Bouquillas Canyon

by Sherri Blifford

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Bouquillas is one in a string of canyons along the Rio Grande River in Big Bend National Park and the adjacent wilderness area. I’d heard about Santa Elena Canyon and the rock slide and assumed all the canyons were filled with wild, tumultuous rapids.

When we launched late on a cool December day, my anxiety level was high. We’d planned this trip carefully around the full moon. There was some talk of a moonlight paddle. Somehow that seemed more sane sitting in my warm living room than here, perched in the bow of a canoe, straining to see.

The sun slid behind the canyon walls long before the moon peeked over them. It got cold. In the dark every noise was amplified. Oh, goodie. Cold and dark and scary. I sneezed. My throat hurt. Nervous little prickly thoughts danced in my head.

“Get a grip” I scolded myself. I was with an outfitter who knew the river well, having done it more than 200 times. But we were alone on a tense international border and I was getting sick. No one expected us to surface for four days. Our bodies wouldn’t be found in time. Then I heard the unmistakable roar of rapids.

“Can we camp right here, please?”

“We'll be fine and there’s a better place just ahead,” pleaded my friend.

“Those are rapids and I’m scared.”

The canoe turned so abruptly I almost lost my balance. I turned to find a reassuring smile instead of the scolding most males would have dished out. We camped. On the hardest, muddiest bank we’d find in four days. At daybreak I walked down to check out the “rapids”, all ten feet of them, ankle deep! Somewhat sheepishly, I quietly accepted grapefruit and hot coffee, grateful there weren’t any nasty “I told you so” comments.

  Isn’t that usually the case with our fears? Only the unknown can be truly terrifying. Only in the darkness can a small bump become a great thundering boulder. In the quiet ritual of hot coffee watching a sky smeared with vibrant color, other fears melted, too, as I made a silent vow to trust more and worry less.

Describing Bouquillas is an exercise in futility. All the superlatives sound silly. It is magnificent and intimidating, clearly reminding one of our insignificance. Walls of limestone go straight up to the sky. Light dances on the ridges and curves, reflecting the walls in the river. Cobble decorates the river and occasionally tests your skill. When the moon does rise, it glares brilliantly, bouncing off the stone. We didn’t need a flashlight. We did need to pull the tarp over our heads to make it dark enough to sleep and, once, to escape a sand storm. Using a tarp instead of a tent isn’t a “macho” thing here. Tents blow down in the fierce winds. A tarp can be wrapped securely for warmth and shelter. One night frost formed on the tarp when temperatures dropped just under 20 degrees but I was warm in a cozy cocoon.

  On an earlier hiking trip to Big Bend, I’d seen small row boats at the village taking passengers across the river for a dollar or two. They’re gone now, more victims of the madness created by terrorists. Further proof that fear is the unknown. The river is quiet and empty.

   In almost any discussion of camping, someone has to hold forth as though they originated the concept that their idea of roughing it is the Holiday Inn. One would think they might at least be slightly more creative.

   How can they witness the graceful glide of a beaver in that soft light of dusk? Their souls can never soar with the blue Heron that dives, perches, and soars again as though to lead a canoe downstream. Look up at a thousand feet or more of canyon wall and find a tiny plant growing out of rock. Now THAT is perseverance.

   Let those naysayers imprison themselves and lose the wonders of a river. Give me an island under a sky bright with stars. Let me escape the noise and nonsense to reclaim my soul and then be lulled to sleep by water bubbling over rocks.

   Just don’t assume that I’m the one “roughing it”.

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