Cabin In the Cliffs
Paddling across a lake with thousands of dollars of camera gear in a canoe you bought for $100 might seem like risky business, and you would be absolutely right.
by Zach Duncan
Jared and I carried the canoe down the short dirt boat ramp. It was the Thursday afternoon before Memorial Day. The historic Spring rains had kept the lake levels near 100%, leaving only a dozen or so camping spots on this side of the lake. One could easily imagine what that would mean on a holiday weekend. Luckily, all we had to do was load up a couple bags, a cooler, and we were off, headed away from the car campers towards our private beach. We passed a couple vacant spots within earshot of the car campers so we kept paddling. There was a camper trailer in one of the small coves submerged up to its roof. Back in March sheriff deputies came by to warn campers to move further up the shore, as the dam would be releasing excess water from the reservoir upstream that would raise the lake about four to five feet. The water rose nearly 20 feet in the middle of the night, stranding several vehicles, this one being the only one that couldn’t be recovered.
These days, $107 can’t get you a whole lot, especially when it comes to outdoor gear. That is, unless you know where to look, what to look for, and are willing to take a little bit of a risk. On Jared‘s garage floor sat a faded green fiberglass Old Town canoe he bought online for $100. The other seven dollars went towards a grill cover he bought at Goodwill, to make new seat covers. The seat cushion was made from mail parcel insulation and the straps holding it to the wooden seat frames were made of backpack straps, and an old leather belt he repurposed into a camera strap. The canoe had a yellow boat registration sticker from 1989. The deck plates were cracked and the bottom had seen more rocks than a river bottom itself. Most importantly though, it would float.
Growing up, I remember a disdain for canoe trips. In the summer when I visited my dad in the Ozarks, we would sometimes take a canoe down the White or Spring River. Part of that disdain came from being a child not wanting to listen to directions from adults, but I think that was directed at my father more than anyone else. I will always be appreciative for the love of the outdoors that he instilled in me, but beyond that, I don’t have much else to say.
Just a few minutes more of paddling landed us on a perfect beachfront campsite, about an hour before sunset, perfectly flat and mostly clear of scorpion weed. We set up camp and took a dip in the green water. This reservoir is fed by the Verde river, sometimes known as the dirty Verde. It’s not necessarily dirty per se, but it sure as hell isn’t the French Riviera. Trying to see into the water would be a lot like trying to drive at night with sunglasses on. Rehydrated food filled our bellies and a couple light beers filled the cup holders of our chairs as we talked for hours into the night about photography, girls, and dreams of the future, though cameras may have dominated that category. Don’t tell his wife that though.
With heavy eyes, I was happy to see it was almost sun up and light enough to justify waking up, though it seemed like I was awake all night. As calming as the sound of bugs, frogs, and the crashing waves from passing bass boats all night were, a pair of foam earplugs would’ve done me better. Jared sat up at the sound of my rustling sleeping bag. We both groaned and laughed at how visibly tired we both were even from 20 feet away but the excitement for the hike ahead was enough to get us moving for the day. We packed up, dropped off some gear at the truck just in case the canoe took on water, and paddled 3/4 of a mile across the lake. We pulled the canoe up the steep and loose gravel shoreline. If you wanted to see how much sand and gravel you can stuff in your sandals with your feet still in them, this was the perfect way to do it. It was a relief to swap out the sandals for trail shoes, but that was short-lived thanks to the field of dried scorpion weed we landed on. It’s one of those things that invokes frustration through an audible release of CO2 from your lungs. The burs are irritating and annoying, and no matter how many times you do laundry, you still have to pick them out of your socks every time you put them on.
The Arundo Donax, a highly invasive reed from Asia, resembling bamboo, covered almost the entire path of our hike. I didn’t mind how thick the reeds were as much as the infinite amount of spiders and accompanying webs that were constantly attaching themselves to my legs. There’s a constant state of anxiety and awareness that comes with venturing through the desert in the warmer months, as one might experience walking alone in the dark, in anticipation of an unwelcome rattle.
The wash we continued up began to grow taller and wider. The crows were feeding on the Saguaro flowers and tadpoles scurried as we stepped over their drying pools of water. The patterns in the rocks indicated, in my mind, that water is always flowing in this area, and I couldn’t imagine living here for very long without a reliable and clean water source. Jared let out a surprised “oh hey!” And there it stood, just barely. With my head down watching my step, I almost walked right past the cabin. It had seen better days, and by days, I mean decades. That thing was rougher than 30 grit sandpaper. The glass windows were laying on the ground in a million pieces. Dozens of names were carved into the interior walls, including one I recognized from high school, but the oldest one was burned into the wood not carved. It read “Ray 59”. The steel stove had been removed, and only the ventilation in the roof remained. The north wall was full of bullet holes. There were a few beer cans on the floor that look like they’d only been there a couple days, while the dehydrated apricots on the shelf had clearly been there much longer. These cabins or “line shacks” were a lot more common in the days when cattle grazing was more prevalent. This area was popular for miners so it’s possible it was used by them for temporary occupancy as well. I couldn't find a backstory to this cabin specifically but if I find an old head in the area then I’ll be sure to ask them about it.
The lack of sleep from the night before was catching up to us, as the conversation slowly became less enthusiastic. I ate the last couple stale energy bars from my bag. We both sighed, adjusted our packs with a calm excitedness to get out of the desert jungle, as the hike back would prove to be easier than the way in.
