Double-Rarity

By the mid-morning, with the help of the sun and the scorching asphalt, my sleeping bag had dried, which was my main concern as were what clothing I had with me – two pair of socks, a pair of underwear and a tee-shirt and sweat shirt.

“Did you get washed over it, last night?” called a voice behind me. I turned to find a man walking towards me from the dam.

“No,” I answered, “I was on this side, but I was down there when the rain began to fall.”

“Good. Glad to hear it,” he replied as he stopped beside me, looking over my belongings before adding, “Did you come down from Havasu?”

“Yes,” I answered with a certain amount of pride.

“You have a permit?” he asked.

I frowned, “A permit? No.”

“Amazing that you ain’t been caught,” he stated, “You’re supposed to have a permit to come down this far on the river. Most folks never get this far – so you’re a double-rarity. And don’t worry, I ain’t gonna turn you in.”

“Wow,” I answered, “I had no idea I was breaking the law being on the river without Uncle Sam’s permission.”

“Not only Uncle Sam’s, but that so-called Golden Bear,” he commented, “And they’re worse. Doubt anybody’s gonna bug you now that you made it this far. Jus’ you be safe. Can I help you down there.”

“Naw,” I smiled, “But thank you – and thank you for the info.”

Soon I was back on the river, which had picked up pace following the rainfall from the night before. Because I got such a late start, I didn’t go very far before evening appeared. And fearing another rainstorm, I set my camp up above the river bank. It was a good decision because it stormed a second night.

Hours intermittently paddling and drifting left me time to think. While my back hurt from the sunburn, my ribs were beginning to adjust to the activity of reaching, stretching and pulling the canoe along on the edge of a paddle.

My mind was in a state of revere as I slide under a bridge. The momentary shade felt good and I thought about returning to sit for a while in it’s shadow, but ahead was yet another bridge, so I figured I’d pull under it and enjoy some ‘cooling-off’ time.

As I approached the second bridge, my eye caught something bobbing in the water, next to a half-submerged tree. I directed the canoe towards the object, only to recognize my improvised flotation device that tied my boots to.

Quickly, I retrieved them from the water and made way for the embankment. I was happy to have them back as I dumped the muddy silt from them. After a few dips in the water, I had them rinsed out and placed on the seat ahead of me to dry out.

It was perhaps an hour later that it dawned on me that in my ecstasy over having found my boots, I forgotten about stopping to cool-off under the bridge. If anyone were nearby, they would have seen this fool, paddling down river, laughing his head off.

“Shit! Not again!” I growled as yet another dam came into sight. It meant another portage and another opportunity to get caught shooting the Colorado River with out a permit.

Hoping I hadn’t been seen, I rocketed the canoe to the bank on the Arizona side of the river. I had come to think that Arizona might be easier on me, a wayward journey’s, than California law enforcement.

Dragging the canoe up the embankment and hiding it in a cluster of scrub-brush, I picked up a length of stick, and proceeded to the dam. While I had heard of it, I’d come to believe it was further up the river and beyond Lake Mead. But here it was; the Imperial Valley Reservoir.

The second I saw it’s name, I kicked myself for being so ignorant, “Of course it’s this far south – Imperial Valley is in California.”

Now I had to figure out how to get around it without stirring up alarm. I walked across it, to the spillway and watched as the water churned over the cement coffers. Next, I walked back to the road I’d been on and then father down a road that dead-ended into the reservoir.