A palette of reds, yellows, oranges feeds broad horizontal brush strokes, lit by constantly shifting light on the canvas of the river’s song. Time has shifted to rivertime, where the day starts in the dark with the boat guides’ coffee call, and flows along with the swirling brown water, undivided into minutes and hours but distinguished by rapids, beaches, side canyons. Evening begins whenever we pull over to a camping spot on a soft beach, set up our sleeping pads, read or chat until dinner; it becomes night when I crawl onto my pad and collapse into dreams under the hot wafting air, bats flippeting overhead against a rippling backdrop of stars and planets.
Two weeks of rafting down the Grand Canyon has brought me back into a primordial flow, an easier presence to natural rhythms without the overlays of clock time, homework, the meta-level organizing required to run everyday life. I spend my days gasping in astonishment at the evolving beauty of cliffs towering over me, geologic time recorded in the tilted cross-beds of sand swept by ancient winds, fossil remains of crinoids and nautiloids preserved in their original coffins of soft muck now hardened, frozen lava-falls from more recent times.
(Astonished, that is, when I’m not frozen myself in fear as we approach yet another churning rapid, our trip leader repeating her mantra to once again cinch down our life vests and hold on really tight this time. Apparently other people find these rapids fun and thrilling, and either I’m the only one terrified for my life on a daily basis or the others are better than I am at hiding their anxiety. Anyway, I have survived!)
Perhaps it was just ongoing sleep deficit, but as I got less and less verbal during our adventure, I wondered whether the canyon was calling me into a more profound presence that went below words. Even though some of my trip-mates turned out to be kindred spirits with whom I knew I could talk for hours at home, as we coursed through the canyon’s curves, I found I didn’t have that much to say or ask. Chatty conversation would have required a real effort to dredge myself up from rivertime’s depths; sitting in silence, letting beauty and spirit seep into my bones was enough.
(I’ll be posting more about the Grand Canyon in future entries, and more photos are posted on my Flickr page.)