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Emotional Health, Spiritual Well Being, Uncategorized

The Churches of Page

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The Churches of Page (Part one), wherein I visit five out of a baker’s dozen

By way of full disclosure, I must first admit that I was raised in church, steeped in church, schooled in church; in fact, spent an inordinate amount of time each week in church from the age of five days old right on up through middle age. I once held strong opinions on doctrine, standards, predestination, infallibility, life after death – and especially the practice of perfect attendance at corporate worship.

If you must know, I have been from time to time a collector of churches. On my first foray as an adult and away from home, I collected pictures of all the beautiful churches I stumbled upon in Germany; the church in Konigsee, the cathedral in Strasbourg; tiny, abandoned capellas in small hamlets.

The churches in Germany are old, very old, hundreds of years old. The churches in Page are closer to my age, built in the 60s, brick or stucco and often including a parsonage next door. On my first drive into town, they caught my eye. Not because of architectural beauty, but because of church proliferation in such a small population. Church Row. Eleven churches line Lake Powell Boulevard. St Peter’s list of 13 welcome you to Page on Highway 98.

“What small parking lots,” I said aloud as I scanned the neighborhood. “There is a story here. I bet they work together and schedule services so as to share parking space.” As I drove my way down Lake Powell Blvd on that, my freshman day in Page, I came to an ecumenical resolve: I would visit each of the churches in Page. I would find the story.

Page was founded in 1957. That explains a lot. It means Page is relatively young as municipalities go. From the get-go it was planned, engineered. And it was planned and engineered in the 50s, that bucolic time of home, hearth, God and country, and Betty Crocker.

Turns out those churches do work together on special events. They do get together for benevolent purposes. Nevertheless, I have somewhat against thee, oh churches of Page, for you all meet at 10:00 am on Sunday morning.

I arrived at St. David’s Episcopal right on time. I chose St. David’s first for no particular reason except that my father is named David as is my favorite cousin and two other cousins. Also, it was Sunday, so I had missed my opportunity to begin properly with the Adventist Church. Two other cars and my Colorado-bred Subaru had the choice of parking spaces. No shared parking lots needed here, I concluded. Also, it appeared not to matter whether I chose the gospel side or the epistle side. Seats were available everywhere. Shaking hands with the greeter, I explained my mission: to visit all the churches in Page. “We hope you will come back another time,” he said, “When we are all here, every one is at district conference in Utah, today.” How episcopal can you get?

As a self-guided, ecumenical, eclectic church hopper, I hopped right over the next church – the LDS– and saved them until later – besides, they will come out two-by-two looking for me anyway, I reasoned. And they did! But that is another story.

The next available Sunday found me entering the nave of the Lutheran Church – Shepherd of the Desert, to be specific and Page is certainly in the desert. The Lutherans were a few more in number, the parking lot put to use.  On that particular Sunday morning, they were enjoying the acoustic guitar ministry of a visitor from Flagstaff; a man who used to live in Page. While in Page, he was a member of the Assembly of God and then the Nazarene – or was it the other way around? Then he moved to Flagstaff and joined the Lutherans. Apparently I had just found a fellow church connoisseur – or would that be better classified as church drifter?

At the United Methodist Church I met five ladies, four older and grayer than I and one much younger (the minister). The women introduced themselves, were friendly and interested in my quest to visit all the churches in Page. “Where did you go last?” asked one. “The Lutheran Church,” says I. “Oh,” she said confidentially leaning toward me on the padded pew we shared, “I hear they have lots of men there.”

Perceiving that it is good to break up the routine once in awhile, I veered completely off course the next week and cut across from third base to shortstop to try out the relocated Faith Bible Chapel. What have we here? Not all men, not all women, not all gone to conference, but if the red-white-and blue flags and floral arrangements don’t lie; a fine example of God and Country. Furthermore, as I scanned the assembled multitude, I concluded they were also a fine example of the Sunday School chorus, “red and yellow, black and white; they are precious in His sight.” Thus, I was comforted by a good representation of the creative praise and worship music and ethnic diversity usually found in bigger box churches.

Feeling bereft of good manners and dreading making a bad first impression, I nevertheless pealed into the parking lot of the Assembly of God church at 10:02 am. Perhaps I should turn back now? Forsake my bent to tardiness and simply visit another time? Peace, be still my guilty soul. Behold, here was a casual- Friday- clad greeter still shaking hands at the entrance. With a warm welcome, he took my hand, shepherded me to a side door, and flung wide the gate. He announced my name to a room full of baby-boomers all facing me like I had just blindly entered their elevator. Amid questions, I quickly explained myself, “…and so I resolved to visit all the churches of Page…” Interest piqued. Ears perked up. With genuine curiosity one woman asked, “Have you been to the Seventh Day Adventist Church?” “Because we would really like to know what they are building back there in the garden area,” explained another.

