Paria Canyon: A Visual Poem

 

I awake in the night and utter a small grunt of discomfort. The echo booms in a dark amphitheater of incredible silence. Strange. I open my eyes and, through the screen of my tent, I see the full moon has set the looming canyon walls alight. Oh, right. Stiffly, clumsily, noisily, I rustle out of my bag, unzip the tent and stand naked in the darkness. Layer after layer of rock face jut around me, some bathed in moonlight, some caped in shadow, like some mad MC Escher sketch come to 3D life. The silence thrums in my ears. Damn. A year shy of sixty and still doing this.

A crack in the Earth. What started as a simple sandy wash turns into a fissure. Deeper and deeper into the rock it twists. Contours of smooth, glistening stone looks not unlike folds of flesh and the entrance feels sexual, forbidden, arousing. But this is primordial love. Cool, dark, hard. The stone looks smooth but is rough as sandpaper. The way is choked with hazards. Choke stones, jammed logs, rockfall, pour offs, quicksand, mud. This is love made real. This is passion to last a thousand lifetimes.

A canyon walk is a simple walk in that there are not a lot of decisions to be made. Like the water, I am just flowing downhill, taking the path of least resistance, clamoring over rocks, ducking around boulders, wading through streams. And if there is a pool of vile, disgusting, sewer slime mud before you, you anoint yourself. And everything you carry. Don't think. Just move. You'll get there. You are there. Meditation in motion.

The colors. They set your eyes on fire. In 1992 I bought a new Jeep Wrangler. The color was marketed as “Canyon Blue.” Most people didn't get it. How can a canyon be blue? But have you ever seen the clear, blue sky from the bottom of a dry, desert canyon? It is a special blue. A blue that will stop you in your tracks. A blue that can make you cry. Contrasted with the rusts and reds and desert varnishes of the rock, it makes you appreciate the artistry of nature. Around every other corner the sunlight catches the leaves of a cottonwood just right and against that background, your eyes explode. I take a thousands pictures. But none of them quite suit. “I think God make most of the world for man,” my hiking companion muses during a snack break, “Farmlands and valleys and harbors and coasts. But some places, I think, He made just for himself. Just for fun.”

Little bluish birds hop down the canyon in front of us. They wait for us to catch up then fly away a few yards ahead. I can't decide if they are somehow picking up tiny insects disturbed by the vibrations of our approaching feet, or acting as our guides. The more I ponder them, the more I'm convinced they are greeting us. Trying to communicate. Come along ! Hurry! See this! You'll be amazed!

No one who hasn't hiked extensively in the desert knows the pure magic of a fresh spring. Tucked in a rock crevice or dripping from a clump of moss, the water tastes better than anything ever. The coldest beer, the finest wine, a chocolate shake never tasted so good. I've often thought that the hardships of hike were worth it just to taste spring water straight from the rock.

Memory falters. I've done this hike before. But nothing is the same. I am not the same. We hike for miles looking for a landmark I remembered from years ago. We walk and walk. Setting a goal only to realize, at the end of the day, we have far surpassed it. The rhythm of moving forward, of passing quietly through beauty is additive. And comforting. It's healing something in our souls.

Wading down the stream. a movement ahead catches my attention. I stop and peer ahead. Suddenly a band of Bighorn sheep explode out of the creek bed where they were drinking and in a few short bounds are standing on a rock face above us. They stop and peer back at us. The expression is clear. Indignation. Annoyance. We apologize and move on. Later, in the shade of a cottonwood, a coatamundi climbs down out of the tree and, in no hurry, starts walking down the trail. He stops, turns briefly and withers me with a look. It's the same expression the bighorn had. I get it. I'm a visitor. I don't belong here. But I should. I want to.

The human mind has a hard time with silence. The modern mind--conditioned with constant buzz and distraction-- even more so. In the quiet of the canyon, snippets of songs fall into the void. And grow. And grow into monsters. The same song line over and over builds from a simple mantra to a sonic obsession. Lying awake for hours in the sleeping bag, the music screams its objections to the Void. When I wake up in the morning, love/And the sunlight hurts my eyes/And something without warning, love/Bears heavy on my mind.../ Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day/Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day/A lovely day/Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day/Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day, lovely day...

Slowly deadened senses come alive. The flap of a raven overheard is as loud as a jet. The buzz of bees in the dusty scented tamerisk. In the quiet evenings, not only can you actually hear the click of a bat's sonar but you tell by the frequency whether it's actively hunting or just passing by. The feel of the lunch boulder beneath your butt. The sandstone walls along your fingertips. The taste, the actual taste of water. Walking through thickets of sage. The rustle of movement—there. And there... A collared lizard bathing in the sun. This is what it means to be alive. Really alive. In the moment. Aware of details. Mind relaxed and senses frolicking with joy. Even as I realize this, I know it is all temporary. Soon I will be back in the modern world and this feeling will fade. The memory of the feeling will fade. And all that will be left is a vague longing, an ache to get back here. Somehow. Someplace.

Blood, Sweat and Bad Water.

There is something wonderful and awful about the last swallow of water in the canteen. Chances are you have been saving it, hoarding it away until you just can't stand it any longer. By the time you finally commit to drink, you're not only good and thirsty but maybe a little fearful for the future.

Never-the less, you savor the water all the way down from the tip of your tongue, to the back of your throat and all the way down the esophagus. Wonderful. And then it's gone and the hand is dealt.

