Story written by San Antonio Express News Editor Tracy Barnett
Photos by Karla Held
DEVILS RIVER, Val Verde County — Kayaking the Devils River is not for those who seek a leisurely paddle in the sun. My right shoulder, which protests vigorously when I stretch my sleepy self awake, is a sharp reminder. It was my right shoulder, along with my left knee, that took the brunt of my inglorious tumble through the third tier of Three Tier Falls, my initiation into the world of Class III whitewater kayaking.
No, the Devils River is for a select few — more because of the complicated logistics of arranging a float here than because of the difficulty of the waters, because for even a semi-seasoned kayaker, the float itself is an ideal blend of exhilaration and relaxation, with the backdrop of incredible vistas, sparkling waters and abundant wildlife — and, blessedly, almost no sign of human habitation. We encountered fewer than a dozen human types on our 10-mile journey, and most of them were friendly.The logistics, however, are not for the faint of heart. Because the land along the river is mostly in private hands, access points are few and far between.
From our campsite near the Devils River State Natural Area, it was a three-hour round trip, mostly over teeth-chattering bumpy roads, to drop the truck off at the shuttle operator's house. At the end of the float, it was nearly an hour to pick up the truck, and another hour and a half to get back to our camp. And it's not cheap — besides the kayak rental, the shuttle itself was $100. So one must be truly committed to make this trip. One must drive for hours in order to float the Devils River, but with scenery like this, it's a joy.
"But once we get out there on the river, it will all be worth it — you'll see," promised Justin Rice, the friend who had organized this trip. And he was right. We set off at 9:30 when the world was still fresh and new; the sun sparkled on the clear blue waters and the sycamores rose on both sides, hiding a multitude of creatures, from the endangered black-capped vireos to the armadillos and bobcats who make their homes here. We were a group of four: me and Justin; Marni Francell, an archaeologist from Austin; and Karla Held, a longtime kayaker and river guide as well as a professional photographer.From the seat of a kayak, it's easy to see how this river got its name.
The current was slow here and we faced a headwind, so I quickly realized the lack of conditioning in my arms and shoulders — part of the reason for my soreness today. It wasn't long, however, before I didn't have time to think about that — a growth of willow was coming at me, together with a car-sized boulder, and I had to make a quick decision: right or left? Marni and I followed Karla and Justin, the veteran kayakers, until we arrived at Three Tier Falls, the spot that Gerald Bailey, the outfitter, had warned us of.
Marni and Justin step out at Three Tier Falls to assess the situation. When I arrived, Justin was standing waist-deep next to his kayak, scoping out the possibilities. The river took a sharp turn at this point, and he was concerned that his 14-foot kayak wouldn't make the bend.
Karla, in her tiny red 7-foot Dagger, hesitated a moment, took a look, and said, "What the heck." She was one with her kayak, and made it to the bottom without incident. Justin, Marni and I, thinking prudence to be the better part of valor in this case, took the left-hand option and portaged through the chest-high waters, making our way through a series of boulders to a limestone outcropping overlooking the river.
When I reached the bottom, I found Marni engaged in an intense conversation with a tall, angry woman. "I hope you people aren't thinking of having lunch here," she was saying. "You need to take your kayaks and move along."Marni explained that we were preparing to do just that — scoping out the severity of the next set of falls to see if we could make it down, or if we'd need to portage — but the woman was not appeased. "People should know this river before they come down here," she insisted. "And they should know that private property begins where the water meets the land.""It's not really possible to know the river without coming down here — it's changing all the time," Marni pointed out. "And it might be better to have people get out of their kayaks here and get a feel for the rapids before they go, rather than having someone get hurt and have a bunch of Medevac people coming in here."
This stopped her for a moment, but not for long. She was unhappy that we were on her land — well, not hers, to be honest, because she lives in Sonora, but she leases it — four miles of riverfront, to be exact, almost half the length of today's journey — and has leased land on this river for 26 years, she wanted us to know, "and that's why I LOVE this river, and that's why I get so angry when people don't take care of it. Wait! Where's she going?' she looked off after Karla, who was taking her camera to the far reach of the outcropping to get a better shot of the falls. "She's trespassing!"Clearly it was decision time. One way or another, we had to move on. Would we portage, or try to ride it out? The boulders were shoulder-high, and the water moving like a Humvee on I-10. I didn't see myself coming out on top. Justin looked at me. "I think I'm gonna go for it," he said. "What, you're going to ride it?" I responded, surprised. "Yeah — will you take my picture?" he handed me his camera. "OK," I said — "Good luck!"Justin shoots the rapids at Three Tier Falls.
