The Burro and the Pickle (A taste of Mexico 2004)
The morning found the duo clinging to the back of a small pickup truck as it made its way up the mountain. Their destination was the Rio Santo Domingo Canyon. In the canyon lay the resurgences to several large cave systems. Arriving at the put-in at dusk,
A bridge just outside of Quiotepec, the pair inflated the pickle. The pickle was the nickname given to a bright green, whitewater raft that would accompany them on their journey. They floated just past town and made camp. The following day was windy. They ran several rapids and portaged another. Then one of them hit him-self in the eye with a backpack frame. Blood profusely poured out of the right orbit. This could have been bad due to their remoteness, but it turned out to be only a lacerated eyelid. They were both getting a little sick but happy nonetheless. The third day on the river proved a little more sporting. They had agreed at the start of the trip that because they were a small team in a remote, basically un-known River, it would be best to err in favor of safety and portage any questionable rapids. Several times one of the pair would insist the rapid ahead could be ran. Several times the other would talk him out of it. I think we can make it said one. The other shook his head. “Dude”, he said, “I don’t know”. Finally machismo, or perhaps stupidity prevailed. Gently easing into the channel the current quickly grabbed a hold of the bright green boat. They made an attempt to back paddle but the force of the water quickly enveloped them and pushed them over a two-meter high drop. Things soon turned from bad to worse as the inflatable vessel hit a rock, then flipped the pair like morning hotcakes into the boiling froth. Most white water enthusiasts know to keep their feet down river as to bounce off the rocks with their legs instead of their heads. The river had different ideas, and shot them like arrows headlong into the next rapid, up and over some large boulders and again into the current. They were both fortunate to find refuge on a branch sticking up out of the water. What’s more miraculous is that they still held onto their paddles. From their vantage it seemed as though the bobbling craft was caught upstream in a tug-o-war between water and rock. The dry bag was still securely attached to the boat like a giant yellow leach. They soon determined that one of them must try to retrieve the boat while the second would remain on the tree like a near drowning rat just in case the boat should work itself-free. Swimming up river was out of the question. The only possibility was to swim across the river at a downstream angle towards the opposite shore. From there one would have to hike back upstream and approach the boat from upriver. This of course involved chancing swimming the last set of rapids all over again. Carefully picking his way along the opposite shore and testing the waters depth with his paddle, one of the men was able to work his way to the boat. A good nudge and the boat were free. The swimmer quickly threw himself onto the boat and prepared him-self for the rapid he had swam some minutes before. Safely passing the obstacle, he had one last goal, picking up a hitchhiking river rat. Onward they descended. They would take unwanted baths two more times before their journeys end. First they must pass by the resurgences of both the Cheve and Huatla cave systems, Respectively #1 and #2 on the deep caves of the western hemisphere list. Downward further still the water from the many limestone springs greatly increased the amount of river water and turned the river’s water a clear aqua marine color. A person can’t help but let their eyes glaze across the remote rugged landscape in wonderment. How many uncharted leads are waiting to be found? It sends the imagination reeling. In some places the river cuts canyons with sheer cliffs some hundreds of meters high. Since the start of the river trip the two been sick. Vomiting mixed with an evil dose of Montezuma’s revenge. They had lost the last page of their map to a mal intent wave but approximated that they must be nearing Ayautla. They were weighing their options as they passed under a swinging footbridge that crossed the river some five to ten meters overhead. The bridge meant there was a good trail, and good trails generally lead to people and towns. They maneuvered the pickle into an eddy and onto a sandy shore. The day was still young as the pair rolled up the heavy boat and attached it to the backpack frame.
