/ˌrēəˈmərj(ə)ns/
noun
noun: reemergence
the process of coming into sight or prominence once more.
Striking out after work, the landscape off 95 is wringing itself out. White, Farley, and the roaring Dirty Devil all telling the same story. It can break your mind - thinking of all the special quiet places transformed by water…the unique passage this allows.
But alas - you have your mind made up. Stick to the plan damnit. I drive on for hours.
Sleeping in the truck near the end of Fiftymile bench I awake to patchy clouds hanging gently above a sea of slickrock.
Dropping over edge I head overland. I’m moving up, down, and all around in search of an access point into the canyons below
Eventually I spot it and drop in. Its not long before I come upon a site I’d spent the night with a dear friend years ago. An early taste for what was happening out here. The waterfall is still flowing as beautiful as ever. The remnants of full pool and house boat livin’ still mark the landscape. I break this fire ring down. Throwing my support behind the comeback being made.
I chug some water and finally touch down on true canyon bottom. Moving downstream I round corner after corner until coming upon a site of a place I first saw years ago. Now transformed. Here is how it looked today…….
…..and below is how it looked just a few years ago.
Moving on. What else has changed? Been transformed? After another 45 minutes of walking I round a corner to spy this alcove. It looks familiar. I scan the memory bank……
….a very different scene just a few years prior. Its then that what is happening out here really hits me. The last time I was here, using this canyon as an exit, things were so different. Having no point of context it’s all I knew and know. Now with the contrasting experience separated by a blink of time the reality of the drought finally hits home.
Onward. There is a full blown recovery effort underway down here.
I imagine in a few years the walking here is going to be a real bushwhack similar to the canyons feeding into the Escalante higher upstream. For now its not too bad.
Moving further downstream I’m increasingly shocked by how away the lake remains. Corner after corner this canyon grows deeper. With each bend I expect to finally come upon shoreline - but no! Eventually things become downright entrenched.
And after another good hour + I find the lake. I didn’t bring a tarp and clouds are building. I scramble around and find a thin alcove that looks to be juuuuussssstttt enough for some protection. I make camp.
Tucked into the alcove I see the night sky flicker and roil with lightning, rumble with thunder. Not much sleep. I stay awake, dry, make some tea while watching the clouds clear and the stars break on through.
Early in the morning I rise before first light and take coffee lakeside. Its meditative. Everything feels still, quiet, soft. The haunting remnants of young trees keep me company. It all feels in such flux, the dawn of some new paradigm.
I’m called by first light streaming up the canyon. I blow up the boat. No wind. A fine day for paddling.
The best parts of paddling out here - unquestionably - are in the side canyons, before you hit the bigger bodies of water. So peaceful and intimate.
Eventually I hit the (very quiet) Escalante arm and head towards my destination.
I park my boat and begin walking. You hear it before you see it. Flowing water echoing like in a chamber.
I round a few corners and finally take it in. Its not an unknown place but to me it feels akin to the arrival moment of a pilgrimage - this thing I’ve looked at in old photos and heard written about so eloquently. For 99% of my life it has been buried, it did not exist. And yet here it is. Alive. Reemerged.
Somehow I have the place totally to myself. I spend ample time before heading back.
The last time I was on the Escalante arm the pleasure craft shown below was making its way into the canyon I’m now exiting. This time around I saw a sole small power boat on the Escalante. I dont think craft like the one below can even get in here anymore. It feels…..right?
Back to my exit canyon I begin moving back upstream
The fortress of bushwhacking that serves as the final transition before exiting. In a few years I feel like much of the canyon will resemble this!
Back at the truck the clouds are building again. Instead of staying out another night I book it to try and get off the HITRR before things get too dicey. I cross over Boulder Mountain late in the evening and park near Hite - tired by fulfilled.
In the morning I crawl out of the truck to the rim of the Dirty Devil. It sounds meaty. A satellite text goes out. 500cfs. Hmmmm. I have all the ingredients needed. I decide to go for it and repack the bag and begin walking.
A hard rain finds me an hour in. I duck under an alcove and watch the storm stream over the desert. In under an hour the sky is clear and the land is full of refracted waterpockets. I push on.
Dropping in the sense of giddiness that comes with being in these places at the right time - when they’re transformed by water - comes back as strong as ever. The Dirty Devil is muddy. Thick. And the water returns to work bringing large chunks of tamarisk downstream.
At the takeout I hop out of a filthy boat and laugh to myself. It feels good to have the muddy silty grime wash off the stagnant filth of Powell.
I pack it in and head home. A great few days out.
