The battle for campsites is crazy. Is it ever possible to steal one?

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Dear Sandog! Descending Utah’s Desert Canyon on a private trip, pulling oars into a headwind, we were passed by commercial rafts tied together, engines whirring to catch primo camps. I know it’s bad form for groups to send a boat ahead to steal a camp, but this situation just needed some kind of justice. Is it possible to break the rules to combat the dominance of commercial guides? — A puzzled rower, offended by the ethics of rowing.

Dear PROBE: As your letter notes, the practice of splitting up a river group to “camp run” downstream is morally murky. This breeds cutthroat competition, with boatmen racing each other to the shady beach instead of chilling out by floating lazily with the flow as the Creator intended. On many permitted river sections the practice is explicitly prohibited, and enforcement is enforced under threat of fines issued by river rangers—what Sundog called “paddle pigs.” What’s more, it’s completely reckless: if someone in the group upstream has a medical emergency, has a blown valve, or simply can’t handle the wind, then part of the group can spend the night away from food, ditches, and first aid. kits.

However, Sundog’s area of ​​expertise is not legality or folly, but ethics, and the fact that some activity is illegal and stupid does not make it unethical.

PROBE, these are desperate times trying to get to the river. The COVID recreation boom, combined with the ease of applying for permits online, has made it nearly impossible to win the “lottery” to raft big rivers. Perhaps it is this cumbersome pre-launch process that intensifies the competition for the best camps. The behavior you describe in business guidelines, while not illegal, is extremely annoying. Driving past hard-working paddlers and rowers almost guarantees that the loudest polluters will get the best camp. The ethical teachers cut their damn Evinrudes and shouted, “Hey, which camp were you hoping to get into tonight? We’ll be happy to skip this point so you can have it.”

Most likely this won’t happen. So, we are left to decide how best to behave. In canyons like Lodore’s Gate, where space is limited, boaters must register at camps and stick to that route. Sandog considers this a draconian decision because it robs him of the sense of spontaneity and timeless drift that draws him to rivers in the first place.

On the Salmon River, all parties need to talk it out, maybe hug, and decide who will set up camp where for what night. This is a good idea. Sundog is aware of at least one case where commercial guides went back on their word and stole a camp from a private company who made it their goal—justified, I would say—to repay them in kind the next night. However, it is these shenanigans that motivate the paddle pigs to write more rules and regulations.

In your case, PROBE, the best solution would be to stop the motor rig and talk to try and avoid theft in the first place. If this fails and your camp is taken, I believe it is ethical to break the rules to fight a battle that would otherwise be losing. But it’s a slippery slope, because when you set out to take a camp from an outfitter, you’re just as likely to take it from another private party in front of you, which makes you a jerk.

Your question raises another issue: why are motors allowed on a section of the river in designated wilderness at least part of it is labeled Wild and Scenic. The most obvious answer is the first 25 miles on windy plains. Of course, it’s difficult, but boaters without motors have been making their way here for more than a century. The longer answer is that motors allow outfitters to sell the 86-mile canyon in a 5-day trip, while muscle-powered expeditions take several days longer. There is some irony in the fact that well-intentioned non-tracers are filtering their dishwater to avoid polluting the river while, just yards from shore, outboard motors are spewing oil and gas into the fish’s homes.

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IN column about becoming a surfer in MexicoSundog suggested reconsidering our ideas about globalization. Reader Stan Weigue responded:

I was intrigued by your recent column about “American imperialism” and travel in Mexico, as I just returned from a five-week trip to Cabo San Lucas and back. I’ve been traveling around Baja since the 60s, using everything from a pickup truck to a really nice RV. And a Boeing 747.

While I respect the need to be polite to writing subscribers, I believe your “middle” was too soft on the self-centered Rich White Yankee Surfer guilt trip of your advice seeker.

Not everyone likes the huge apartments, loud tourist bars and T-shirt shops of Cabo—I don’t—and if your reader doesn’t like it, don’t go. But this is more a matter of preference than of the ethical quandary associated with globalization. I don’t really like Miami Beach either. However, San Juan de Cabo is north of Cabo and has a completely different atmosphere and a well-preserved old town – go there and relax in peace.

Tourists are a profitable crop, and the people who run the sushi restaurant she regrets, rent the beach chairs and drive her around in a rental car made in Mexico and owned by Mexicans are the local entrepreneurs who grow and harvest the crop. Indeed, it could be argued that in the good old days, when we traveled from the heights of Yankee prosperity to the “untouched” poverty of Mexico, we took advantage of it too.

Your advice about researching and supporting local businesses was spot on. If she doesn’t want to support the globalist capitalists, she should do it here at home too. By the way, the reader may not know that while the development along the beach may have been built with immigrant money, the ownership must be at least 51 percent Mexican. And she may be unaware of government-mandated efforts to provide at least some protection for local interests during development. For example, perhaps the best beach in the Cabo area for sunbathing, swimming and snorkeling is Chileno Beach. There’s a huge new (and expensive!) resort right next door, but access to the beach is free and there are good toilets, showers and a lifeguard; and any of the locals who want can take their kids and a cooler to the beach for the day.

When we visited Todos Santos 35 years ago, the legendary Hotel California was shabby and run-down, and all the side streets were covered in potholes and dirt. Now the hotel is beautiful, local restaurants abound, local artists compete well with Made in China gift shops, and the streets are paved – so maybe tourism isn’t so bad after all.

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Do you have a question of your own? Send it to [email protected].

Mark Sundin, aka Sundog, has been a river guide for 11 years. These days, he finds that younger guides feel they have the entire river to themselves, and he’s happy to poach their campsites if the situation calls for it.