Living on Green River Time   1 comment


One day / On the river is worth a thousand nights on land.

—Robert Bly, “The Cabbages of Chekhov”

One Green River Day. Awake to the feint tinkle of water, after the sploosh of eroding sand, first light, camp still in shadow, guides already busy in the kitchen, beaver crosses from shore to shore & pads off.


Pee into river, pad across sand barefoot to dip camp coffee into your cup, morning greetings, remove to the quiet of your tent site to let the day pray through you or maybe head to the groover for a scenic crap, facing away from the increasing hubbub toward the waters of where you have been or the waters of where you are going.


Return to others, to the us, for sand yoga standing postures, beginning in Mountain — apt in so many ways: mirroring canyon walls & towers, embodying stillness, peace, gathering of forces — then Warriors & angular twists, Chair, shoulder openers, hip releasers, breath followers, folds & reaches. Attend, please, to each of the seven centers of energy. Sit. Breathe. The light rises all around as if from our circle; the light in me sees the light in you.


Breakfast & breakquiet bonhomie. Heron squawk. Dull clank & splash of dishes washed — scrape, rinse, scrub, rinse, bleach, stack in rack. Pack up in hot sun, hup the gear to the fleet, stow supplies in each & every canoe. When camp is fully broken, after the last last-call for the groover, we go, boat by boat, into the slow glide. All slip away, gladly.

GRT 5a

It is a moment of suspended time when one could so easily cross over into another dimension, a feeling neither of exhilaration nor euphoria, but simply of infinite possibilities.  —Ann Zwinger, Run, River, Run

The Guide honors the day by calling for a Silent Float. With our chatter stifled, the vastness & solitude take in the attention, take in the mind itself & through it my whole being. To belong to the river & to the canyon & to the sky — that is why I’ve come here. Out of the quiet comes small voices of life: water dripping from the bow, the blade; crickets in the brush; canyon wren among the cliffs; heron wing beats.


Sun’s intensity, river’s ease, Children’s Moon high above the varying sandstones — Entrada, Wingate, Navajo. Silence cracks off eventually & falls into the water, whether by song or splash, howl or yawp. Floating on, following the subtle thalweg or following the subtle Guide following it, along long arcs of meander, crossing curves from one side to the next, in fruitfully fruitless pursuit of the chain of languid bubbles.


The behavior of rock, of herons & ravens & small birds in the shore scrub, of paddlers. When we are not quiet we are usually laughing, unbidden badinage uninterrupted by occasional stops: to pee, to swim, to pass around snacks, to hike to petroglyphs or overlooks of the river. Mostly though we ply the paddle. “The path of the paddle leads to the original perspective.” Patterns, reflections emerge. Paddle & float. Think & drift. Alcove & cliff face. Breathe in, breathe out.


Lunch: haul the canoes through “goodge” onto a sandbar; a game of Find the Appropriate Containers & tote them to the two folding tables set up in the sand, usually under blazing sun; coldcuts cheeses lettuce tomato salty-snacks fruit, cookies brought out at the end, all tasting better than such fare would elsewhere, elsewhen; standing around in little groups, milling about the bar, jokes & observations & continuation of conversations, words the follow us all along the way. Load up, push off, float on.


Thy sickness, they say, & thy puny habit require that thou do this or avoid that, but know that thy life is a flitting state, a tent for a night, & do thou, sick or well, finish that stint.  —Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Experience”

Our boat hangs back & we smoke cigarillos in a lazy drift, enjoying the lull & quiet, the flavors of a floating moment, the pffft of the butt hitting the water. Another couple hours or so will bring us to where we will be, where we empty & secure the boats, re-create the kitchen, pitch tents, swim or reconnoiter or recollect.

GRT 10

Happy Hour: a couple beers dragged cool behind the canoe, bags of wine, lemonade, camp chat echoing in the rocks. Experiences are compared, places discussed, the river revered. Pale scorpion scurrying, desert toad scampering, scientists, seekers, instructors, examiners, writers & makers & engineers. Becoming unstuck. Following tortuous paths, winding ways, lives we cannot predict. Poem & song, stars & tears. The heron takes us down the river.

GRT 11

Just as sunrise climbs down the rock wall, sunset ascends. Dinner & clean up are among the last rituals, then either music or an astronomy lesson or the sharing of souls, one more pee into the water, brush teeth, late looks at the clear sky — not much else needed to put final touches on the day, on the shedding of time.

GRT 12a

GRT 12b


Posted January 10, 2015 by the meaning of rivers in Uncategorized

One response to “Living on Green River Time

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  1. Brilliant work of art, bro. btw, what are we if, in drinking it, we both turn river into pee and pee into river?

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