"How old is that?" I asked.
"Close to 1,400 years old," said Okie.
It was as if past and present had collided as one.
Okie looked toward the
Colorado, running brown beneath the sun.
"Yep," he said. "That's the same river they saw."
And the Anasazi were merely members of the Newcomer's Club.
In another silent side canyon, Christian crouched and splashed
water on a rock. A shape appeared, trumpet shaped and maybe five
inches long.
"Crinoid," said Christian. "That's probably 400 million years old."
Our days unfolded in languid
fashion. We woke, warm in our sleeping bags, to cool silence on
white-sand beaches, the tops of the canyon walls catching the first
tracings of dawn. Breakfast followed, the smell of coffee and bacon
residing beside the river, and then the guides would break down
camp and pack their respective boats, meticulously lashing down
piles of gear like fussy moms. By 9, we would be on the river.
Though much
ado is - rightly - made of the Colorado's vaunted
rapids, most of the river is rapidless. Yes, there are more than
160 rapids between Lees Ferry and Lake Mead, but they compose 9
percent of that section of river. And so we floated, lazy as a
dream, between brown river and blue sky, the canyon walls
ever-rearing up on both sides, while beneath the boat, the river
made small commotions and fidgets.
Great blue herons, dragonflies, gossamer strands of spider webs,
they all wafted past us at a syrupy pace. Late afternoon, we would
bump up against an empty beach and, in short order, we would be
dining on shrimp scampi or prime rib, tiki torches throwing
flickering light on the sand.