Exploring Topock Gorge

Canoeing Topock Gorge

A self-propelled tour in Havasu National Wildlife Refuge proves an experience worth repeating

TEXT BY CARRIE SEARS BELL PHOTOGRAPHS BY FRED GRIFFIN

Nervous excitement sweeps over us as the bow of our rented aluminum canoe slaps into the cold green current of the Colorado River. It's a feeling my husband, Moe, and I always get at the beginning of a new adventure-be it trekking up the slopes of Mount Rainier or, in this case, canoeing downriver for a day tour of spectacular Topock Gorge. Along with dozens of other canoeists embarking on the journey, we eagerly pull away from the dock at Park Moabi, California two miles north of the gorge entrance and begin to reacquaint ourselves with the basics of canoe travel. Moe paddles on one side, I paddle on the other, synchronizing our efforts so that we can move with the current in a straight line rather than a zigzag. We also practice making quick turns. The greatest hazards on this calm section of the river are powerboat wakes, which can capsize a canoe if it is struck broadside. We want to be sure we can point the canoe directly into them. As we struggle to regain old skills, we get our first glimpse of the wildlife we have come to observe. An exotic longnecked black water bird with a wide white stripe down the front is casually propelling itself upstream. Furtively, the Western grebe points its straight yellow bill and beady dark eyes at us. Then, in a flash, it dives underwater only to surface several seconds later with a small strug-

gling morsel of aquatic life locked in its bill. When the grebe disappears into a dense golden reed thicket, we are left to take stock of our surroundings. Here, in a parched and craggy Mohave

Canoeing Topock Gorge

County landscape along the Arizona-California border, the meandering Colorado River is an inviting ribbon of moisture. It also is the lifeblood of three marshy national wildlife refuges-Havasu, Cibola, and Imperial-which host hundreds of species of birds, mammals, and fish. Fifteen-mile-long Topock Gorge lies at the heart of the largest of the three sanctuaries, 44,786-acre Havasu. This gorge, just above Lake Havasu, is where seemingly incongruous ecosystemsa desert and a marshland-merge. The result is a beautiful if bizarre environment in which cattail beds border steep rocky slopes dotted with barrel cactus, and water birds live within a few hundred feet of reptiles. The experience of passing through it on this warm spring day completely absorbs us, awakens our senses, and makes us temporarily forget that this is a trip with a beginning and an end.

It's been overcast all morning, and now a light drizzle begins as we glide under the side-by-side highway and railroad bridges that mark Topock Gorge's northern boundary. Ahead of us, on both sides of the waterway, rugged cliffs and peaks rise in shades of red, purple, and black. In the foreground, thick green shrubs all but hide the shady shoreline. We exchange greetings with several relaxed fishermen, their lines cast out behind their powerboats in hope of catching largemouth or striped bass, crappie, or channel catfish.

We have mixed feelings about power-boats. Though fast, maneuverable, and undeniably convenient, their disruptive wakes, oily fumes, and roaring engines frighten the water birds and generally seem out of place in a wildlife preserve. Farther into the gorge, we're overcome with a sense of peace as we listen to the calls of several species of waterfowl. We pull closer to the rushes, hoping to see some of them pop out of the cattails and onto the river. The boldest and most common bird in view is the American coot, During periods of low runoff, marshy areas adjacent to the river recede to mere inches in depth. This allows new reed beds (ABOVE) to sprout from sun-warmed sandbars, providing fresh habitat for multitudes of wild creatures. (FAR RIGHT) Topock Gorge has become a favorite spot for recreation seekers from both sides of the Colorado River.

Canoeing Topock Gorge

a small black and gray duck-shaped bird with an unmistakable white bill. A gregarious creature that spits out a repeated kubkub-kub sound, the coot keeps company with a variety of less distinctive ducks we can't identify.

We do, however, recognize a pair of redwinged blackbirds in flight, a family of topknotted Gambel's quail scurrying along a beach, and several cooing brownish-gray mourning doves that dart across the river. But these commoners are only mildly interesting when compared with the grand birds of the river-the great blue herons, the dark and distinctive double-crested cormorants, and the funereal ravens with their splayed wingtips.

