Our first evening was spent counting stick bugs (phasmatodea) is the shrubbery. Bug sticks, walking sticks, whatever you call them, stick bugs are herbivorous and generally adorable. The recent rains appeared to have ignited a bug bloom of the most auspicious kind. There were beetles and mantids and spiders and butterflies but nearly no mosquitoes or biting flies. The bug wonderment continued all week and I’ll have a separate bugs only post. As dark descended Margaret fed us a bacon laced spaghetti and Burt and I played some tunes. The water continued to rise and we presumed more easy sailing for the rest of the trip. Everyone sang. We were on a new river and we had it all to ourselves.
The next morning we woke to find a big increase in flow and the news that Mark had saved our boats when a 4AM ramble revealed a messy situation. I can’t recall the details. The Rio Grande flows from northern New Mexico through Texas to the Gulf of Mexico. It is fully dewatered in a couple of sections so flow isn’t really the correct word. If you wanted to traverse the entire Rio Grande you’d need to hike a few hundred miles of dry stream bed. Upstream of us the river flows from El Paso to the gulf with one intervening dam below our location. The river is one of the most polluted I have ever floated since the industrial effluent and domestic wastes of Juarez and El Paso are added daily. The high flows we saw were bringing with it a parade of plastic and styrofoam containers. While plastic trash is unsightly it is the unseen contaminants pose a greater danger. The park service strongly advises against submersion in the river’s noxious water to avoid contracting some waterborne disease. This and the mud were why we carried our own water.
The stream side is a nearly impenetrable wall of cane and mesquite and tamarisk but just beyond the banks lies the glorious Chihuahuan desert. It’s a wilderness on both sides of the border. The river is a part of the border between the United States and Mexico. Building a wall here seems fantastically ridiculous, terrifying, and stupid. The first few days of our journey took us through thick cane on a sluggish brown river. Our scope of vision was very narrow. Rarely we could see a bird. More frequently we spotted turtles on the banks. We’d camp when we found a gravel or grass lined opening in the wall of cane. We’d pop up and see the horizon above the tunnel and remember we were traveling through a massive landscape of open space. Shore line mud threatened us bodily and spiritually. I imagined how death by quick sand really worked. All you need is two feet of mud and 6″ of water and a slip. You could drown just trying to regain your feet.
The weather predictions were accurate. The rain stopped and the flow dropped and with the drop in flow our pace slowed. The mud did not go away. As the water receded from the bank wide tracts of saturated silt yawned between us and dry land. Even when we found a spot where we could land the mud wars were not over. Campsites that appeared dry in the evening would become saturated with dew overnight and we’d be in mud again. Resistance was futile.
We all went through the seven stages of grief. Acceptance would come and flare back into anger. Laughter mixed it up, too. Denial, as ever, got us nothing but muddy asses and wrecked zippers. It was as though everything was so wonderful we had to have this bit of hell to remind us we were still humans on earth.
We ate well and marveled at the beauty and every morning the worst part of our day was putting on out cold muddy shoes.