The north rim Colorado’s Black Canyon is still under the shimmering desert sky. This side of the gorge is peaceful. We see only 3 other groups as we explore the sheer walls of hard rock.
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Amidst fragrant sage brush, its single-note music alive in the summer wind, we sleep. At dawn, we look down past our toes as the Gunnison River rages below, separated from the soles of our shoes by 2000 feet of air. The world is comprised of unthinkable features like this, natural holes so big they leave us tiny, humbled against their enormity.
Here in Black Canyon of the Gunnison, everything is steep and sleek. Walls of conglomerate rock drop 2000 vertical feet into a striking and impressive slit, a great gouge in a great sage Mesa.
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Standing on the canyon’s edge, an unfamiliar feeling arose in my gut, a sensation of flying on solid ground. By the time vertigo rendered me dizzy, I understood something new about the earth, about human experience. Something I’d never before articulated. Depth isn’t gained or taken away easily. It takes millions of years for a canyon like this to form. With this thought, patience, existence itself takes on a new meaning, a depth as shocking as the Black Canyon itself.
When the first sideways slant of early morning light hits the bus, we’re up and scurrying around like sage sparrows, chirping our own nonsense in the coolness of the dew.
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The sun is this big ball of heat. Rising out of unconsciousness, to leave the heaviness of deep sleep, can be daunting. This morning, however, the sage-waving world is more inviting than these old blankets.
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The road is empty. We pour our coffee black into beat up tin cups and turn the engine over. The day is young as the new buds of desert paintbrush. The air is electric, alive and shouting with possibility. An entire day lies before us and who knows- do you universe?- who knows what will be delivered to our expectant morning souls?
Six months before we left, I rummaged through a “Just Arrived” box in a store of oddities. There was a hand cranked juicer, a field guide to urban sprawl, a keyring that said “I like Ike.” I handled each of these things gently, heirlooms of the past. History in my hands.
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Under the box itself, a map hid like an earwig. It seemed black and white at first, its color ink obscured by dust bunnies until I blew it off. The map screamed early 90s. Its design glared highlighter bright, tinged with a tacky sentiment similar to Jansport backpacks and sparkle sticker collections. “Black Canyon of the Gunnison,” it read in Nickelodeon Network orange.
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I had never seen a place like that. The grainy pictures of steep, black walls plummeted my heart into my gut. That moment, I knew better than anything I’d ever known, like the dark inside of my eyelids, that I would see that canyon someday. It was a premonition so strong it held no fear. I didn’t buy that map, but I should have. It was the archangel Michael, presenting my future in vintage topography, a step in the staircase to The Road. Almost three years later to the day, the sun is soft over the Canyon. Like the black insides of my eyelids, I am certain this is where that preordained map meant me to be.
Life is a constant struggle against gravity. Thing is, entropy wins every time.
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Once, we went to The Museum of Decay. A slide show rich with rusty Ford pick ups played on a clicking projector. They had constructed a model of the tallest bridge in Argentina that crumbled every 15 minutes. We watched a woman grow old through portraits, one taken every year of her life. I cried at the ephemeral world. I left my wallet in the lobby and it was gone too.
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Everything fades. Everything is transient. It’s tragic, but you know what? It’s also why the world is so heartbreakingly beautiful.
Our skin is where we encounter the outside world.
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We are encased in this incredible organ, a web of receptors and tissues that connect us to everything and everyone we viscerally know.
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It’s important, sometimes, to let our skin free, to allow it to enter the earth unencumbered by clothing or protection. Baring your body exposes your true self physical self to mother earth. Stand and allow her to answer, as the cold rush of water runs over your skin, a baptism, of sorts, every time.
We’ve learned to love cold showers.
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Our daily routine includes a swimming hole bath. Rivers, lakes, and creeks are always on our radar, the more remote the better. If there’s a good sunny rock for warming up, that’s the spot. Hot springs are a triple bonus.
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We dunk, splash, comb, and repeat. No soap, usually, just a skin rub and gone. Every day is a ritual of natural moving water, a ritual that cleanses and purifies more than indoor plumbing ever could.
