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I hope I don’t jinx the weather gods by making the below proclamation too early, but as I sit at home watching snowflakes fall on the first day of a forecasted 5 day storm, my confidence is soaring. So here goes: 2017 will be remembered as a good paddling year in Arizona.
The active weather pattern that is serving up deluges and dumps across most of the West has not shunned us here in the south. Our winter water year started when several inches of snow fell during Thanksgiving week. That snow was mostly gone two weeks later, but the Mogollon Rim was soggy with the melt, so when an inch of rain arrived on December 16th, Arizona rivers came to life.
The following four weeks brought a series of drenching rains, with snow levels often hovering near 9,000 feet. Mild, rainy weather, regular paddling forays; are we in West Virginia or Arizona?
There have been numerous opportunities to paddle Oak Creek near Sedona. Below, Flagstaff paddler Nick Smotek runs a flood channel during high water.
On New Years Day, my wife Lisa Gelczis and I found ourselves on a flooded tributary of the East Verde River with friends Billie Prosser and Curtis Newell. Massive cypress trees along the banks led us to coin the stream “Big Cypress Creek.” Upon further investigation, we found the official title listed as Sycamore Creek. There are way too many “Sycamore Creeks” already. We’re sticking with Big Cypress. And this year, we’re sticking around Arizona.



The creek gurgled softly, reflecting a trembling light on an overhanging roof of limestone. Here we sat, backs resting on shelves of the polished gray rock while contemplating Ed Abbey’s words, the river, the cliffs that soared beyond our view, the whole river trip experience. Fifteen high school youth, a few scientists, and several boatmen who liked to call themselves “sub-adults,” calling on a scientific terminology heard regularly throughout the course of a day, as we classified endangered humpback chub. And if we boatmen were sub-adults, there was one super-adult among us; a mother, executive, and United States cabinet member. Some would have called her Secretary Jewell. We called her Sally.
A woman of considerable outdoor experience, it surprised me to learn this was her first multi-day river trip. Quite the one to pick—the Grand Canyon’s lower half—where the first day saw three boatmen swept from their seats in the surging peaks of Hermit Rapid. The secretary picked this trip, a Grand Canyon Youth / USGS joint venture, because her own journey had been profoundly shaped decades ago by an adventure youth program, and because science, education, and the natural exuberance of youth filled the evenings, rather than five-star meals and cocktail hour.
At times she presented as a politician, holding court on policy, offering vignettes of life in Washington D.C.; but mostly she was simply one of the crew, eager to help in the dish line, willing to learn the secrets of Dutch Oven cooking, ready to hold a bow line. When the indefatigable youth engaged in an evening abdominal workout, Sally was all-in, holding plank position with the teens at 60 years young.
The earnest and sometimes naive inquisitiveness of teenagers must’ve been a refreshing change from the entrenched attitudes of D.C. When else does the Secretary of Interior get asked, without judgement, “what makes you qualified for this job?” Those of us who overheard the 15-year-old’s query got a chuckle. The curious teenager got some insight into the makings of a cabinet member. Sally, maybe, got a fresh perspective on the honorable responsibility of her position.
Answering questions is a normal day’s work for Sally, as is making speeches and listening to a hundred different agendas, so when she slipped away early from our contemplative limestone overhang, I gave her a few bends of the canyon before following, at some distance. Every ten minutes or so I would see her far ahead, a puny figure beneath inconceivable millions-year-old canyon walls. I supposed she was thinking about her ensuing presentation at the South Rim, but I hoped she was simply experiencing the awesomeness of it all, taking a break from thought, feeling that spiritual connection to nature that is more powerful than any policy speech.
It seems Sally was doing a little of both, because a day later she finished her talk at the park with a haiku, penned during a period of quiet among high school kids and sub-adults, under a dancing limestone roof. Who knows if this moment of reflection will influence national policy before Secretary Jewell’s term expires. Either way, our world must be a better place for it.



