The Green River in Utah

I've been in Moab taking a weeklong canoe trip on the Green River. I'm ready to write about it but I'm still buried under all the gear that needs to be cleaned and put away correctly. The floor of the house is sandy and gritty but there's no point in cleaning up until everything is stowed away. Cleaning out the disgusting coolers and doing the laundry was torturous, but now I'm into the work that is just plain drudgery. So, in order to get started writing again, I'm going to cheat a little bit and go to my journal from 2008. It was interesting to see the frame of mind I was in during that time.

Green River: October 2008

There are huge cracks in the dried mud along the riverbank. If I put my nose down to the opening, the primeval smell rises past the spiderwebs and pale roots. I'm smelling ancient dinosaurs and extinct plants.

Shade graces the canyon with a long caress as the sun cartwheels across the dark blue sky, so blue and hot it radiates a palpable energy upon my skin. I am filled with light.

My expectations are different here in the canyon. I do expect the sun to move across the sky and the lengthening of the cool intervals of shade as the canyon twists and winds its way to the confluence of the Colorado River.  Coming here is another way to access timelessness that is yours alone to explore.

The steady flow of the river reminds me of the river inside each of us. Our own River Stix (forgetfulness) combines, or is absorbed by, the River L (all memories). I tap into my own genetic storehouse of memories, full of sensations, and experience the awakening of my dulled senses. I pack away my vanities. 

I didn't come here to discover new things. I know, from past experience, I can exist here and discovery will happen to me.

The canyon angles one way then another. The only way I can orient myself is to think of downriver as south and the river behind as north, a fallacy that a glance at the map would expose but my brain is still determined to put the world on a grid. Every sunrise and sunset tells me all I need to know and the stars still rotate through the heavens. 

The yellow cottonwood leaves quiver and glow as the setting sun suddenly illuminates the canyon walls opposite our campsite. The leaves flutter like thin gold coins tied to the branches.

There is so much quiet. I have to sit down and listen to discover it's never silent. One night, someone on top of a mesa played a melancholy tune on a trumpet. Somehow, it sounded just right.