The churches of Page; they are interested in you and interested in each other.

Yes, I am well churched. I have played the piano in churches all across the United States. I have played for churches in Karlsruhe Germany, Chicago, Dallas, Denver, Seattle and smaller villages scattered throughout the Rocky Mountains. I have been to church for the same reasons I have played the piano: for weddings, for funerals, for revivals and for my own enjoyment.

Ah, churches of Page, you serve such a necessary purpose in the fabric of life and death. No wonder they intentionally plotted you in to the planned community. No wonder your head diocese, general assembly, or conference promptly arranged to build a House of God and to begin seeking the lost in this desert -parched, sandstorm-tossed construction community.

Yes, churches of Page, you well serve that necessary purpose in the fabric of life and death in Page Arizona. Nevertheless, I have somewhat against you for you all meet at 10:00 am. Alas, I am used to larger cities and bigger boxes. I like the option of a Saturday evening service. That way, I can have leisure meditative time on both Saturday and Sunday mornings and spend Sunday morning hiking alone – with my Creator.

But I also carry the guilt of one raised to be in church on Sunday morning, Sunday night and Wednesday midweek. Some feel comfort in the formal liturgies of episcopal and catholic churches – and yes, I mean that with a lower case e and a universal c! Those folks know when to sit, stand, kneel; when to say “Thanks be to God” and when to recite, “And also with you;” when to meekly receive the transformed elements from the one serving as priest.

I, on the other hand, was raised in a congregation that eschewed liturgy, chose to shout Hallelujah and to say A-Men, instead of the more cultured Ah-men. And so, with some feelings of trepidation, I returned to the fold for one Sunday and one Sunday only.

At the Nazarene Church I slipped into the first pew that seemed moderately available to a solitary visitor. Don’t get me wrong, there were plenty of empty rows up front and no self-respecting Nazarene Church would ever show more prestige to the wealthy than the least among you; nor assign honor and a pew plaque to give importance to select families or well-coffered patrons. Today, I am the outsider, but I know this gig. I know there are pillars of the church who have attended here since the cornerstone was laid and those august persons expect to be and are expected to be in their usual- though unmarked-pew. The pews are cushioned and less severe than those of old. There is the usual sitting and standing and prayer requests and singing of all the verses. After 40 years of absence, I can still sing all the words and harmonies without cracking the hymnal.

There is an entire row of churches in Page. I need to complete my pilgrimage with resolve. So far, I have visited – and in some cases returned – to five churches in 10 months. Not bad at all for a woman who prefers to spend Sunday mornings hiking alone – or with my Creator. I prefer to think of my hikes as following the example of Enoch – just putting one foot in front of the other until I am no more.

 

 

 

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Last year at this time we had a new monument

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November, 2016. He leaned on the counter next to the cash register, gave me a sparkling white- toothed grin and asked in the friendliest of middle-aged grandfatherly tones, “Any Hayduke sightings lately?”

What was left of his hair was more salt than pepper. The exposed pate, hair and beard were well trimmed. That coupled with the blue jeans and plaid shirt reminded me strongly of my younger brother (who turned 60 last month). The man waited. I smiled my best customer service smile. But I was young – at least in terms of my knowledge of Eastern Utah. Though past 60, I had only been at the park six weeks and I knew little of the history and legendary men and women who haunted the desert.

“Do you know who Hayduke is?” he urged. I shook my head.

“Do you not have a copy of The Monkey Wrench Gang?” he persisted.

“Doug, let it go,” cautioned the younger woman at his side.

“Let me show you the Edward Abbey books I have,” I said, leading the way. “Desert Solitaire, of course; Edward Abbey, a Life; Serpent’s of Paradise; but no, I don’t carry any novels.”

Blithely I continued, “Have you seen the new book, All the Wild that Remains, by David Gessner? It’s a wonderful collection of the writings of Edward Abbey and Wallace Stegner.”

The man went away disappointed in my level of intelligence and exposure. I am not used to disappointing folks. I stayed in Utah four more months. I hiked. I listened. I got to know more of the flavor of the area.

