A Trip Down Colorado’s “River of Sorrows”

The Dolores River shows us what’s at stake in the fight for the best landscapes of the American West.

By Luke Schafer

Some places require no context. Their sheer physical attributes transcend the need to apply rationale to why they matter. Regardless of whether or not a place has wildlife habitat, recreation opportunities, or unique cultural resources, it can stand apart because it creates a visceral reaction that is too elusive for words. To the uninitiated visitor, the American West teems with these wild places; but for those of us who have spent time seeking out the spectacular places that provide solitude, it’s evident that there is a finite supply.

The Dolores River Basin in southwestern Colorado is one of those places. This 241-mile watershed encapsulates everything great about the West. The snow-capped peaks of the San Juan Mountains stand as sentinels to the east, watching the initial idea of the river at Tin Can Basin. Just a few miles away, as the crow flies, is one of Colorado’s newest wilderness areas, Hermosa Creek. As the river flows southwest through the towns of Rico and Dolores it comes to an abrupt stop just outside Dolores. It’s there that the El Río de Nuestra Señora de Dolores (the River of Our Lady of Sorrows) is slowly suffocated in McPhee Reservoir.

McPhee Dam, which chokes off the river, is the last of its kind. It’s Colorado’s second-largest reservoir, trapping all of the snow melt and summer rains that the upper Dolores has to offer. It’s also the last of the major river impoundment projects completed on the Colorado Plateau. Built in 1984, it was created with the primary purpose of capturing water for irrigated agriculture.

But like the river and its management, the dam is a complicated deal. A changing climate combined with overly ambitious ideas have created a situation where very little water moves downstream out of the dam. The stunted flows are damaging to riparian health, as natural systems that evolved over eons are suddenly confronted by the absence of peak flows during spring runoff. Even introduced species like rainbow and brown trout have had difficulty with the unpredictable and low flows, creating a less than ideal tailwater fishery.

Managed releases of water from the reservoir have been few and far between over the past decade. The duration and amount of water sent downstream has also dwindled, leaving many river recreationists high and dry as they wait for next year — and then the next, and then the next — to boat one of the west’s most iconic rivers.

In fact, for much of the year, the section of the river from the dam to the confluence with the San Miguel River resembles a ditch. Slickrock Canyon and the surrounding Dolores River Wilderness Study Area sit like an amphitheater missing its orchestra, because the symphony that is water on rock rarely appears anymore.

Surrounding the river in much of this stretch is a bevy of unique resources that grew along with the river itself. Rare plants, geologic formations, cultural resources and wildlife add to the unique qualities of the place. Many of these resources are being considered for protection by the Bureau of Land Management, the federal agency that manages most of the West’s public lands. The BLM’s field office has begun planning to determine whether to protect this place as an official “Area of Critical Environmental Concern.” Conservation Colorado, where I work, is involved in an effort to protect this area and ensure that all these wild places get the attention they deserve.

As the river continues towards its final confluence with the Colorado River, it passes bucolic ranches and wild public lands like the Dolores Triangle, its rapids providing one last wild ride for boaters. Once the Dolores meets the Colorado, it mixes with the waters born high in Rocky Mountain National Park before joining the Green River in Canyonlands National Park.