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The lake was less than a half-mile away and there was still thirty minutes of daylight left, so one might think that our timing was perfect. But within that half-mile lay a heap of table size boulders, each one leaning precariously on the next, ready to shift with the weight of the next step. The night was going to catch us.
In hindsight, we’d have been smart to retreat from the summit of 13,528-foot Kings Peak, go back to the trail and descend in dusk. But from the eminence of Utah’s highest point, possibilities seemed endless. There was no going back, only forward, as perilous as that might be, toward our destination.
It was day two of Bill Barron’s senate campaign trek, leading across Utah from its highest point to its lowest in a bid to raise awareness about climate change, and maybe even get some votes along the way. A single issue candidate, Barron’s platform is carbon fee and dividend policy—the most practical and essential step our government can make toward slowing climate change. Bill hopes to gain ten percent of the vote this November, because ten percent has been proven to make a statement, and a difference.
The current momentum of our changing climate will be around for decades ahead, but with carbon fee and dividend, scientists believe we can stop global warming at 3 degrees Celsius. That would keep ecological changes at a manageable level. It would at least stem the bleeding.
And that was just what we were doing now—in the fading light among the rocks—recovering from earlier questionable decisions, making the best of what was before us. We stepped carefully and slowly, knowing that pitching camp in the dark was not ideal, but it was infinitely better than breaking a leg at dusk, at 12,000 feet.
The five of us gathered at the lake as stars emerged, got warm food in our bellies, then hunkered in for a night of 60-mile-per-hour wind gusts. At first light we got below treeline, and birds chirped beneath a warm sun. Like humanity might do, we had stumbled, and then recovered. The way ahead was long, but achievable, so we strode out of the mountains with purpose. It was the only way out.



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Lunging up granite steps in the trail, I was glad to have nothing but a skinny day pack, but I couldn’t help thinking about carrying a loaded kayak. This was the trail to Bishop Pass, and the Middle Fork of the Kings River. It’s a run I have never done, but it must be the ultimate whitewater journey in North America—8,000 vertical feet in 50 miles from the high Sierra to the low foothills. I reflected on Doug Tompkins, millionaire philanthropist and total badass who made the first descent of the river in 1982. I wrote about Doug’s last kayak trip, and his environmental legacy, in this summer’s issue of Canoe & Kayak magazine. Life for someone like that is so full and long, but also so short, at age 72.
The Sierra was not my mission, however, I was en route to the Klamath River Mountains to research a story for American Forests. First stop: Duck Lakes Basin, and the greatest conifer assemblage on the continent, maybe the world. I counted 17 different  species, and probably just didn’t hike high enough to find the 18th.
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Pack rafting on the South Fork of the Trinity brought me to an outstanding grove of Pacific yews, slow growing little trees that natives favored for fishhooks, and scientists once coveted for their cancer fighting chemicals before artificial laboratory reproduction was developed.
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The Klamath Knot, coined by author David Rains Wallace, is a mountainous redoubt in northern California and southwestern Oregon containing 38 different conifers. The only place on earth with more is New Caledonia, in the South Pacific.
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My last destination within the Knot was the Trinity Alps, and a stunningly beautiful drainage called Canyon Creek. With national park-like scenery, the word is out, and I passed at least 60 backpackers coming out of the basin over the 4th of July weekend. Still, the place wasn’t terribly trashed. Impacted, yes, with some curiously deposited toilet paper and random trash, but I was thankful the forest service hadn’t implemented a permit system, otherwise I’d have been a criminal, or not there. Education, not regulation, is my credo for such environments. One day following the holiday, mine was one of just a few camps in the valley.
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I woke to a tumbling mountain stream before hiking out to meet my friends for an afternoon run on the Trinity River’s Burnt Ranch Gorge. Three years in a row of paddling class V on my birthday! I sense a streak starting.

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Maybe a dozen years ago, I decided that 200 cubic feet per second was the minimum water level for paddling Oak Creek. In a hard shell kayak, this still seems about right. It’s a diminutive stream for sure, but still worthwhile—more water than rock, anyway.
This season I had a revelation. Pack rafts draw less water than kayaks, they slide over rocks and logs easier, they fit into small eddies better, and if the river disappears completely, they are simple to portage. So, as I drove along Oak Creek at a winter base flow of 95 cfs, I tried to imagine myself out there, in a pack raft.
My first trip down was a total experiment. If it was turning out to be ridiculous, I’d chalk it up to research and go home. Three rapids into the run, I was having a blast! Pack rafting at 95 cfs was about the same as kayaking at 200 cfs. Low water boaters, there’s a new game in town.
It took some convincing to get McNaughton and Govi out there, but a promise of cold beer at Indian Gardens afterward worked its magic. At 200 pounds in the high performance Alpackalypse model, McNaughton needed more water. At 150 pounds in our Yak models, Govi and I were floating free. Paddlers, the Oak Creek season just got longer.