A heron perched regally atop a tall red cliff surveys its domain. This lean bluishgray giant (the average height is four feet) Literally dwarfs all of the other birds we have seen. Even from a distance, it appears unbelievably exotic. Its long wiry neck folds up, and its stick-like legs stretch straight out behind as it flaps into flight and displays its six-foot wingspan. We are not the only ones captivated by the splendid wildlife. A troop of chattering Boy Scouts trail us for miles, hoping to see something extraordinary that will distinguish their adventure. They make frequent exploratory detours into marshy inlets, then race each other down the rivervoices raised, flaying the air with their paddles. Later we learn that Scout groups canoe the gorge almost every weekend to fulfill a merit badge requirement.

By now it is almost noon, and the sun breaks through the clouds and heats up the day. With a short break on a shady beach, we've managed to lose the clamorous, water-spraying Scouts. But their infectious enthusiasm makes us eager to get back on the river. Mimicking their high jinks, I playfully splash Moe with cold river water. He retaliates with a vengeance, and in a few minutes we are both laughing-soaking wet and refreshed.

In good humor, we paddle along the Arizona bank in search of Picture Rock, a large red outcropping covered with prehistoric Indian petroglyphs one of the gorge's main attractions. Our guide map from the Havasu National Wildlife Refuge headquarters in Needles, California, places the rock 11 miles south of Park Moabi, on the river's east side. We also know that it is two miles past Split Rock, a mid-river landmark we passed, but mileage traveled by canoe is difficult to judge.

Although the Scouts told us the rock is nearly impossible to find, we take on the challenge like intrepid explorers, carefully scanning every rocky exposure and cliff along the left bank. Our last hope is a massive reddish rock in the distance, but as we approach it appears free of glyphs.

"That's it, time for lunch," I shout. We land the canoe on the other side of the rock and climb up a steep slope to find a picnic spot with a good view of the broadening canyon. To the south, the golden marshland extends for miles along the sparkling ribbon of water. In the distance, khakicolored sand dunes converge with jagged black mountains. It's a perfect place for photographs, and I am snapping away when Moe calls out, "Guess what I found?"

In a second, I am vaulting up a little trail that leads straight to the attraction that's been eluding us: Picture Rock.

Stick-man-style carvings of people, animals, and strange symbols cover the ruddy rock's uneven surface. Was this a sacred stone that an ancient culture emblazoned with its religious figures? Or maybe a place where a people without a written language created their own symbolic graffiti? A refuge officer will tell me later that nothing is known of these primitive pictures except that they were carved by ancient Native Americans who once lived along the Colorado River. Unfortunately, some thoughtless modern visitors have defaced portions of the old images. Now refuge officials say they are taking steps to protect the site from further vandalism.

We return to our canoe a bit reluctantly because we know the best part of our journey is over. From here the canyon widens, and it is only six miles to Castle Rock, our Arizona take-out point near the mouth of Lake Havasu. From now on, there will be more powerboats surging upstream from the lake and fewer birds emerging from the protection of the expansive reed fields to brave the choppy waters. We spend our last hour on the river recounting and appreciating all that we have seen.

We paddle slowly past more swaying cattails, saw-blade mountains, and pristine sand dunes, savoring the experience. Before long, though, houses appear atop the dunes, and we know it's time to begin our search for the eroded sandstone landmark that just barely lives up to the name Castle Rock. If not for Moe, I would fail the test and glide right on down to the lake-as do a half dozen other canoeists, who then must glide back against the current. Fortunately, he sees a castle in what looks to me like little more than a towering mound.

As we pull into the inlet that leads toward our destination, another Western grebe floats by. We have come full circle. In a few minutes, the canoe is sliding onto the sand, and I am wishing we had seen a bighorn sheep, a beaver, and many more of the unusual birds that inhabit the gorge. We'll just have to come back, I decide, perhaps in a different season.