A growing passion of mine as both paddler and skier is to seek not just wilderness whitewater or backcountry turns but rather seamless routes linking them in combination. Pursuit of snowpack+waterway landscape traverses in the American West brought me last spring to a region with very little of either - Southern Utah's Henry Mountains and the Dirty Devil canyon systems.
Ascending Mt. Pennell
While a series of late winter storms in 2021 pushed the Henry mountains snowpack beyond our threshold for a green light, we were still never intending to find great whitewater or turns. Rather, the goal was to sneak through a desert landscape with water in some form under our boots or boats as far as we could. Because where we couldn't, we'd have to carry some of that water along with the gear inside our packs.
The Dirty Devil River is mined for its water - upstream agricultural diversions run full steam during spring and summer but the shoulder seasons feature a trickle that paddlers can utilize. I've always found this run a paradoxical experience - an unending search for grass-is-greener deeper channel strands results in frequent boat dragging and a feeling of great inefficiency. And yet, a long day's push can land you 30 miles from where you started.
Brooke paddled with us down the Dirty Devil
As recently as 2017, Lake Powell backed partway up the Dirty Devil River. Dropping lake levels in combination with re-mobilization of lake powell sediments have now extended a channelized Colorado River about 40 miles below the original lake head past the Dirty Devil all the way to the base of the Henry Mountains. How convenient, for those of us who choose to paddle the slowest craft available.
March 2021: Current and Channel on the Colorado extend to the Henry's
Summer 2017: Lake Powell backed up into the Dirty Devil
The Henry mountains rise seven to eight thousand feet above the adjacent Colorado River. Our chosen pathway to reach them was Trachyte wash, named for the durable and somewhat uncommon volcanic rock type that composes the core of the Henry mountains. These gray boulders, shed from the high peaks, have helped winnow out narrows and slots in the softer red sandstones.
Waiting for Liz to catch up in a part of the canyon 20 feet wide, she admitted her pace was slowed by vertigo, an off and on symptom of PCS. She could only stare at the ground. Visions of the slot ahead, 2 feet wide in places, entered my mind but I saw no point in bringing it up in that moment.
Camped near the sole highway crossing on our 9 day route, we cached boat gear and waited for a storm to clear while pondering an early exit given a slowed pace and PCS symptoms.
Next morning, refreshed and now sharpened by our decision to continue the route together with vertigo vanquished, we cached our boats and slotted up towards the Henry's.
I purposefully routed us through an extended slot featuring chockstone upclimbs - with about ten of those it took us three hours to ascend the semi-technical canyon section.
Above the slot we ascended towards Mt. Hillers, but elected to semi-circumnavigate it on dirt road to make up pace.
Camp set under full moon, on the north side of Mt. Hillers, we were set up for an ascent of the middle of the three snowpack-bearing peaks, Mt. Pennell
Ascending Pennell, Hillers behind
Capitol Reef below
Descending Pennell, Ellen ahead!
All that I had expected in terms of snowpack travel were ridges/cornices thick enough to merit travel by ski. What I didn't expect was a perfect 4000' descent through powder-to-cream cheese-to-corn, but that's certainly what we found.
A full day's effort up and over Mt. Pennell landed us at our penultimate camp at Pennellen Pass. By now we were conditioned to the routine of moving for 11 hours a day. Liz is used to much longer days when she's in shape for ultra-endurance races but had to settle for this pace to let her brain settle overnight - fine by me!
Up Ellen, Pennell behind
Descending down to snowline the final morning, an old timer intercepted us, wondering where we had been on Mt. Ellen. The previous afternoon he was scouting ski lines from several miles away with glasses when something caught his eye on the Ellen ridgeline - a mylar balloon driven by winds. As he traced its pathway, Liz and I moving the opposite direction along the ridgeline came into his field of view and he tracked us as we dropped into that small spruce glade bounded by open slopes. He had held his glasses to his eyes until his arms failed so he could trace our line, but only learned upon meeting us 15 hours later that we had set up camp just into the timber.
A half-day slog through Pinyon-Juniper, wash and dirt road brought us back to the shuttled car. It was satisfying for Liz especially to push through and complete what was honestly a demanding trip, especially carrying so much gear most of the way, and to learn more about her limits and capabilities as an athlete living with a brain injury.
I know I'm not the only skier who has spent years staring up at the Henry's in the spring wondering if it is worth the effort. Well, I'll certainly be back there but only after I scratch another desert skirafting itch in the same region.
Other Skiraft trip reports:
