “I want my skirt AND my dress!” Someone needed a snack – FAST! “Not THAT shirt Mom-eye!” Oh dear, where did I put my Mike’s? Finally dry and dressed in the many layered gypsy outfit of her choice, Isla ran off to play with the kids who were careening down the dirt bank one at a time, over and over – even 2 yr old Orrin.

And now – MY turn to change. Ahhh…. dry cotton feels divine after a day in poly rashguards and neoprene. With my attitude completely re-adjusted, I walked happily toward the music and singing under the group tarp, reaching unconsciously to my throat for my neckless.

MY NECKLESS!!! It was gone!

You may be thinking, what’s with all the drama? But this was no ordinary neckless! It was a simple black leather thong, threaded through a green serpentine stone. This stone was ground from a chip left over from the carving of our son Rowan’s gravestone. And inside the stone, was a wee bit of his ashes. I had a lapidary friend shape 6 of these stones and drill out a cavity in each. Then I filled the cavities with a pinch of Rowan’s ashes, and plugged the holes with matching plugs my friend had made, gluing the plugs into place. Then this lapidary ground the plugs flush with the stones’ faces and polished each with loving hands. He refused to let me pay him for his beautiful, tedious work. I gave a stone to each of the people present at our son’s birth, and death: our two midwives, our friend Joanne, one to Randy’s parents, and Randy and myself. Then I had hung my platinum and diamond wedding ring on the cord beside the stone, for with my Lyme inflammation, I could no longer wear it.

I was aghast.

I remembered putting it around my neck before leaving the last campsite, so it was either here, in the raft, or in the river. I searched the ground around the tent, inside the tent, and inside all the river clothes I had just wriggled out of. I searched the ground beneath where each article of river clothing hung drying from tree branches. Randy searched the bottom of the raft, hoping it may have been caught before the self-bailing action flushed it into the stream. In the end, there was nothing more I could do. I filled my travel mug with red wine, took a deep breath, and turned back towards the beautiful gathering of old friends, new friends, and adventurous children that made up our perfect group. The neckless would always be here, most probably on the river bottom, and somehow that seemed appropriate. With this trip being my 10th Chama trip, and marking 10 years that Randy and I had been together, a little bit of Rowan, and the symbol of our marriage, would be forever embraced my the arms of this rushing river.

That, I could deal with.

I distracted myself by learning chords on the banjo and then the uke. And then ate a delicious red Thai curry cooked by Lars. Isla was losing cabin pressure fast, so I excused myself and my whining child and headed to the tent. With teeth brushed, PJs on and dusk settling over our tent, I knew I was not going to make it back out. I laid down beside my daughter and pulled her warm little frame close into my arms, drifting lightly into pre-slumber with my cheek on her matted head. Twice she awoke me with two important questions: “Mom-eye?” “Mmmm?” ” Why are there rocks on the side of the rock steps up to the campsite?” Then back into slumber.  “Mom-eye?” “Mmmpph?” “Why are there waves in the river when there is no rock beneath them?” And then back to sleep. And I slept the sleep of the dead, dreaming of rivers, necklesses, and my mother-in-law.

Day 3 found us awake earlier than the previous morning as apparently the group had followed my example and retired soon after my departure the night before. We packed, cooked, ate and loaded boats as the morning sun worked it’s way down the pine strewn cliffs on the opposite bank. As sunlight finally made it to our tentsite and filtered in through the trees, I searched one last time for any sign of the missing neckless. Then comforted myself knowing it would always be here, waiting for me on my next Chama trip. And my next…

The day proved to be the most glorious yet with warm sun and cool temps for the majority of our river time. Six year old Nils perfected his rowing, tackling his first “rapid” mostly solo. Isla got a turn on the oars, Ella paddled the sit-on-top kayak, and Orrin refused to let mama Amber stop dunking him over the side. Randy and I jumped in for a swim, and water fights commenced by water guns, bailing scoop and well placed oars! We floated lazily through the flat stretch past the Christ in the Desert Monastery, soaking in the expansive view of the open valley rimmed on either side with towering red and yellow sandstone cliffs. Then the rapids picked up after the Chavez launch site and we had a bit more excitement.