Over the winter, while living at the end of a highway, off Highway 90, several miles west of Comb Ridge, I read The Monkey Wrench Gang. The bridges and canyons in the book were very real to me. During that time at Natural Bridges, Bears Ears was declared a national monument. I took a hike in honor of my brother’s 59th birthday. I emailed him a picture of The Bears Ears themselves, which I took right out my store window.

In the earliest of spring, I moved to Northern Arizona and became intimately acquainted with ever more National Parks and Monuments. I made a grand tour of Scenic Highway 12. With my boss, I inadvertently crashed a backyard BBQ in Escalante. My boss was there in search of the host. Two other guests sat on the patio. The man rose and stepped off the deck, “Hi, I’m Douglas,” he said without pretense. We were invited to stay for wine and desert. Content to listen to the conversation, I soon learned this genial and balding man was none other than Douglas Peacock, wilderness champion extraordinaire and the model for Hayduke of The Monkey Wrench Gang. The female half of this couple was Andrea Peacock, conservation writer. They were visiting, they said, after squatting for some of the winter in Arizona.

A few days later, I told my brother about the chance meeting. “You know,” he said, “If I could spend a day talking and hiking with any one person, it would be Douglas Peacock.”

December 28, 2017 I found myself in Escalante taking inventory. A woman came in the store with two books to exchange. “I got them for my son for Christmas,” she said, “but he doesn’t like them. Do you think he would like that book you are holding? He doesn’t like books by conservationists.”

“Don’t say that too loudly,” I thought, “Hayduke Lives! (and actually lurks around here), you never know what surprises may be in store.”

And besides, it is my brother’s birthday, last year on this day we got a monument. Amazing what you can learn in a year. Happy 2018!

 

Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Uncategorized

Thanksgiving Eve

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It was just another work related reconnaissance field trip. Three administrative staff in a well-equipped Jeep picked up a designated Park photographer and headed off into the dust. After a circuitous and scenic route past Wiregrass Canyon and Warm Creek Bay and a bumpy crawl over some slick rock we arrived at our destination: Alstrom Point. From the point we could look toward Gunsight Butte, Tower Butte, Castle Rock, or overlook the Crossing of the Fathers.

Silently we fanned out in all directions, each seeking our own favorite perspective and meditative silence.

30 minutes later I made a panoramic scan of the edges of the perimeter of the peninsula. There we sat in the vastness and lengthening shadows, four Parcheesi players, little round knobs for heads, Hersey kiss-shaped bodies perched on ledges 200 yards away, spread out across the landscape of Alstrom Point, waiting for sunset photos and the magic light.

Twilight advanced bringing us all closer to the common shelter of the Jeep. We talked some, traded tidbits of information, listened to the click of a dark sky camera, toured the night-sky via a phone ap, enjoyed each and every constellation, satellite and planet we could identify. Down layers kept us comfortably warm until time to efficiently fold and stow all the gear.

There are places of great beauty in this world. Sometimes it is too hot, or too cold, or too difficult to get there. Other times, serendipity smiles on you and a magic carpet rings your doorbell.

This year I am not at Needles Canyonlands near Creeksgiving. I am not near Colorado National Monument with many options for a morning hike. I am not near a beach in the Northwest for a misty morning walk. In fact, I am not near anything or anyone with whom I usually spend this fourth Thursday in November. No one is coming to visit me. Yet, I had an incredible Thanksgiving Eve.

Wishing you the blessing of beauty for all your holidays!

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Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Spiritual Well Being, Uncategorized

Wherein my daypack retires but I continue working

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I am unpacking my daypack today for the last time. It has become an old wineskin, unable to hold the wine of new adventure without bursting. The seams are frayed. The entire shell is pocked with evidence of tight squeezes and adventurous crawls.

A compact and stuffable travel model, it was designed to be carried in a suitcase, pulled out and quickly packed for spontaneous day hikes; it was never intended for backcountry trips or overnighters-but it served.

There came a time in my hiking life when I knew I needed to graduate from a simple drawstring pack to something with shoulder strap padding. Hikes were getting longer, the climate more strenuous. A water bottle sling fit the bill for morning walks around the neighborhood but not for six-mile hikes down Monument Canyon.

And so, I splurged. In October of 2013, smack dab in the middle of a government shutdown, I used my employee discount and invested in a Chico Travel Pack. Red, of course, to match my adventurous Subaru. Soon I added a 2 liter water reservoir. An emergency rain poncho. Three or four bandanas. A small first aid kit. Then, a change of socks. And still more recently; a pop can stove, matches, a box of soup.