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Despite what the Internet said about reliable flows in the Tuolumne River, I couldn’t squelch a sudden rise of panic when the forest service clerk said, “You know the water is gone for today, right?” There was nary a patch of snow in the Sierra. Why would there be water in the river? Still, we pressed on, content in the fact that we Arizona paddlers can have fun on the most diminutive waterways.
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California’s river plumbing produces ecological disaster for many environments. In late summer of a drought year, it also provides a recreational opportunity where there wouldn’t otherwise be one. That worked for us. At the put-in, I ran into Richard, the ex-ranger on the Tuolumne. Two years ago, we’d met in Futaleufu, Chile, in the backyard pad of river legend Josh Lowry. Richard told me the river was only dropping to roughly 700 cfs between pulses of 1,200 cfs this season. This was good news. With one kayak, and one Yak pack raft, we launched on the cold clear Tuolumne, a river Lisa had never run. It had been 16 years since my last visit.
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Pack rafting was unknown to me back then. Now it is fast becoming my river craft of choice. I was duly impressed with how the Yukon Yak handled the class IV rapids, catching eddies and dodging holes with perfect ease. On day two, we traded boats, and Lisa decided to give the little raft a test by center-punching the frothiest hydraulics.
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At the first hole, she gave a valiant performance, riding the inescapable pocket for a solid minute before flipping and swimming downstream, through a few flushers and into a gorgeous green Tuolumne pool. The raft surfed for a couple minutes before catching a lucky break and flushing out. At the second hole, the ride was shorter, but no less dramatic.
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What better way to cool off on a hot day than in the chill waters of California’s most iconic river?
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At the take-out, the beauty of pack rafting was again readily apparent as we watched the big rafts winch straight to the bridge, heavy and hot. Our pack rafts rolled into a neat bundle before getting tossed into the back of the car, ready to move on to the next adventure.

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Leaving the tourist enclave of Tavan Bogd, we were the morning sideshow. Pat, Susan, and I paddled away on the swift Tsagaan Gol, the Milk River.
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Back in the van, we rattled down the Tsagaan Gol Valley. Out of the high country and into the desert, Ahktilek turned down a dirt track that climbed back into green steppes, topping a windy pass where the snowy Altai revealed itself in distant grandeur.
It was 8 pm by the time we found a semi-sheltered camp near the outlet of Hurgen Lake. From here, it would be 130 kilometers down the Hovd River back to the town of Olgy.
The lake gathered itself into a deep blue river, big and choppy. At 5 miles, a tributary entered. Neither watercourse looked like a normal river. There was no evidence of high water; no beaches, no driftwood. They flowed over wide beds of boulders right up to grassy banks, like spring fed creeks. But these creeks combined to make a swift river of 5,000 cfs. We rode the restless current into a stiff wind, stopping for lunch at a ger with racks of cheese drying in the breeze.
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Out of the mountains, the river braided into a bizarre maze of channels. It was like a sluggish floodplain, but it wasn’t sluggish. Steady current raced through a patchwork of willow jungle, and we followed the biggest arteries, hoping they would all re-unite. They did, at an open bay where a westerly wind swept us past sand dunes into an inexplicable gap through a stark desert range.
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Clouds swallowed morning’s blue sky, and we sped out of the desert range into a blustery grey valley.
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Camp came atop a rocky promontory surrounded on all sides by the river, and millions of mosquitos, but up there on our breezy outcrop they were scarce. A winter residence, or hasha, provided a windbreak.
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Jagaa’s welcome smile greeted us at the bridge in Olgy. Laying in the hotel bed that night, I realized it was the first time I’d been awake after dark for weeks. Moslem prayer songs echoed through the streets, doing battle with brutal karaoke coming from the hotel bar downstairs. In 7 hours, I’d be meeting a ride to the airport, and the start of the long journey home.