A glorious day on the river!

Nils running his first “rapid”, which we promptly christened Nils Rapid!

Isla take a turn on the oars.

Orrin gets a non-stop baptism as we float past the monastery.

Eight year old Ella in the sit-on-top kayak.

Randy told the story to Amber and Brian of how he had only flipped a raft once in his life, and it was on this river, just up ahead on Undercut Rapid. He still blames it on me (although he had been alone). We had just started dating, and he had been daydreaming about the last time we had been together and when he would see me next. That daydream had been harshly interrupted by a screaming right hand turn along a rough grey cliff wall. His raft had been pinned vertically on it’s side and he was dumped into the drink. He had climbed ashore, hiked back upstream, and managed to climb down the cliff to stand on the side of his pinned raft and lever it off the cliff wall. Then he had launched himself from the cliff, landing smack on the bottom of the overturned raft. Quite the super hero feat, and he does his own stunts too!

We all chuckled togther and slipped the rafts apart to prepare for the run through Undercut Rapid. I was at the oars and feeling a bit nervous. I am not that much of a rafter – a canoe is my craft of choice. But here I was, plunging towards a cliff wall that had once upon a time flipped my experienced rafter husband. I pulled back hard on the oars to set up for the right hand turn. OK. That seemed like enough clearance. Pivot the oars, turn the raft to the right and ride it out down the train of haystacks! But the current was still pulling me in towards the cliff. Crap! I’d forgotten it was undercut! I had no idea what was going on beneath that underwater ledge but I was getting sucked closer and closer to that cheese grater of a wall. Somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain I knew I needed to push the oar handles behind me and wing the blades forward and inside the boat. But it was all happening so fast! I fumbled, felt I did not have enough clearance left for the swing, and instead pulled the oar inboard through the oar lock and across my lap as the cliff loomed closer. But the blade caught in the oar lock and was still protruding about 10″ outboard. I saw in slow motion what was about to happen but was powerless to stop it. Fortunately Randy, seated on the bench ahead of me with his arm around Isla, saw as well and started to duck. The oar blade caught the cliff wall, was push back with tremendous force levering the 6′ shaft and handle of the oar forward from the pivot point of the oar lock! The shaft smacked Randy on the back of the head as he was starting to duck, knocking both he and Isla off the bench and into the forward well! Then the raft hit the nasty sandstone wall and bounced back off into the current. A soon as I could regain control of the oar, I pulled hard to the opposite bank and beached the raft on a gravel bar. “Are you OK sweetie?” I was very shaken and very concerned. Did he have a concussion? Or worse? “That rapid is still trying to get me – and it is still your fault!” he mumbled with a faint smile. “Ow.” I sighed with relief as he rubbed the fast forming goose egg. “I’m going to have a hell of a headache,” he grimaced. I shook my head. An inch or 2 lower and I could have broken his neck. I checked his pupils, calmed the crying Isla (who was fine but rather rattled), and pulled the raft back into the current. And I stoically bore the well-deserved razzing of my attempted spousal homicide for the remainder of the day.

Randy took over the oars soon after as there was a long stretch of rapids that I felt uncomfortable with. We are not talking BIG rapids here, just a lot of technical maneuvering. Being Sunday, the water flow had been cut at the upstream dam before noon, so we were slowly losing flow as we continued downstream. This made for some boney conditions and I was already very shaken up by my nasty mistake upstream. After a late lunch stop on a muddy bar, we packed back up food and folding table and worked our way down closer to the Big Eddy take out. Just before that final bend, Sheryl and Lars pulled over to look at some stunning cliffs freckled with swallow’s nests, and found a snake coiled inside one of the mud nests just at eye level! What a find! Always something magical and amazing awaiting us around the next turn.

What was later identified as a gopher snake, coiled inside a swallow’s nest. The easiest way to exit was definitely a free-fall drop into the river, but I have no idea how this snake managed it’s entry!

