Lady On A River Of Rock

After 10 days of some of the most merciless toil ever carried on in the name of either sport or adventure, we had given up our attempt to become the first party to travel by boat down Mexico's Urique River. We had scaled the towering walls of the Barranca de Cobre (Copper Canyon) that guard the still unconquered stream. Defeated and disappointed but glad to be among people again, we were wandering the little Mexican town of Creel while waiting for a train, when we were informed with wonderful Mexican understatement that "somebody" was looking for us.

The word "somebody" meant that Mexican planes were crisscrossing the canyons in search of us, that Air Rescue units from Kansas and Texas, as well as U.S. Army helicopters out of Fort Bliss, Texas, had swarmed to Chihuahua City to join the hunt. It meant that the 302nd Airborne Division had been alerted and paratroopers were ready to fly down and jump into the canyon. It meant that for three days newspapers, radio and television back home had been spreading the news that a party of 15 Americans, including two young women were feared lost and starving in the wilds of the Barranca de Cobre.

Chet Huntley, a newscaster who lives across the river from my home in Pennsylvania, described the canyon as one of the "most awe some chasms in the world." That may well be true. The Urique flows through gorges that in places are much deeper than the Grand Canyon. The part of the Barranca I saw was a mighty gulch into which some race of supergiants appeared to have heaved thousands of huge rocks to thwart any boating party trying to run the river.

The Barranca seemed particularly awesome when we looked up at those boulders, some as big as a three-story house, and realized that the only way to progress was to drag our 400-pound Neoprene boats and all our gear up and over them. It became somewhat worse than awesome as our food supply dwindled and we had to negotiate those rock piles on skimpy rations. Hannibal may have gotten elephants over the Alps, but I bet he did it on a full stomach.

We knew the trip would be no picnic, but we felt there was no cause to worry since we were in the hands of veteran rivermen—John Cross, his son John Jr. and Larry Davis. I had run Cataract Canyon on the Colorado and other western rivers with them, and I knew they planned everything in careful detail. In this case, however, the river had kept one secret from the planes that had scouted it in advance of the trip. From the air there appeared to be long stretches of open channel. In reality, that portion of the Urique swept down steep inclines, plunged over cliffs and squirmed through rock piles in a manner that made it utterly unfit for boating.

The members of our party could hardly have been more heterogeneous. From 19 to 70 in age, they included a herpetology professor who somehow found time to pickle a few snakes, a mailman who had never had such rough walking, an automobile mechanic and a man who manufactures wind machines to keep crops from freezing. Their shapes and sizes were as varied as their ages, ranging from Janice, 19-year-old blonde, brown-eyed daughter of John Cross Sr., to the lanky Verne Thurber, who took deep personal pride in his ability to stand the hardships at 70. Not once did he complain.

I was a picture of confidence and grinning excitement when I walked into El Capitan Motel, our gathering place in Chihuahua City, and met Antonio Joannis and Eduardo J. Mendoza, our Mexican agents. Joannis took one look at me and said, "You are going down the river? No. No. No. You are just going to tell them goodby." When I insisted, he pointed to Mendoza, saying, "He lives in the barrancas and he wouldn't go down the river." Mendoza just laughed. These sagacious Mexicans wouldn't think of going on the trip; but without them we would never have gotten onto the river or gotten out again.

The Urique gave us our first rebuff before we had even embarked. We rode in trucks to the river, only to find that we had to spend almost the entire day roping our boats and gear down 150 feet of steep hillside. It was late and we were tired, but for morale purposes we decided to move down the river to a good camping spot. We were on the river at last, and spirits were high as we ate our canned chili and rice pudding. We had gone only two miles, but we'd show the old Urique the next day. That two miles was just about as much as we made on any one day during the whole trip. Some days we did not make more than a quarter mile.

Our glorious start the next morning was stopped short by a waterfall, where the river slid down a 45� slope. While the men put four oars under each boat and carried the boats down one at a time, Jan and I carried the rest of the gear for the quarter mile of the portage, making 10 trips to get it all down. At the time, we thought it was pretty hard work. But compared to what was ahead, this portage was child's play. Around the very next bend was another waterfall. This one plunged 25 feet straight down into a bluish-green pool. We had to rope everything down, including the boats and ourselves. I began to wonder whether this was a boat trip or a mountain-climbing expedition.

It was long after dark when we crawled into our sleeping bags, the Urique roaring by in moonlight almost as brilliant as the Mexican sun. That continual roar thrilled us at first, but later as we toiled over the big rocks or lay curled up on patches of sand between them, the sound took on a note of challenge.