He paddled his kayak back to the beginning of the pool, sized up the current and aimed for the left-hand side. He hit the first rapid head-on, tipped and righted himself, maneuvered and landed right-side-up in the churning waters of the second rapid, shot through a chute and glided to a smooth finish in the pool below. My heart was in my throat — not so much for him as for myself, because I'd already decided I was going to do it. My pass through wasn't nearly as graceful; by some miracle I made it upright to the bottom of the first tier, but those churning waters tossed me from my kayak like a rag doll and I spent some time bouncing along the bottom from rock to rock, popping up from time to time to gasp for air. I'm certain it didn't seem nearly as long a time to my friends as it did to me.
Marni sailed through with flying colors in her lightweight teal-and-purple Dagger, the picture of cool — but not before persuading the woman on the bank that we do, in fact, share her love of this river, and would do it no harm. "Have a nice float," she told Marni before finally taking her leave.Marni rights herself and sails through without a tumble.It wasn't long before the river restored my equilibrium, floating as I was, suspended between the collie-sized catfish below me and the great blue heron sailing back and forth above me.
The landscape shifted from sage-green hills to limestone bluffs to sycamore forests and back again, and the red-winged blackbirds trilled from the banks with the liquid notes of a summer afternoon.I was the first to make my way through another, completely unexpected set of whitewater rapids — it happened so fast I didn't have time to think, I just let the kayak take me and focused on keeping my balance. As I coasted in to shore for the landing, I heard the gleeful crow of two young boys on the bank; "We've got a dumper!" one shouted, and they plunged in after Justin's kayak — but I was ahead of them, and it was me who grabbed it and held it, giving me a rare opportunity to salvage my pride. Tranquil vistas and crystal waters characterize most of the Devils River - except for the bumpy spots.
The rest of the ride was tranquil, until near the end, when we lost each other in a thicket of reeds. I heard Marni and Karla joking about looking for Moses in a basket; then the river devils reached up from the deep again. I heard the sound of rushing water, and I felt the back of my kayak being pulled in a direction I didn't want to go. I fought to turn myself back around, but it was a losing battle. Before I knew it, the kayak was smashed up against a tree, tipped to one side and filling with water so quickly I could do nothing but jump out and save myself.
A pair of steel pedestrian bridges installed just above water level complicated the situation; even if I'd been able to dislodge the boat from the pouring water, weighing a ton as it did now, I would not have been able to get it past the bridges.My companions were long gone — I suppose I'd taken the wrong arm of the Y, and I was on my own. I unloaded the lunch and other supplies and considered my options.
Luckily for me, Karla materialized from nowhere in her tiny red kayak and commenced a one-woman rescue mission. "Let's let the water work for us," she proposed, and figured out a way to leverage the canoe onto its other side and let the water pour out. I marveled at her 5-foot-2 frame heaving the kayak up and over the pedestrian bridges like a pack of chopsticks.
This would be the end of the story were it not for Marlene and Travis. These two genuine river denizens welcomed us to dry land — their land, it must be said — with a friendly smile and a helping hand. They were part of Gerald Baily's Devils River Outfitters — the only outfitters on the Devils River, as far as we could tell — and they hauled us an hour and a half to Gerald's ranch, where Justin and I had left the truck the day before.
Travis, dressed in his river best with a straw hat, adorned with a turkey feather, and cut-off jeans, clearly belongs to these riverbacks as much as the scrubby sycamores and the rocky bluffs."There's no one out here — you get the whole place to yourself, if you know what I mean," he said. "Oh, sure, you might get some people here during the 4th of July weekend, but after that, you can do whatever you want because there's no one else out here."
Karla was intrigued by this idea, but a doubt lingered. "Oh, OK, so what do you do for fun?""You got everything you need down in Del Rio," he said. "And then you've got Acuna."He regaled us with stories of wild times in Del Rio and across the border in Ciudad Acuna, where someone lifted his wallet, boots and other possessions from his hotel room after a long night of drinking. He left us with the image of him pleading with the border agents in his shorts, the only thing that was left to him."You cross the border, hit the pharmacy, hit the bar, hit the pharmacy, and cross the border, hopefully before midnight. It's best to cross the border before midnight if you can — things get pretty crazy down there after midnight.
"It's ok if you know the people and you're polite, but don't go around flashin' money like some folks."Marlene, for her part, was annoyed by the story of the angry leaseholder who shooed us off her shore. "Where was she from? Sonora? Oh, it figures," she said, and she and Travis exchanged a knowing glance."Our kayakers don't throw trash, and they don't mess up the river," she asserted. "We don't get those types. You gotta work hard to be here. This ain't a float trip, it's a hard day of workin' your way down the river."
--Besides taking the photos, Karla Held contributed to this story — and bailed the author out of a serious predicament.
