We paddled into Del Rio on a river where we could see turtles swimming among the rocks on the bottom. Now, 15 miles south and several discharge pipes and questionable streams later, we can no longer see the bottom. The smell of sewage comes and goes as the current mixes the water and we think twice every time we step out of the canoe.    

Rumaldo Sandoval owns a ranch a few miles south of Acuña and we talked to him while he fished from the Mexican bank. The only people we saw on the river were on the Mexican side. Almost everyone returned our wave and happily talked about how they were spending their Sunday along the river.  

Sandoval was fishing and taking in the view with his wife, Maria Gonzalez, and dog Osa.  

He called the discharges black water. We could see where it tainted the river from a clear blue to a teabag brown. The river sediment has a thin layer of brown on top and then a thick layer of black goo.  

Sandoval said he would not drink from the river, but in the summer it is a great place to swim.  

And it’s much safer now. When he was a little boy, the flood of 1954 swept through the valley. He knew people who had to run uphill and wade through chest-deep water to escape the rising river. Entire communities were wiped out and had to resettle.   

The flood prompted the construction of Amistad Dam, where Sandoval worked for eight years in the electric plant. He now works making parts for Jeep Wranglers and Dodge Durangos.   

Now we are at the second dam, a diversion for the Maverick County Water Conservation Improvement District No. 1. It looks like it is taking about two-thirds of the river, which will be sent off to irrigate pecan orchards and farms before flowing back into the river. 

In between the here and there, we will just have to make due.   

The border patrol agents and dam operators we spoke with told us we will likely have to haul the canoe over rocks on several upcoming sections.  

But at least we will have company.   

The birds, especially the coots, are here by the thousands. Camping on an island felt like being at an airport with no traffic control. It seemed the pelicans, herons, egrets and ducks could not decide where they wanted to be and flocks were constantly landing and taking off.  All through the night, we heard beavers chewing on small trees, smacking their tails and plopping into the river. Meanwhile, flocks of birds jockeyed for position in the air and on the water.  

It was anything but sterile.

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