The daypack became my poster child for “Oh the Places You Will Go.” Here are some of the places it has been:

  • ALL the trails and more at Colorado National Monument
  • Crag Crest and snowshoe trails on The Grand Mesa
  • ALL the (non-permit required) marked trails in the Needles District of Canyonlands National Park – those under 11 miles
  • The Ouray Perimeter Trail – again and again
  • Most trails in the south rim of Black Canyon of the Gunnison
  • ALL the marked trails of Natural Bridges National Monument
  • Two trails in Zion and two trails in Bryce
  • And this week -as one last hurrah- the South Kaibab and Bright Angel trails in Grand Canyon

So today, with great ceremony, I unpack the frayed and worn and torn body glove of my past outdoor adventures, snap a photo, and retire the side.

My red Chico travel pack daypack must be replaced immediately with a nearly identical new model. Spontaneity happens. Opportunity knocks. I need to be packed and ready. Yet, neither my red Chico travel pack or its successor is built for overnight backpacking, so I will invest in some additional expensive outdoor gear, something properly framed and fitted to my body type and build. I am in need of more straps for jackets and bedrolls – and I need a brain. Hiking in the great outdoors is habit forming – and it is a very healthy habit, this habit of putting one foot in front of the other.

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Emotional Health, Goals and Dreams, Health and Long Life, Uncategorized

Descending below the rim

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Five points of contact
Me: (scrambling down from a rock perch after the mules have passed) Most useful thing I ever learned from a ranger; don’t be afraid to use three points of contact if you need to – or even five (vigorously brushing dust from my behind).
She: Are you sure that’s not six points of contact?
Me: Naw. Five. They are joined at the hip.

What can I write about a once-in-a-lifetime trip into the Grand Canyon? – That I want it to go on forever? That I want it to be more than once? That I am so stiff I can hardly walk? That a river beach is a wonderful thing for the feet after seven miles on a rigorous trail that goes down, down, down, always down?

I have found to really experience a place – to feel I know it and have really seen it – I need to go on my own two legs. And so I did. Heeding the good instruction of those who have gone before, we descended via the rigorous South Kaibab Trail.
“It is rated difficult on all the hiking sites,” she said, “but there IS a trail.” Speaking from the perspective of a wilderness guide, a trail mitigates the difficulty measurably.
“I don’t want to take another step down, ever,” says I, after six miles and the onset of wobbly knees. Wobbly knees? Shaky legs? This feeling that my legs will uncontrollably buckle under me at any minute? Over sixty years of use and suddenly I can no longer trust the calves and quads to do my bidding?

“I’m down,” I said quietly and philosophically as my body involuntarily seated itself in the dust with a soft “whump” after an encounter with a pebble of miniscule size. She came back for me and we jolted on downward. I hiked the South Kaibab. Check one off on the list. I remain convinced it is a trail every hiker should experience once in a lifetime. And only once. When I return, I will take Bright Angel both down and up – despite its additional two mile length.

But oh, the views. Will I ever forget first view of the Colorado River rippling emerald green in the canyon a few thousand feet below? Will I ever forget setting my sites on a sandy beach way below and saying, “There. When we get there we will take off our boots and soak our weary feet in the Colorado River.”

Nor will I ever forget the many fast hikers who passed me on the trail, and those slower whom I passed, convening for dinner after dark and hearing, “Of the roughly 5,000,000 people who visit the Grand Canyon each year, only one percent descend below the rim – and a lessor percent make it here to Phantom Ranch, congratulations!”

I will long remember the sheer luxury of clean feet in the shower house at night and sleeping on an adequate bunk with Egyptian cotton hotel bedding. How else could I rise before dawn on day two and head back up to the rim?

My knowledgeable and experienced friend was right. You want more than one night’s sleep and turn around time at Phantom Ranch. You want a few more days to explore other nearby trails and vistas. You want to be able truly to relax and feel the luxury of a location visited by Presidents (at least one) and other anonymous folks wealthy enough to travel in by mule and have their duffels transported by the same. And that will come, in time, with more financial success and more accrued vacation time.

But, for now, we enjoy it on a weekend. We haul our own duffels. We travel on our own two feet. We open our souls to the beauty and our bodies to the workout and the goal. I feel it in every muscle. I know the location of every bone in my body, whether I can name it or not. And was it worth it? Yes. Yes it was.

