Escalante

 

Morning.

Sand in my sleeping bag. Grit adhering to the warmth from my legs against polyester. I rolled over to see the first glimpses of the morning sky burning the night away. An even ratio of clouds and sky was painted with blues and a glowing rose magenta. It was quiet out, still. Exactly what you would expect to see out here in the morning.

 This dry valley doesn't host very many trees. To my surprise, birds were out. Swooping past our commune of nylon tents, weaving through guylines and diving into the sage and blackbush, Pretty sure they were playing tag.  Ben was up. I heard him stumble out of his tent in search for some privacy to take the morning in. Shovel in hand. I went the opposite way to search for my own secluded bush. The air was still. Something I expect on a morning like this.

Wait.

  This was exactly a year prior. Same weekend, same region on a map. Only a few miles south of here, down another dirt road.  Another time.

  Mornings out here for me have been suspended in a time frame that all resembles itself. Quiet, still, and bathed in warm sunlight. Watching the sun paint fiftymile bench in some superlative fashion. The grittiness of sand in your coffee, and the sludge that resides at the bottom. The smell of Juniper bark smoldering in the fire and the whisper of a butane stove burning. Add the human element that is absent from the overwhelming majority of this forgotten region.


 A feeling that is hard to experience in most places in the contiguous United States. This is one of the last places to be mapped and explored. The canyons we will descend down into, make travel across this broader landscape so difficult. Fractured sandstone views with endlessly winding perpendicular walls. That upon further inspection actually end somewhere. This country is barren, remote and almost absent of water.







  But we know a secret. These dry washes cut deeper into the earth, revealing a time line millennial longer than we can comfortably appreciate. Comatose cliff bands of compressed ancient mud flats stand silent for fractions of eternity only to break free and tumble down to become the mud it once was. A slow dance towards entropy. The gears of time are slowed enough to present this movement at a standstill. We should take advantage of this condition.

  On foot we travel down these washes following the path of least resistance to a place where life accumulates. Cottonwood trees line the river banks, branches and roots sprawled out grabbing what soft sandy soil it can hold onto, bracing for what torrents of water will come through here. Poplar leaves litter the ground from past years and the dry brittleness of their state only amplifies what stealth amphibians attempt to hold as they flee in safety away from us.






  These riparian areas are the heart of the desert and the reason why we are here. Our gear is unloaded and opened up. An explosion of food, clothes and camping essentials line the river banks. I attempted to "rig" my essentials for the next few days onto my boat. The water is knee deep and turbid. Willow and salt cedar lines the banks. The aroma of salt cedar is something that is in abundance here today, but not long ago that would require a foreign experience. After thirty minutes we pushed off.



 
  The river banks were lined with Russian Olive. Threatening to poke holes in our thin nylon rafts. Armed with oars, we kept them at bay. Maneuvering down river was a constant task of taking it all in, all while avoiding obstacles. You only have a few seconds to crank your neck up to see the canyon rim above, before you need to correct your course. A perfect balance of mind and body. Work and pleasure.

Heading down river at the speed this place was meant to experience.

The speed of absorption.



 When the day wears out and we seek the comfort of being still, we crawl up the banks. Some camps are searched for and planed out. Others are purely functional. Tired and hungry. Your find any place to sleep. A slickrock bench that tilts ten degrees or a flood plain lined with young willows. We find a small clearing to circle around and pass the whiskey and comment on the days highlights. That river wide strainer, the arch, the boulder gardens, our lunch hike up moody.

 Tomorrow will be a repeat of today. The river will flow and we will follow it. Cutting deeper, the walls will stand taller. Kayenta and Navajo. Columbine, ferns, lilies, and sedges will show us to the springs. We'll find canyons to walk up, alcoves for shade, and granaries for glimpses to the past. A lifetime isn't long enough here.





If I ever go missing. This is where you'll find me.








 






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