Lee's Ferry
We drove for hours
through the darkest land I had ever been through. The Navajo Nation between Flagstaff and the
Colorado River is a place without artificial illumination. Silhouetted against the rising moon were
power transmission towers that trespassed through the land as if they were
giant skeletons tiptoeing through the sacred darkness. Against the hills and mesas, east-facing
hogans fused with the night so that we drove by them without knowing they were
there. The dim flicker from a coal oil
lamp inside barely escaped small windows and made the panes of glass seem like
a faint golden mirage suspended against the black mesa. Because of the darkness, I fought the
illusion that we were in a lifeless, deserted land. There is a deep undeserved loneliness we felt
about this place. The desert here is a
harsh place but the Navajo have thrived in unity with the desert and their mark
on this land is only hidden by the night.
The lonely desolation is an illusion.
On
a dark desert night, there are few landmarks.
Even the sensation of speed was gone when the headlights illuminated
only the ribbon of highway ahead while the scenery out the car windows was
cloaked in the night. It was like
traveling through a dark tunnel not knowing when it would end. Each dip into an arroyo, we figured, was the
final decent to the Colorado River. When
we finally rolled onto Navajo Bridge it came as a surprise. We wanted desperately to see the mighty
Colorado River far below hidden in the shadows.
For a split second, moonlight reflected a tantalizing silvery streak
from the river deep in the crevasse.
The
Colorado River created the Grand Canyon and by doing so protected itself from
the inevitable scars of man's footprints.
Roads, it seems to me, are among the first scars on a pristine
landscape. At the Grand Canyon there are
few places you can drive down to the Colorado River. Diamond Creek on the Hualapai Indian land
just above Lake Mead provides access to the lower end of the canyon, Lee's
Ferry just below the Glen Canyon Dam allows access to the top. Our little party planned to raft the 225
miles in between.
Moonlight
hinted at the surreal geology on the drive to Lee's Ferry. The road curved around huge rounded boulders
that rolled down the canyon walls thousands of years or maybe only weeks
ago. I couldn't escape the troubling
notion that one of those gigantic rocks could tumble down and squash our
minivan like an annoying insect. Through
a tight canyon and round a sharp turn, lights from a ranger station invaded the
darkness. A warm glow of light and a swarm of moths encircled the sign post
that directed us to the camping area.
A
full moon rose above the canyon walls to faintly brighten the tamarisk thicket
where we unrolled our beds for the night. The moon drifted above to become like a
headlight hung over our heads. Its
brightness penetrated my eyelids and I could not escape its light. It felt like the light of Navajo spirits was
scanning me to determine my worthiness to meet the river. The black crooked fingers of tamarisk
silhouetted against the moon seemed a chilling warning that maybe I was not.
When
all seemed quiet, the sounds invaded.
Night insects announced their claim on the darkness and the mighty river
gurgled a Siren's song that invited me to question my mortality.
As
fatigue began to ebb away at my consciousness, I pondered that this had already
been a memorable adventure. I could
leave for home tomorrow and not feel cheated.
When
I opened my eyes the first light of dawn had faded the sky to gray tinged with
pink. I lay in the silence dripping with
dew as the canyon walls awoke in skirts of lavender and pink. I could peek through the brush and see the
mighty Colorado in regal emerald green.
By mid-morning the canyon walls ripened to the color of dried pumpkins
and parched corn.
As
we worked hard in the Navajo sun outfitting our rafts the adventure seemed to
be just beyond a bend in the river downstream.
Home, it was clear, was at the end of the river two weeks away.