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Emotional Health, Health and Long Life, Uncategorized

Crying in the forest

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It has been awhile. Too long actually. And with the passage of time comes inevitably the melancholy when the memory is revisited. It is has been too long since she hiked in a pine forest, Ponderosa Pine to be specific. Each step forward, each thought, each memory is enough to make her cry. The Sunshine filtering through the needle laden branches, the soughing and lowing-strong but not howling-is urgent in the wind and she cries for what was, feels a touch of anguish for what could have been and was not. Every sensation she feels calls her to weep. The present beauty is devastating. It evokes memories of what has passed. She realizes, even as she puts one foot in front of the other, she is still clinging to the past, still trying to figure out how to fix what went wrong, how to make things right. Perhaps it is time to let go of the past and move into the future-her very own future. The fresh air and evergreen trees seem to nudge her forward. But the thought of what the future can be is painfully dazzling. Can she really leave the past behind? Is it right to let go and move forward?

Twenty steps forward the beauty subtly changes. Without warning she steps into a part of the woods that has been ravaged by fire. Scorched from the ground up to about 20 feet high on the bark of the pines. Burned pieces of log litter the ground like the remains of a giant’s campfire. It is not clear who or what started the fire. It happened. Yet, there is still beauty here. She notices that the trees grew, continued to move forward. Forgetting what was behind – unashamed of their blackened scorched trunks –the trees were green at the top, reaching toward the sky without slackening their pace. Brilliant fall-colored foliage peaked out here and there along the ground. She stops in her tracks to contemplate. If the forest can survive a fire and move on, so can I. So can you.

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Emotional Health, Health and Long Life, Uncategorized

The best season ever

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It is fall and I am nearly giddy. Something broke in me yesterday. Some chain or bondage or oppression – I think it was the heat. Today I took my morning walk and rejoiced at being alive, stopped and talked with my neighbors, started to think I will survive this leg of my life’s journey. Over these past 10 years of being alone and single, I have often pointed out that Nature loves you back. I go for a walk; I am refreshed. I take a long hike; I am restored. Yes. Nature loves me, feeds me and cares for me. But Nature does not coddle. Nature can be brutal. This year I have been in the desert. This year I felt Nature abused me with the heat – and then turned around and comforted me with a lake. But that is behind me now. The weather has turned. It is nearly time for sweaters and hoodies. Definitely time to plan those long weekend hikes to all the beautiful places.

 

Books and other Soul Food, Emotional Health, Uncategorized

My Hospital, My Church and Daily Meditation

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There are places in Colorado where the water comes gushing out of the igneous rock at temperatures exceeding 110 degrees. These spots were well known to the Native Coloradoans: Utes, Arapahoe. For Chief Ouray, the hot springs that issue from high in the mountains at around 8,000 feet were a known place of healing – both physical and spiritual – for decades.

Water is an amazing healing agent. Walking beside it is calming. Swimming is cooling. Soaking in a hot springs, you can absorb all the mineral nutrients and warmth Mother Nature has to offer you. And rain, yes rain washes away the things that are past, maybe things we would like to forget, and carries them on down the river.

I have only recently learned to be a water baby. A variety of factors caused me not to favor swimming in my youth. But when I returned to the high desert of Western Colorado as a middle-aged woman, my favorite get-away was Chief Ouray’s old haunt in Ouray Colorado. I would go there tired and bruised and come away healed. The vapor cave I frequented was once a hospital and it became mine – and sometimes my church – my place of spiritual renewal – because it evoked such peace and gratitude in me.

This summer-in the desert of Arizona- the temperature inside my car clocked 120 degrees. The water bottle in the console was beyond lukewarm, beyond tepid – it was hot enough to pretend I was drinking tea. During a summer like that, it is important to find a beach, walk into the water, and thereby escape the temperatures over ninety or 100, or 110. What is the use of living next to massive Lake Powell if you never venture in the water? For the hottest days of June, July and August, I went to the beach more often than not. Yet, sometimes my habitual swimming and cooling is interrupted by travel or urgent business.

I returned to the lake in the desert the other night. The last time I swam was on a weekend trip to Ouray. It had been nine days. I missed the water. It seems water is a thing I must have daily just like a walk, or meditation, or prayer.

When I was growing up we had everyday clothes and Sunday clothes; workday activities and Sunday activities.

Ouray is my Sunday place, my church. But Lake Powell is my daily maintenance. One is natural and one man made. One is Sunday best and the other is for everyday.

