The Magic of Wind River Canyon

I wrote this article in 2009 for an old blog I kept online. It’s always been one of my favorite experiences, and I wanted to reshare it with you again here. Enjoy.

I grew up near the Big Horn Mountain in northern Wyoming. Some of my most treasured childhood memories are of going fishing at Sibley Lake on weekends and camping in our big old Red Dale camper. As a young family, Mark and I camped all over the mountain, hiked, partied at friends’ cabins, cut our first Christmas tree, took our son for his first hikes in a baby backpack, and even ski patrolled at Antelope Butte, all in the Big Horns. We had a connection with the land. But there was another mountain place in Wyoming that I longed to explore more and learn about. It was a place we typically just drove through; admiring the scenery but never really stopping the car. I have always been drawn to the Wind River Canyon.

Wind River Canyon is roughly located in west-central Wyoming, through which a 35-mile stretch of secondary highway (WY 789/HWY220) runs, connecting the towns of Shoshoni and Thermopolis.  Its soaring rock pillars, white rapids, and lush green banks are a bit of a shock to the senses after passing through the desert landscape of Boysen State Park to its south.   The southern entrance to the canyon is rather dramatic.  Boysen Reservoir’s calm waters culminate at the Boysen Dam, which is forged between two colorful walls comprised of gray-brown granite, pink shale, and stubby green brush.  Driving further north will take the traveler past quaint riverside campgrounds dotted with cottonwood and elm trees, and into the protected Wind River Indian Reservation property.  Three short tunnels remind me of how wild some places in Wyoming still are; as if toughened road builders waged a battle with the mountain, but only partially won with their sticks of dynamite; the rock conceding just barely enough to let the cars and trains through.  In the spring and early summer, the interior canyon walls are covered with a green carpet of tall wispy grass where the soil has clung to rocks, or at least it looks wispy from the distant vantage point of the valley floor.  The valley floor is narrow in most places, with only enough room for the railroad tracks, highway, and river to snake their way north.  There are a few private homes tucked into the rocks up steep-graded driveways, a few tepees, and a gift shop that I can never remember the name of.  As the towering boulders begin their gradual descent toward the mouth of the north side of the canyon, the river widens into “Wedding of the Waters” and the deep salmon-colored hills surrounding Thermopolis come into view.

Fast forward to August, 2009.  Almost every year, our family makes the trek to Thermopolis for a long, weekend camping trip. The kids love the waters of the hot springs the town is famous for.  Mark grew up in nearby Worland, so going to the Star Plunge (the local hot springs water park) has been a tradition for him since he was a child. It seems like every year it rains when we are there, but it doesn’t matter when we are outdoors soaking in a hot springs pool. One year it even snowed on us.

This year, we made the trip for a second time with some good friends. Their kids and ours are the same age, and all of them are friends. We all decided to take in a rafting trip with Wind River Canyon Whitewater, the only company allowed to guide on the canyon’s tribal-owned waters.  Our friends had rafted before, but we had not. I couldn’t wait for the adventure, and to finally get a chance to spend some time in the canyon.

We were lucky enough to have a clearing in the weather for our scheduled trip. It was still only about 50-60°, and the water would be cold. We rented wet suits for the kids, and we adults bundled up in quick-drying pullovers and rain jackets. Our entry point was about halfway up the canyon, where we met up with another group of rafters who had started their trip earlier in the day. Our guide gave us some basic how-to’s, then we set out into the calm pool to practice our paddling strokes. I was excited and a little nervous. I looked around and took in my surroundings from a new perspective: the river. From the water, you couldn’t really see the highway that well; it blended in with the surrounding rock walls. There were times you couldn’t hear the cars at all. Almost immediately we began to spot a variety of birds fishing near the grassy west bank, and marmots scurrying in and out of the rocks on the east bank. The other raft of day-trippers continued their journey slightly ahead of us. We settled into our positions: the two young girls in the bow, their older brothers right behind them with the first set of paddles, two rows of adults, and our guide sitting on the stern.

It was pretty hard to contain our enthusiasm. We went through our first rapids, rated as a 2, and celebrated our success with hooting and paddle high-fives. The people in the raft in front of us thought we were crazy, I think. They just looked back at us and stared. Each new set of rapids brought excited squeals from the girls up front, lots of “Dude!” “Insane!” “That was awesome!” from the teen boys, and plenty of laughter as we all took turns catching the brunt of cold, crashing waves. Between rapids, our guide would point out rock formations, points of interest, and answer our questions about his work on the river.  We passed some fisherman, one of whom had just landed a monstrous trout and held it out of the water for us to see as we hollered our appreciation for his catch. The further we floated downriver, the more intense the rapids became. Each time we started down a rapid, the girls’ squealing would be abruptly halted as cascades of white wetness enveloped them and we tumbled our way over the churning, bubbling water between shiny, sharp boulders. It was exhilarating. I looked up at the grey sky in which storm clouds had begun to gather again, and wished that the trip wouldn’t end so quickly.

The river began to widen, and we could see the walls of the canyon sloping downward, signaling the impending completion of our trip. We had quite a ways to float yet, but the end was imminent. We were all quieter now, as if the calmness of the deep water translated our mood. Our guide told us that we could get in the water at this point and swim if we wanted. There was some light discussion about this, and we encouraged the kids to take a plunge, but no one moved from their position. Suddenly, our friend decided to get in- and just like that he was out of the boat. I remember thinking to myself, “I don’t want to get in, I’m actually pretty dry thanks to my favorite rain coat,” but my adventurous side was definitely in charge that day and I think said out loud, “Aw, what the heck.”

The dominoes began to drop, one by one. In a few minutes, a succession of splashes left our guide alone in the raft. Even our little 11-year old daughter, who is a good swimmer but was unsure about climbing over the high sides of the raft, was soon grinning and dog-paddling next to me in the water. We twirled around each other, played, swam, floated on our backs. It was such a simple pleasure, but so fun and charming. The people in the raft in front of us were still just sitting there, staring at us; eight very loud, fully dressed people indulging in fun, swimming in the river. They didn’t even talk to each other. I didn’t know if they were not having a good time or they were just more reserved than us. In another minute or two, I heard a splash, and I couldn’t believe my eyes: everyone from their raft was standing up or headed over the sides and into the river.

It must’ve been some sight to the people traveling along the highway; two empty rafts and sixteen people bobbing in their lifejackets. It didn’t even matter that the water was cold, we acclimated quickly.  It seemed too soon that our guide told us it was time to get back in the raft, as our exit point was approaching. After he’d pulled us all back in, the quiet settled over us once again. The storm clouds were darkening, and we knew our window of good weather was going to be closing again. I tried to absorb every sound, smell, and sight of our remaining minutes on the river, sentimental soul that I am.

I‘m not sure why I’m so drawn to the canyon. Maybe it’s because I feel a distant connection though my extended family, since my grandfather worked on the Boysen Dam sometime in the late 40’s-early 50’s, and is now buried in Riverton. I don’t know much about him, but it’s still a connection. Maybe it’s that long-held childhood wish to stop and explore the wonderful place I’d only driven through a few times.  Maybe it’s because I love my native Wyoming and marvel that I actually get to live here. Maybe the excitement of the day and the fun we had with our families made an impression on me. Whatever it is, it exists. I can’t claim to have a tie to that sacred country like the Shoshone and Arapaho tribes and the other residents who frequent the canyon; it would be unfair and untrue for me to assume a rapport like that with the land. But I have been baptized by its waters, and I’ll be back to experience the canyon again. There’s no question about it; we’ll be stopping the car.