This happened to us the very first day of backpacking in Grand Gulch. A veteran of many canyon hikes, I had gone into the excursion with a cavalier attitude and was carrying only my standard liter and half day hike ration. It had never been a problem. The bottom of a steep deep narrow wilderness canyon is filled with springs and potholes and rocks and rivulets. There's always water to be found. Except today. Besides a few pot holes in the side canyon we entered first thing in the morning, this canyon was sandy, brushy and very, very dry. Earlier we had passed a pair of well-heeled hikers who were struggling mightily (despite their top-of-the-line equipment) under a load of 40 liters of water! We had laughed at them heartily, but now were wondering if they knew something we didn't.

 Nothing we could do about it now. Ari and I were well past the point of no return. At the last side canyon we'd spent an entire hour bushwhacking around looking for a spring that the BLM rangers had assured us was there. Along with another guy we met on the trail, we looked high and low. Found one vaguely swampy area underneath some more ruins, but no standing water of any kind. We were all concerned that the canyon bottom was very dry—drier than we expected—and seemingly getting drier as we headed down canyon. Our new friend made his choice early. If he didn't find water in this side canyon he was aborting his trip—and retracing his steps back to the trailhead.

Neither Ari nor I are known for our patience and after fruitlessly searching for an hour, we returned to the confluence of the side canyon and weighed our options. It was early afternoon, we were very low on water, and it was only getting warmer. Consulting the map, we decided to press on—putting our hopes on a vaguely defined feature on the map called “The Pour-off.” If we couldn't find water anywhere else, I assured Ari, there should be some kind of water at the bottom of a dry falls. Falls, after all, denote rock. Rock holds water.

As we trudged down the canyon, however, the sand only got deeper. Our last swallows of water had come and gone. As the day wore on, the packs got heavier and the legs more sluggish. In many ways the first day of a multi-day backpack is the worst. The pack is at its heaviest, the legs and body are at their softest and the body is just not trail hardened. The day was growing to be a long one and we were putting in miles we hadn't counted on. I was beginning to regret not training harder for this hike—a universal feeling of backpackers everywhere.

We came to a muddy patch of wet ground and I seriously considered digging for water—something I've never had to do anywhere and was frankly skeptical it could be successfully done. Ari offered, however, to take off his pack and scout ahead. He came back a half hour later saying he hadn't found water but there was another muddy spot on the ground ahead and a better campsite so we shrugged into our packs once again and headed down the canyon. It was a beautiful site on high ground just off the main channel and as we were trudging up to it, I glanced down canyon and saw where the riverbed just ended. We dropped our packs and grabbed out water jugs.

“Cross your fingers.”

The Pour Off was there, a hundred yards from camp. And, as I'd assumed, the canyon bottom slowly turned to rock. When we arrived, not only did we discover a large brackish water hole at the base of the falls but, even better, a series of rock pot holes on top—the largest of which still contained water. We were saved. But our work was not over. The water was still so silty that it was impossible to pump more than a liter of water at a time before the filter clogged up. So it was pump a liter, disassemble the water filter, scrape it down, wash it, reassemble and then pump another liter. Repeat. It took us an hour and twenty minutes to filter enough water for the night. And this was the scenario that would play out over several days. This canyon, it turned out, was a very dry place.

It was easy for us then to imagine why this canyon, once home to one of the largest Anasazi populations in the Southwest, was abandoned. Some of the best preserved ruins in the world dot the Grand Gulch—a 58 mile long snaking tributary of the San Juan river. Many look as if the occupants walked away a few months ago. Metates and scraping tools lay next to boulder work areas. Corn cobs still fill many of the granaries. In places the pottery shards are like litter on the ground. Large panels of pictographs cover the canyon walls like graffiti. Some in very rare colors of green and blue and orange. Some of the ruins still have their floors and roofs intact. There is an actual kiva you can still enter.

The mysterious "Green Mask."

A sexy tomb raider. Somebody should make a video game!

Beyond the prehistoric ruins, the canyon itself was lovely. There were many cool rock formations, alcoves splashed with fall colors and a sky that was so blue it hurt the eyes. We did great slick rock climbs to granaries that seemed impossible to reach from the canyon floor. We watched the moon rise over the canyon walls and the star-blown skies after it set. On the second day we found a fantastic camp above a cool clear stream with pictographs visible across the canyon from our sleeping bags.

The place was the Garden of Eden except for:

Water. A couple days after finding a clear stream in a side canyon, we spend another wasted day (and all our remaining good water) fruitlessly searching for another spring. As we ventured deeper into the canyon and off the beaten track, the bushwhacking was brutal. Continuing down the main dry channel meant fighting overhanging branches, climbing over dead fall and trudging through sticky muck. Trying to fight a path over the banks meant face slapping, leg ripping brush and steep ascents and descents in and out of the main channel. We even tried to climb up the canyon sides and stay near the slick rock walls, but the prickly pear were so thick there was no where to step. And the trail always went cold at a steep side gully that was dead drop.

That's backpacking. For every beautiful sunset, there's the moment you wake up and realize a rat is crawling across the top of your tent. For every clear stream, there's a vile, brackish puddle of ooze that might keep you alive for another day. For every unexpected Indian discovery there's a pair of shorts ripped from waist to cuff from a razor thorn. For every pretty picture, a cactus needle imbedded into your calf. And for every shot of tequila carefully hoarded, there the point in the hike when you realize that you absolutely cannot eat another gram of trail mix.

To the hundreds of people who lived here in America's recent stone age, I'm sure it was the Garden of Eden. They had everything they wanted: food, water, beauty, room to roam and time to create beautiful art and pottery. But even a garden has limits, boundaries and needs balance. When something tips the scales—overpopulation, a prolonged drought, warfare—then even paradise will fail. It's a lesson for all of us. Appreciate what we have, do all we can to protect it and strive for balance.

Watch the sunset, ignore the rats.

Bottom's up, y'all!

And drink plenty of water.