Kayak Down the Colorado River Flat Water Kayak Canoe Guidebooks California

It was a pretty spontaneous decision on my part. After all, I thought to myself, what harm could there be going on a canoe trip amongst a group of men with whom six I worked with for a number of years? So naturally I jumped at the opportunity to go on an extended 76 mile trip down the Colorado River from Blythe to Yuma, when I was asked if I wanted to go, the day before the trip. Little did I know what adventures lay ahead.

There was one small glitch in the plan. They were taking four canoes, and didn’t want me to take my kayak for some reason. I found out a short while later, the reason why. Those little devils, paired me up with someone who had never paddled a canoe before, and swore to me afterwards they didn’t know…

They call tandem boats, “divorce boats”, for a darn good reason. The same applies to paddling a canoe. After the first two miles of zigzagging down the river trying to keep the canoe going in a straight path, (due to my over zealous companion over paddling in the bow of the canoe,) while everyone else glided along down river barely paddling, due to the 5 m.p.h. river flow, I was ready to knock that little bugger right out of the canoe with my paddle. I finally suggested that he try his hand at fishing, which he apparently wasn’t any better at either. He nearly hooked me, and instead hooked my hat, on his first attempt at casting.

Blythe is located on the California- Arizona border where the Interstate 10 crosses the Colorado River. We finally put in our canoes at the Riviera Blythe Marina located off of Riviera Drive, after we waited close to four hours for two of the guys to car shuttle down to the take-out point, and then drive back up, to the put-in spot where we were located.

The first thing that struck me as rather humorous was how much junk the guys packed into their canoes – I swear they threw in the kitchen sink too. This was the first trip I ever went on that I didn’t know where I was going – nor did I have a map, so basically was flying blind by the seat of my pants, which is something I recommend never doing, because if something happens to the only one who knows where you are going, it places you in a pretty vulnerable predicament,….but more about that a little later.

The weather was roasting and in the low 100’s every day, but at night the temperature dropped into the 30’s and 40’s. Peter McIntyre County Park has restrooms and portable water which is about 8 miles down river from the put-in. Up until this point everyone was cruising along, pretty much gliding down with the river current, tossing out their lines, while chugging down what seemed like an endless supply of beer, doing very little paddling, while getting some pretty good fishing action.

There are plenty of places to get out and fish from a sand bank or in shallower parts of the river, which we did. The river has three varieties of trout: browns, rainbows, and cutthroats which range in size from eight inches on up. After just a few casts, Mark hooked up with a feisty 14-inch brown. The other guys all soon followed suit, except of course, for my paddling companion, who apparently has never done much fishing or camping for that matter.

About 5 hours into the trip, up ahead I saw one of the most hysterical things I have ever seen in my entire life. Apparently there was a muddy sand bar in which several of the guys were running and doing belly flops, sliding 20 or so feet, kind-of like those water slides, kids slide on your lawn. They were covered with gooey, black, smelly mud from head to toe. I broke out in hysterics, when they all started making mud angels. I was kicking myself in the butt for not having a video camera, which I would have won hands down, the America Most Funny Video award. I had to keep reminding myself these are the same men who I work with – I never had a clue to this side of their personality before.

The first night the plan was to camp along the shoreline. I was about 100 yards from the other three canoes, two of which were pulling up their canoes onto the shoreline, which is when I heard loud horrific screams. I looked up to see the guys on shore flaying their arms like they were doing some kind of war dance. That’s when I saw a dark swarm, what I thought was mosquitoes, but then one of the guys was screaming wasps. I yelled back to dive under the water, which they did.

At this time, I had flash backs to when I was 5 years old, when I stepped on a hornets nest, and had over 100 stings. My mom had to use the fly swatter to get them off of me. So I started back paddling like I was in the Olympics trying to win a freaking Gold Medal. Thank God, I had just put on a long sleeve shirt with a hood, and pants, because I had too much sun.

