Wild Wyoming: Conquering the Rapids of Green River's Whitewater Paradise

After fifteen years of calling Glasgow home, there's something both foreign and deeply familiar about returning to the American West. The vastness hits you first—the endless sky stretching above Wyoming's rugged terrain in a way that Scotland, for all its wild beauty, simply cannot match. The Green River has been on my sketch-list for years, ever since a fellow illustrator showed me his watercolors of Flaming Gorge.

I arrived in early July, when the snowmelt-fed river runs with perfect ferocity. Having arranged a six-day guided expedition through the Gates of Lodore and into Dinosaur National Monument, I found myself in a riverside outfitter's shop, surrounded by adventurers half my age, wondering if my artistic hands were still capable of gripping paddle with sufficient strength.

'You'll be fine, old-timer,' laughed Maria, our guide, as she helped me select a dry bag for my precious sketchbooks and a surprisingly comfortable PFD that would become my constant companion for the week ahead. 'The river doesn't care how old you are—just how well you listen to it.'

There's a curious parallel between sketching architecture and navigating whitewater. Both require you to see patterns where others might perceive chaos—to understand how lines of force move through space. On our second day, as we approached the infamous 'Disaster Falls,' Maria gave our group of eight a crash course in rapid reading.

'See how the water pillows before that boulder?' she pointed. 'That's your signal to pull right. And that V-shaped ripple? That's your highway through the chaos.'

I found myself sketching these patterns in my waterproof notebook during our lunch breaks, much to the amusement of my younger companions. But there's something about translating visual information through the hand that commits it to deeper memory. By day three, I was calling out features before even Maria spotted them, earning me the nickname 'River Eye.'

The Class III and IV rapids we encountered required full concentration. Triplet Falls, Hell's Half Mile, and Moonshine Rapids tested both our courage and coordination. At times, I wondered if my decision to tackle this adventure in my sixties was folly, but then I'd feel the surge of accomplishment as we'd navigate through a particularly challenging section, the entire boat whooping with shared triumph.

Between the adrenaline-pumping rapids lie stretches of serene floating, where the canyon walls rise hundreds of feet above, telling geological stories spanning millions of years. As an illustrator accustomed to Scotland's ancient castles, I found myself humbled by nature's architecture—layers of sandstone, limestone, and shale creating a palette of reds, oranges, and purples that change with the angle of the sun.

During these calm stretches, I'd pull out my travel easel and capture quick watercolor impressions while our raft gently spun in the current. My fellow adventurers—a family of four from Oregon, a retired couple from Vermont, and a solo traveler from Japan—would gather around to watch the landscape emerge on paper.

'You've captured the feeling of this place,' said Hiroshi, the Japanese photographer, whose own mirrorless camera had been clicking constantly. 'Not just how it looks.'

The nights proved equally magical. Our campsites, carefully selected sandy beaches along the river, offered front-row seats to the Milky Way. With no light pollution, the stars appeared as thick as sand, reflected in the now-quiet river. I found myself sketching by headlamp, trying to capture the immensity of that sky, while our guide shared stories of the region's indigenous peoples and early explorers who navigated these same waters.

The Green River isn't merely a playground for adventurers—it's a fragile ecosystem and watershed crucial to the American West. Our guide Maria, besides being a masterful river navigator, proved to be a passionate environmentalist. During our journey, she pointed out how dropping water levels and changing rainfall patterns were affecting both the river's flow and the surrounding habitats.

Having witnessed similar concerns at the Great Barrier Reef years ago, I found myself drawing parallels between these seemingly disparate environments—both facing uncertain futures due to climate change. The river's health reflects the health of the entire region.

We practiced strict Leave No Trace principles, carrying out everything we brought in. Even our toilet system—a rather ingenious contraption nicknamed 'the groover'—ensured we left no human waste behind. I was impressed by the solar charger Maria used to power her satellite phone and weather radio, demonstrating how modern technology can support wilderness experiences while minimizing impact.

'The river gives us so much,' Maria explained one evening as we watched a family of otters play near our campsite. 'The least we can do is protect it for future paddlers.'

I found myself sketching these otters with a sense of urgency, wondering if my grandchildren's generation would have the opportunity to see such sights.