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The chief ranger, Gana, greeted us in a worn purple hoody. He wasn’t the picture of earnestness that we all know from our NPS rangers in smoky-the-bear hats, but if I was stranded somewhere in his park, he seemed like the kind of guy I’d want on the search.
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Ranger Gana led from his horse. Behnid him on a string walked the camel with our kayaks. A light rain began as we scrambled along the rim of the gorge, scouting. At a chunky 20-foot falls, a simple up-and-over portage route was apparent, and I signaled Gana onward before turning to Pat and Susan, “Is that sleet I’m seeing?” Twenty minutes later there was little doubt about the precipitation. It was full-on snowing.
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I pulled on my drysuit over wet socks and soaked long underwear, sucking on my fingers to keep them operable. The glacial water was difficult to read, and we skipped over rocks hiding in the dirty grey silt.
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The Tsagaan Gol Gorge is an angry place; cold, grey, fast, sharp, loose. The unrelenting snowstorm only added to the drama. I was loving every second.
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We shared a relieved high-five at the mouth of the canyon. The run-out was dreamy, the afterglow of adrenaline coaxing us into crashing wave trains. Children of the ger camps alerted their families, and lines of people came spilling out to watch from above.
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I woke in the middle of the night to find a crystalline twinkling sky and a fresh cover of snow, July in the Mongolian Altai.

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Cresting a range of desert hills, a broad swampy lowland opened before us, prompting Jagaa to proclaim, “I think you’d die from mosquitos down there.” The thought of a breakdown in these lonely barrens crossed my mind just then, and the swarming marsh took on a sinister aura. I rattled along in the passenger seat feeling detached, like I was a character in a Lord of the Rings remake, powerless to my fate amid the spooky mysticism of Middle Earth.
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We rattled past the death zone of skeeters cleanly, following a road that wasn’t on my map. Almost imperceptibly, the desert was replaced with foothills of rolling green steppe bathed in late evening light.
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With no shade for miles, the morning sun rousted us too early. We all gave up on sleep and climbed inside the jeep to creep up the Harhiraa River, an unknown blue line on the map that held paddling potential. As we hesitated at a deep crossing, Pat implored, “Jagaa, there’s no pressure to cross this river.” Jagaa sighed, then declared, “It’s okay.” We rolled in. Water seeped through the doors. The jeep buckled, but kept crawling out the far bank. We cheered.

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The Harhiraa ran a light glacial blue, speeding down a broad cobble floodplain. Pat and I zoomed along, dodging shallows and sprinting for the occasional surf wave.
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Across a huge valley and through a mountain gateway, we stopped to cool the radiator as a motorcycle horse herder pushed past. He stopped to share a drink of water, thirstily gulping beneath a Life is Good ball cap.
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Back to the lowlands, it was again time to cool the engine. Pat and Jagaa set up the stove to boil ramen water. I went for a walk, listening to booms of thunder over the mountains of Russia, rising blue beyond an inland sea surrounded by sand. The arid landscape offered familiarity for me and Pat, the desert rats, but it also whetted our appetites for the glaciers and green meadows of Tavaan Bogd Park, and the highest mountains of Mongolia, our next destination.

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I was half-awake watching the flames of the fire when the sound of a jeep rousted me to my feet. Guarding my relief, I looked closely to see if it was Jagaa’s familiar white Russian-made four-door. He opened the latch. “Jagaa, it’s good to see you,” I said. The vague glow of dawn crept over the mountains as we sat around the fire and shared beers in celebration of our reuniting.
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It’s hard to say exactly what went wrong with our shuttle mix-up, but I’ve had similar things happen in the States, where we share a language and a culture. Take away those commonalities, and shuttle follies are bound to occur sometimes. We were just glad to be back with our friend, and our gear.
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After a few hours’ sleep everyone rallied to continue downstream. The river was now called the Shiver Gol. Jagaa insisted that the translation for “shiver” was “foot odor.” Taking his claim with some suspicion, we coined the stream as the Stinky Foot Fork, and followed its penetration into the rocky front range of the Harhiraa Mountains.
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The rapids were perfect class IV, with chutes and eddies spilling through round stair-stepping boulders.
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Several drops in, we were surprised to see vertical walls emerge, closing the river between sinuous smooth cliffs—a real gorge.
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The upstream Khagartin was perhaps the hardest whitewater in Mongolia, but the downstream Shiver Gol was almost certainly the best. As the gorge grew, the rapids diminished, allowing our worry-free gaze at the soaring walls.
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Tumbling out of the mountains and into the desert, the river refused to flatten completely, constricting into class III sluices beneath steep low banks. Finally, the Shiver Gol split into multiple channels, as many Mongolian rivers do, once reaching the valley plain. Jagaa was waiting patiently at the take-out, standing in the smoke of a dung fire to keep the horseflies at bay.
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