I was the only one who didn’t get stung. The other guys were so badly stung on their faces they were unrecognizable. After we found another spot to camp a short distance down river, I asked the guys if they wanted me to paddle down river another 20 miles to get help. Mark said, I’d get lost due to all of the side channels and they’d be alright.

Here’s where a map of the river would have come into good use, had the situation been critical. And you could forget about the cell phone reception in the remote area where we were located. So they covered themselves with mud, and polished off all of the beers to try to numb the pain. All night long, I heard them partying up a storm splashing around in the water. I wondered if I should keep an eye on them to make sure they didn’t drown because they sounded so drunk, which I imagine they probably felt like doing, to put themselves out of their misery.

I must admit, in the morning the swelling was so bad on their faces, they looked pretty scary because their faces were so deformed. They could barely see out of their eyes either. The few people who passed us on the river, took one looked at the guys, and I could see the sudden fear in their expression, as they tried to figure out what in the world was going on. The guys sure were pretty good sports about it, and decided to continue on past Harvey’s Fishing Hole boat launch, which happened to be only a mile further down river.

At roughly the 22 mile point, we portaged over a levee at Oxbow Bridge to reach Palo Verde Oxbow Lake where the fishing was outstanding. After catching a sizable amount of fish, we went on our merry way. The group was much more somber. We made it to just before Walter’s Camp, which was about the 35 mile mark on the second day without any further incident. Walter’s Camp is a take-out point which has restroom facilities, water and a few supplies, (including beer), which if I recall correctly, is on the right fork when the river splits for a short ways. We all enjoyed a pleasant evening meal of fresh cooked trout, which I whipped up for the guys, who still appeared to be suffering. Then we all caught up on some much needed sleep.

The morning on the third day was glorious. The reflections off the water, made me feel like I died during the night, and woke up in heaven. Even though the air temperature was really brisk, I decided to take a swim before the guys woke up. Little did I know I had seven sets of peering eyes, all watching me like naughty little boys who got caught with their hand in a cookie jar, so naturally I made them pay for their crime, the best way I knew how.

We packed up our canoes and headed into the Imperial National Wildlife Refuge, where speedboats and jet skis were not allowed. It was really peaceful, but a little eerie. For as far as you could see there was nothing but rolling sage brush on both sides of the river. Fishing was excellent on the river and in some of the back channels we explored. The land along the shore is owned and managed by various entities, both public and private. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife services manages the Imperial National Wildlife refuge where there is an abundance of submerged water hazards, rocks, and sand bars, which we had to portage over a few, because the river was so low in some sections.

When were about half-way through the refuge, out of no where an old geezer, sitting in some kind-of home made wooden kayak, with gear strapped so high to it, it made our canoes look like they were packed like, came cruising up river towards us. He took one look at the guys and asked them what happened. There was something about the man that struck me as really creepy and odd, especially when he was so insistent about how the guys should hike to 95 Hwy. and catch a ride down to Yuma for help. The second thing that was odd, was he said we were the first people he’d come across in several weeks, which made me wonder what he was doing all out here by himself. Plus his gear certainly didn’t look like the typical kayak expedition equipment. Later that night, I kept one eye open, half expecting him to show up in the middle of the night and steal some of our gear, but he never did.

It was hotter than heck on last day of our journey, and for the first time we encountered some pretty good head winds as we made our way to the take-out point about 25 miles further down river. It was the first time I had to put any effort into paddling except for those first two miles when I wanted to clobber my paddling companion.

When we finally pulled into the take-out site at Squaw Lake Recreation Area at the 76 mile mark, the guys caused a lot of stares and whispers. All I could think about was hitting the head, and jumping into the shower, and getting squeaky clean again. I insisted the guys all take showers too, since they were pretty ripe from smearing themselves with the stinky mud, and considering during the ride back, we would be in pretty tight quarters.

We all piled into the truck, after packing up our gear and made our way back to our cars. On the long two-hour drive back, I reminisced about all of the adventures we had during the 4 day outing with the boys. I imagined I’d never look at them the same when I went back to work the following day – I think a little of it had to do with mental pictures of mud angels, and grapefruit size welts on their faces.