Plans and Objectives:
My brother and I spent a good portion of April 2018 planning an overnight canoe trip on the Texas Colorado River. I spent my lunch breaks looking over a 40 mile stretch of the river via satellite images and map pedometers. We wanted to confirm and revisit old campgrounds, landmarks and features after the Hurricane Harvey flood. Our time parameter was a single weekend. With river access at the towns of Columbus, Altair and Garwood we had a couple options for the trip. Ultimately we launched from the Altair bridge for a recon of the Skull Creek mouth.
Map pedometers indicated Skull Island and back would be an eight mile round trip. If conditions warranted we could make a day trip of it.
Years past an island formed above Skull Creek on the river. This had been a favorite camping spot. We also wanted to see the Garwood low water dam. Many years ago we spent the night on Skull Island, canoed down stream, portaged the dam and took out at bridge in the town of Garwood. I wanted to see if that was still possible.
We put in at the Altair bridge/boat ramp, and went downstream to make a recon of Skull Creek and the Garwood low water dam.
The River and Weather
The LCRA Hydromet reading from the Altair bridge indicated the Texas Colorado was staged in the high 8s for this trip. That gauge has since been moved to the Eagle Lake pump station about a mile downstream the Altair bridge.
Springtime in April is a good time to camp in Texas. The trees are fully leafed out and green, the drab browns of winter are gone. The weekend of the trip the weather was greeting card quality with highs in the low 80s and clear blue skies.
The Gear:
Stove
None taken
Paddles
We used a Feather Brand, a CavPro and one vintage paddle
Foot Wear
We used Crocs water shoes. These were important pieces of gear on this trip.
Cooler
None taken
Tent
For this trip we used my Coleman Sun Dome 6 tent.
Sleep Gear
We took some deluxe self inflating air mattresses and some summer sleeping bags. We used our back packs for pillows.
Canoe
We used my Royalex Wenonah Spirit II.
Logistics:
No shuttle was needed after the launch as the put in and take out point was the same, the Altair Boat Ramp. I left my truck under the bridge. We started our commute from Houston Saturday morning, about 5:30.
For this trip, we used the same boat ramp used in the Not Every Day Trip is Easy ~or~ No Free Rides article. This time we went downstream instead of upstream.
The Trip:
From the Return to Tate Bend 2-5-2014 trip I learned to pack light. We left the cook stove, and coolers behind.
My brother had a cold. I was recovering from a cold and had a third of a mind to call off the trip. The 2017-2018 winter had been hard but the spring was glorious. This weekend was particularly fine; it wasn't getting any better than now.
April 28, 2018, 9:30 am we were heading downstream on water that looked like a pane of antique glass.
Launching from Altair is different from Columbus. There is no town at the Altair bridge, that tiny community is three miles west. The Altair bridge is an off path portal to more isolated places.
On the water I manned the bow. We trimmed the canoe and it settled. After two miles we left the jug lines, fishermen and campers behind. We paddled into another world.
The reason? An infamous set of rocks that screened motor boat traffic. We canoed through the fleet of rocks and entered a forsaken, isolated stretch of river. Here the river revealed the effects of three 1,000 year floods in a three year span. With each of these floods the river rose out of its banks. The last one, the one spawned by Hurricane Harvey, was savage. Unknowable acres of top soil, trees and fences washed into the river and spilled into Matagorda Bay and the Gulf of Mexico.
Reclaiming the raw river banks were the pioneer plants. These are the cocklebur, cane and willows. After those come the sycamore and cottonwoods. The August 2017 hurricane flood unearthed new gravel bars and shifted sandbars. Banks washed out and the uprooted skeletons of sycamore and cottonwoods littered the slower, shallower places of the river. The rocks, the pump stations and the low water dam remain, but much of the river is changed.
Down from the rocks we came to a gravel bar. Up to this point the river had been as wide as 100 yards. At the head of the gravel bar the the river went through a slot looking no more than 30 yards wide. The current was swift. This new feature had not been updated on the satellite images.
We jetted down the slot and its strong current. At the end of this feature the current unexpectedly pushed the canoe sideways, a parting shot. This was a new experience for me.
In a little while we came to a spot I faintly recognized, Skull Island.
We landed on the sandbar and took an early break to stretch our legs. I scouted the area. From my youth I remembered a high, cane covered bluff on the opposite bank downriver from the island. There was no evidence of that bluff, that landmarks absence made us question our location.
Changes in the river conflicted with my recollections. Eventually I identified a sand knoll crowned with a stand of trees. This was Skull Island alright. The west channel of the "island" now merged with the rivers bank. Under normal conditions this place was no longer an island, but this was the old campground. Week old four wheeler tracks revealed activity of the land owners; we would not be camping here.
The mouth of the Skull and the Garwood low water dam called, we relaunched.
Sooner than I expected we came upon the mouth of Skull Creek. This confirmed our finding location of the former island. The creek mouth was now wide and easy to find, I did not recognize the place. In the past the hidden mouth of that creek was difficult to enter due to its severely angled entry into the Colorado. Now the creek dumped into the river at a 90 degree angle.
We paddled a couple hundred yards into Skull Creek. After a ways some fallen trees blocked the creek and we turned around. Exiting the mouth of the Skull we gawked at the eastern Colorado bank. In front of us was an immense, beautiful sandbar.
"That's where we are going to camp!" exclaimed my brother.
New and primeval, creation in the present, I named that sandbar El Dorado.
It was a little past noon, too early to make camp. We also wanted to see the Garwood low water dam. So we paddled below the nearly-mile-long El Dorado sandbar. Distantly, the upper end of a large island came into view. I knew from satellite images it was the island just above the dam. The dirt, grass and trees were blasted off by the flood. Only the gravel foundation remained. In some ways it reminded me of images from the surface of Mars.