We rounded the final bend to behold the worst take out zoo scene I think I had ever seen. I am sure that every group trip on the river that weekend was taking out simultaneously. Cars, trucks, and trailers were lined up forward and back on the access drive and boats and gear were strewn everywhere. It was the epitome of a proverbial yard sale! But we nosed into the fray and added our own chaos, once again racing a threatening afternoon storm. We unloaded, de-rigged and wormed our truck and trailer into position, all the while with thunder bouncing and rolling between the valley walls. Isla shivered on a rock, wrapped in towels and rain gear, watching the proceedings with blue lips. We loaded up the truck and trailer, tied down the raft and frame and pulled carefully past the long line of rafter’s vehicles to park in the lot. Then I could finally get my daughter into dry clothes, with myself close behind.

When we walked back down to the river we found Sheryl had pulled out a whole watermelon and was slicing it into triangles for all! Oh my, sweet nectar of the Gods! As I slurped and gulped unabashedly at the cool, juicy fruit, I noticed a new face amongst our pack of kids. “Well hi there! Who are you?” I asked the sun hat bedecked munchin. The little girl swallowed her mouth full and said “My name is Marian! I am 3 years old,” and her face disappeared once more into the hunk of pink melon which perfectly matched her hat.

Nothing beats chilled watermelon after a raft trip!

After everyone’s boats and gear were loaded, and the requisite group pictures taken, we gave heartfelt hugs all around and climbed into our respective vehicles bound for 3 different towns in 2 different states. We had no idea when we would see the each other again, but planned for it to be in Oct for a 5 day raft trip down the San Juan River. We crossed all appendages that there would be enough water when the time arrived.

Randy pulled our rig through the lot and up to the pit toilets for a final pee stop at the “fancy groover”. Another group pulled in behind us for the same reason, a group we had seen often on the river and been beside at the take out. I pulled out our carton of hard boiled eggs that had made it through the trip. “Want a hard boiled egg from our own chickens?” I called out. “Heck yeh!” was the answer. I opened the carton of multicolored eggs and said, “Your choice, but you can only take 2.” “Let’s see, I’ll take that one and this one.” I pointed to the olive green egg in the man’s dirt-caked, water-logged, oar-callused hand and proudly said,”That is Noche’s egg, and that blue one is Dot’s. They are very nice hens.” “So would that one there be Noche’s too?” he asked, pointed to another olive green egg still in the carton. “Yep!” I replied with a laugh. “But I can’t tell you who these 3 belong to. We have too many hens that lay this tan color.” He walked back to his gear-laden car, reporting to his rafting mates the names of the chickens and which egg was who’s. I smiled, clipped the Nugget into her carseat, and hopped in the passenger seat beside my tired husband.

We drove home through the verdant Chama valley of the village of Abiquiu, following our river downstream, and thinking ahead to our farm life back in Taos. Dot would be waiting, and Noche, and all their friends and relations. Skye was milking the girls as we drove, and we would return to our calm, happy household ready to explode our dry bags and retrieve our everyday lives.

But Rowan’s ashes and my wedding ring would remain behind, forever marking our presence on the Rio Chama of New Mexico, where we would return again, and again…

… year after year.

Our 3 family group, happy, tired, and sunburned.

The Nugget patrol: Orrin, Nils, Isla and Ella.

Addendum:

Sometime during our drive home, a terrible miscalculation was made on a wildfire in Arizona. A crew of hotshot firefighters were sent in to cut line without an adequate safety zone to retreat to. The monsoonal thunderstorms shifted the wind unexpectedly and trapped 19 of the 20 person crew with no exit. They all deployed their fire shelters and were burned over. None of the 19 survived. This same crew had been in our home area fighting our own fires for the 2 weeks prior to this assignment. We were floored by the tragic loss of these fine, brave people. It was the worst tragedy in firefighting history.

We also discovered that 3 fires had been sparked off by lightning in a tight area to the west of the Chama River from the storm we waited through at the put in. The fire we witnessed was named the Aragon Wildfire.

Randy and me, happy to be back on the river again!