How do you paddle a disappearing river?

I had barely unbuckled my seat belt and was already wondering if I had driven six hours through Texas for nothing. A once in a lifetime river adventure had seemingly evaporated with disappointing news.

It was the promise of a four-day, 33-mile canoe trip in Big Bend National Park, winding through awe-inspiring canyons on a mighty river, that had lured me across the state. My partner’s brother, Michael Stangl, who is an occasional guide Hidden Dagger Adventures, had offered to take me down the Rio Grande, one of the nation’s longest rivers, stretching from central Colorado to the Gulf of Mexico. I had previously only visited Big Bend on foot and I was excited to see it from the water.

The moment I pulled into Michael’s driveway in Alpine, Texas, after driving there from Austin last April, he told me, we weren’t going through the park again.

“Unless you want to take a canoe hike, we’ll have to navigate a different part of the river,” he said. When he first returned from that stretch of river—between Rio Grande Village, a small campground in Big Bend, and Heath Canyon Ranch, just outside the park—he said it had been “more work than fun,” and that he dragged the canoe a quarter mile at a time over nearly dry riverbeds.

Instead, we would do the Temple Canyon Route: an 11-mile, two-night, three-day stretch of the Rio Grande along the U.S.-Mexico border, more than 30 miles from where our original trip would begin. This other river segment, entirely outside and downstream of Big Bend, was instead located in a desert bighorn sheep recovery area known as Black Gap.

Although I was disappointed, I learned that last-minute changes were common in adventures around the Rio Grande.

“If the river were a heart, it would be flatlining”

The Rio Grande is in danger: its water is being depleted by farmers and cities, while a causes climate change megadrought that has parched the American Southwest for more than two decades threatens hopes of recovery. In 2022, the river ran dry in Albuquerque for the first time in four decades. The same year also saw the appearance of the picturesque Santa Elena Canyon, one of the most popular sights in Big Bend ran dry for the first time in at least 15 years, according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration.

“If the river were a heart, it would flatten out,” says Samuel Sandoval-Solis, an associate professor at the University of California, Davis, who studies water management.

For West Texas river guides, it’s just another precarious reality of life in the Chihuahuan Desert. “I expect that river trips will no longer be feasible in my lifetime,” says Charlie Angell Angell Expeditionsa guide service based in Redford, Texas.

For now, those booking paddle trips on the Rio Grande can expect a last-minute transfer if they want their boats to actually float.

“When guests book by phone, we tell them, ‘You go where we go,’” says Mike Naccarato, founder of Outfitters of Far West Texas, an adventure company based in Presidio, Texas. “And if they still insist on wanting to go to Big Bend National Park when the water levels are low, we tell them it’s their choice: we can do it by towing the boat up and down the river, or we can very much do this. , very nice trip outside the park, but still on the Rio Grande.”

While the peak season for river trips typically runs from March to May, and after the monsoon season from September to November, local tour operators have difficulty predicting when water levels will be high enough.

“These days it is very difficult to say that everything is normal. We are now calling it a ‘not soon’ season,” said Mr. Naccarato.

Drag, zigzag and headbutt

After an hour-long ride with canoes tied to Michael’s truck, we stood at the edge of the river outside Heath Canyon Ranch and stared at a decommissioned bridge that spanned the border with Mexico. While the sun was hidden behind the clouds, I was already soaking wet with sweat from lugging the gear-filled canoes to the shore.

It soon became clear that our ‘easier’ 11 mile journey would still be tough work due to the river’s lower than normal water levels.

Within about 30 seconds of pushing off, Michael and I reached our first fast section and I, a newbie to the river, was ill-prepared. The lower water levels had left protruding rocks that we had to pass through. Michael jumped out of his canoe and grabbed my bow. “You need to turn the nose directly toward the Y, where the river splits and turns white, and then tilt the nose quickly to the right, then quickly to the left,” he instructed.

My canoe got stuck on a gravel bottom and I was forced to bump it over rocks until the river deepened. It happened again and again: on almost every fast section – and it felt like every time I started to gain confidence, one came along – my boat ended up on the beach. I must have spent more time pushing than paddling.

Even in parts where the river deepened, it was not easy. Instead of the current pulling us quickly into the center, the lower water levels forced our boats to drift back and forth across the banks of the river in a tortuous formation. The banks posed another problem: For most of our trip, the right bank of the river – the Mexican side – was dominated by carrizorite. Also known as border bamboo or giant reed, the reed, an invasive species, stretched along the bank to a height I estimated as high as 15 feet.

The turbulent and narrow river dragged my boat straight into the reeds, cutting open my arms and legs and leaving me clotheslined in the water. Michael instructed me to – counterintuitively – lean forward into the stick, not away from it. When I followed his advice, my (without helmet) head became a blunt object and the cane broke itself in half. It was considerably better than capsizing.

That night, blistered, bruised and damp, I asked Michael as we sat on our sleeping mats if sailing the Rio was always so strenuous and full of obstacles. “Not when there’s real water,” he said. As I later discovered, most of the difficulties I encountered (apart from stepping in cow dung near the campsite) could be attributed to the river’s lower water levels and signs of the landscape changing as a result, said Jeff Bennett, a hydrologist. for the Rio Grande joint venturea conservation group that aims to protect river habitat.

“Stones, gravel, sand and these invasive reeds are no longer washed downstream,” Mr. Bennett said in a telephone interview. “A flood would fix all that.”

A journey worth the bruises

On the last morning of the trip, we pulled a few soggy sandwiches from the bottom of our coolers and shifted away. The river was calm for the few miles we had left, and we saw turtles called Big Bend sliders sunbathing on the rocks.

The final challenge the river presented us was leaving it. We floated right past the take-out, which was shrouded in reeds, and had to paddle back upstream a quarter mile.

Unlike the previous spots on the river where we had pulled our canoes ashore, this one was surprisingly deep, with the river up to my chest. Instead of a gentle slope like the places we camped during our trip, the takeout location was more or less a 60-degree sand dune stretching for twenty yards.

After dragging my boat through the sand, I collapsed, wet, bruised and exhausted, with just enough energy left to dissociate in the cloudless sky.

“We think the river has changed, but actually we have changed the river,” said Dr. Sandoval-Solis, an associate professor at UC Davis, months later, back home in the comfort of my home, adding that he believed it. It was still possible to return the river to its once mighty state through good water management practices. “The river has a much better memory than we do.”

He is right about his memory: when the rain comes, the river remembers his identity as an ancient gorge sculptor, even though we know him only as a panting, shrinking giant.

He is also right about our poor memory. Because when I think about my journey, the stick hitting me, the stepping in cow manure or the change of plans isn’t the first thing I remember first. Instead, I think of lying under a blanket of stars, passing a bottle of mezcal back and forth between hands of cards, listening to the braying of donkeys echoing from cliff to cliff, gorge to gorge, shore to shore . And I want to do it – everything – again. I just hope there’s enough river for next time.