Large, white birds worked the top end of the island. We pondered the species. As we came within a few hundred yards of them, these birds took flight. Then a bald eagle appeared. The eagles presence scattered the formation of the white birds. As the large white birds neared us they reformed and we realized they were pelicans.
The island was about a quarter mile long. When we were along side the island, within sight of the dam, we saw more white birds. These fished the turbulent dam waters.
Another bald eagle emerged from the tall cottonwoods and flew over the dam. The white fishing birds scattered to flight! It was if they were saying, "We were just watching the fish for you boss!" Seeing this on two flocks of birds made me realize the dominance of the eagles.
A little later we landed thirty yards upstream of the dam on the east bank.
I checked the dam portage trail on the east bank. Floodwaters had drifted and left a massive cottonwood over that trail. The poison ivy laced tree carcass made a three foot tall, seventy foot long obstacle in the dense riparian woods. Getting a canoe over this mess would be a challenge. I scouted an alternate portage trail and decided it was doable. The alternate trail looked as rough as crossing over the tree. A determined canoe team can make either of these portages, and have the rash to remember too.
Our recon complete, we headed upstream, to the El Dorado sandbar to pitch camp. We took the slow side of the island thinking it would be easier. We were wrong.
The water was nearly stagnant. Enormous alligator gar protested us in their domain, startling and splashing me several times. The eastern island stream, the side we took, tapered to nearly nothing at the top of the island. A small snag of a tree blocked our passage at the top of this trail.
We could have portaged the canoe and the load, but we decided to back track and dare the current. We sought to avoid a portage but that turned out to be in vain. Ultimately we made a short portage, crossing over the lower end of the island. At this place we encountered what we called "quick gravel." The flood had exposed, loosened and destabilized the substrate leaving what we called "new gravel." Now and again one or both of us would sink mid shin in the fist sized gravel. This was a phenomenal experience. We would encounter this on the other canoe lining events the following day.
The current along the west bank of the island was swift. We tried to paddle but wound up lining the canoe to the head of the island. The swiftness of the river here was a concern but we prevailed. We were not used to lining the canoe, but by the end of the trip we were pros.
The current at the lower end of El Dorado was more docile. We thought we were tired at the dam; we were spent by the time we got to the bottom of the El Dorado sandbar. We landed the Spirit II and trudged the 100 yards to the willow shade. I sank into the collapsing chair in the shade. I questioned the 83 degree temperature and my health. I felt myself draining into the riverbed of dried silt, sand and tree liter.
"That is where we are building a fire!" my brother said pointing at our feet. I was not opposed to a fire but the camp site was not grade A. I mean, yeah, it would work but we had nearly a mile of beautiful sandbar to explore, once my energy resumed.
Not looking up I said "Let's find a better place to camp."
"No, we are going to eat right here" He said. "I feel like death."
So did I. Soon we had a coffee pot of boiling water atop a fire of willow, sycamore and cottonwood twigs. We split two freeze dried meals. Thirty minutes later we were nearly ship-shape.
We spent the next hour or so exploring the sandbar. I walked to keep from physical regression. I also wanted to be in that beautiful place, to walk through it.
Gradually the power of the flood soaked our minds. Trash and driftwood hung in trees five feet above the highest bluffs. We found a good camp site at the highest part of the sandbar, directly across the mouth of Skull Creek.
In our scouting we realized the missing bluff had been rubbed off by the flood. There was evidence of extreme erosion over a large plain. When the river topped the banks it temporarily straightened and took out the upper half of the bluff. That must have been an enormous, awesome force and power.
Walking back to the canoe we found relic vehicle parts, a duck decoy, concrete, glass and tile pieces from destroyed homes strewn with the gravel and sand. We paddled the canoe to the upper end of the sandbar and made camp.
Our camp wound up across from the Skull Creek mouth. The evening cooled into night and a deep peace. This was the highest place on the El Dorado. Thanks to the dam below and the rocks above this section of river is remote.
I slept soundly, and late into the morning.
I took my time getting up. We split another freeze dried meal and waited for the dew to dry off the tent. We broke camp by 10:30 and were on the water by 11:00. I did not feel great, but I was strong. I did not believe my stamina would fail. I took power from the calm weather and the sublime beauty of the place. Now was as good as I could be.
We headed upstream, back to the Altair bridge and my truck. Just a couple hundred yards from camp we lined the canoe over a shallowly submerged sandbar. Further up at the gravel bar and slot we again lined the canoe.
When we were at the bottom of the slot a jon boat with a 25 horse engine came buzzing up from downriver. He hit the slot at full speed. We heard the boat hitting the rocks. At the top of the slot we watched the boat crazily tip side to side. I had never seen a jon boat nearly tip over before, but the pilot never lost his cigarette.
At the top of the slot we found the swiftest current. Beyond the slot we made good headway. This was in spite of the strong current and the headwind from the seasonally late north wind. At one point we tied off to a willow branch and took an in-canoe break. We drank water and ate nuts and fruit.
We made it through the rocks without drama, but at the headwaters again we found the strongest current. This surprised me, but it confirmed what we found at the top of the slot. I had figured the current would be fiercest at the bottom of a river feature. After the rocks it was a couple miles to the bridge.
In the last two river miles we reentered the outer societal fringes. We paddled straight into a catfish tournament. Under the bridge was a near carnival of activity with too many trucks and people to count. We packed up without incident.
By 3:00 pm the wind was blowing through the cab of my non AC truck cab. The V6 engine whirred us back to Houston and I was wistful. The current reality of traffic, steel, concrete and glass made the river trip seem unreal. I wished that thin space on the Colorado had lasted longer and that my health had been better, but that trip was my appointed time and space. I played my hand well.
Thanks for reading.
MSM
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