I drove to the bluff overlooking the “Gunny” to process the sad news — news that hasn’t yet been made official — that by October a big portion of the lower Gunnison River in western Colorado will be dry. The official term is “fully dewatered.”
Monsoons were supposed to be heavy this year. As I looked down at the river in late August, clouds in the distance appeared almost monsoonal. Wisps of rain streamed out, but they evaporated before reaching the parched ground. It just about made me cry.
Below me, the North Fork of the Gunnison unceremoniously trickled into the Gunnison River at a place known as Pleasure Park, a weather-beaten outpost of civilization that’s one of the last best-kept secrets in Colorado.
The Gunnison River starts high in the Elk Mountains and flows into Colorado’s largest body of water, Blue Mesa reservoir, though currently it is only the second largest because of drought. Then it flows free through Black Canyon National Park, but only after most of its water gets diverted to irrigate farmland surrounding the towns of Delta and Montrose. The park is a gem, albeit one of the least visited in the nation. From above there’s not much to do except walk to outlooks to stare at sheer, colorful rock walls on the other side and the thin ribbon of river 2,000 feet below.
The “Gunny” then flows through the remote yet accessible Gunnison Gorge Wilderness. In this thin crack of the earth, I’ve spent the past 12 summers working as a wilderness fly-fishing river guide.
Accessible is a relative term. The hearty few that run this remote wild river get to the water by hiking a rough 1.2-mile-long mule trail that drops steeply for almost 600 vertical feet. Even getting to the trailhead takes an hour and a half from the nearest town, and it’s on a four-wheel-drive road that’s been the death knell of many a low-clearance vehicle. Rocky on a good day, it can become impassable when wet.
For those with the dough, a mule packer can be hired to transport boat and gear to the river. Those with the youth, knees, and determination can backpack down rafts, frames, oars, fishing and camping gear. Even elite guests, including former presidents who book fly-fishing trips with commercial guide services, carry their personal gear down to the river.
World-class fishing is why anybody makes the effort, 14 miles of wilderness Gold Medal water, the action peaking in June when large hungry trout key in on an epic salmon-fly hatch.
This stretch of river may be navigable, but it features 18 named technical rapids, and any one of them can humble experienced river runners. Rapids called “Improvise,” “Boulder Garden,” and “Squeeze” can feel more like rock than water, and almost every rapid has ruined a trip at some point. The river is littered with rocks that also earned names because they have strong personalities: “Queen of Hearts,” “The Table and Tombstone,” and “Dicky Do.” Others carry the monikers of unlucky guides.
All these barriers have kept crowds at bay though now there’s a new constraint — 90-to-100-degree temperatures for days on end. The Gorge can remain runnable in 14-foot rafts down to about 300 cubic feet per second, but even then it’s tight. Today it’s running well below that, and the water is too warm for the fish. Most commercial trips have been canceled.
Looking upriver into the Gorge, I don’t see any boats fishing their way out of the wilderness, and it doesn’t take much to imagine the riverbed — a sad meander of dry cobbles bleached white, punctuated by stagnant pools full of belly-up trout.
This place, with its rugged remoteness, wild rapids and world-class trout fishing, has carved its way into my soul. I mourn for future generations who will probably know a much different river.
I feel bad for the salty guides out both trips and tips. I mourn too for the bugs that fattened the fish that paid my bills, for the mergansers, ring-tail cats and desert bighorn sheep. All need a river that’s wet.
Jacob Richards is a contributor to Writers on the Range, an independent nonprofit dedicated to spurring lively conversation about the West. He is a writer about Western environmental issues and sometime outdoor guide. He lives in Fruita in western Colorado.
Gunnison Gorge Wilderness in wetter times, courtesy Bureau of Land Management