Wade in the Water. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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To swim or not to swim and other weekend choices

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In terrain so barren the ephedra is stunted, the crypto sparse, and even though it is the desert, the cactus few and far between; she took a hike. A rejuvenating and fulfilling hike. She found places of beauty and refreshment in The Coves. And when her hike was done, she shed her shoes and walked from the beach out into Lake Powell to take a swim. It was all completed by 9:00 am – orchestrated to avoid the heat of the day and thus make the refreshment and rejuvenating as effective as possible.

In the first place, she parked at the Wahweap swim beach and followed the paved path on the edge of the lake past boat ramps, boat rentals, and a state line sign. She was now in Utah. Judging by the iconic Lone Rock formation immediately ahead, she figured if she climbed the hill to the west she would be able to see her apartment – which was still in Arizona. She did. Her home looked to be only a mile away as the crow flies.

For a moment she contemplated running on home, enjoying a big breakfast, and then hiking back for her car and the swim. “Tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll start from home and hike this direction. I’ll bring my beach towel. I’ll hike back wet.”

Accordingly, her Sunday morning plan was to hike down an arroyo, swim in the northernmost vicinity of Wahweap Beach and then hike back for a weekend style breakfast. She found a place to crawl under the fence and made her way to the dry creek bed, not sure if the trail she followed – and those she saw on the opposing canyon wall – were coyote or human, but confident that the descending runoff she chose was the most direct route to the lake. “This is nearly a slot canyon in places,” she mused as the gray rock walls rose ever more steeply on either side. And then, abruptly, she was on the precipice of a 30-foot waterfall. Time to skirt.

Back up the creek bed and on the wildlife trails, next a mile or more atop a windswept sand dune replete with familiar tracks of small mammals and reptiles. At last she came to the lake, or a finger of it, expanded back up the canyon by the final July surge of Rocky Mountain snowmelt. No beach here. Not another soul in sight. Possibility of cliff-jumping without being caught; also without your paralyzed body ever being found. She followed the edge of the cliff until she came to another fence. The grass was not greener. Every imaginable brand of ATV track decorated the hillside. And what was that? The mouthwatering aroma of Sunday morning camp breakfast. “The beach,” she said, “Is right over that hill.”

From the rocky crest she looked down on the secluded, but crowded beach. Directly below her, about half the length of a football field, two portly men of approximately 60 went about their morning activities on a houseboat. An assortment of other watercraft parked side by side like pie wedges of the tiny bay. “Nah,” she said, “I’ll not crash the party and swim today. I think it’s time I went back home and cooked myself a good breakfast.”

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If You Do Love Colorado

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If you do love Colorado, but for some reason or another there is not a perfect place for you in Colorado at the moment;

If you do love Colorado but you are living further downstream in the desert – not quite the Mojave and not quite the Sonoran – but the desert nonetheless;

If there is a heat wave and the temperatures are quite high;

It is very beneficial to go take a dip or a swim in the lake – Lake Powell.

After you have cooled yourself off by wading chin high into the water several times and then swimming back to shore, you might contemplate the following facts while you lie beneath a very blue sky on a beach towel on the hot sand:

This is the Colorado River

165 miles of the Colorado River

Backed up

Dammed up

5,041,636,850,517 gallons of water stored to recreate, irrigate, and oh by the way, power seven states or more with electricity

Some of this is water you kayaked in on from Dominguez to Bridgeport

Some is leftover from your kayak trip from Palisade to Corn Lake

This is not your first swim in this water

Remember when you tipped the kayak and took on water somewhere between Dominguez and Bridgeport?

Some of this water melted from snow you hiked through in April of 2015 when you went through Lulu in your quest to reach the headwaters of the Colorado River, everything was frozen, the roads were closed. Still you hiked on

Some of this was snow you sank in up to your waist in Dillon that one winter

Some of this water came from your beloved Ouray, and from Telluride and Durango

Some of this water is snowmelt from 10,000 feet where your daughter works in the summertime – snowmelt that collected in Taylor Reservoir and then made its way gurgling and laughing right on down to Almont where it became the Gunnison River and cascaded noisily through the Black Canyon eventually joining with the Colorado

This water is dark and muddy like ditch water, ditch water you waded in as a single digit child; water diverted from the Colorado River somewhere in the neighborhood of the Roller Dam on the way to Debeque and channeled to the Highline Canal and then the concrete slip ditch that watered the 35 acres on which you cut your farming teeth. Do you think some of that very water is still present?

This is the water you wrote about in a college class on Colorado History; the water that evokes the cliché “Whiskey is for drinking and water is for fighting over.”

This water is familiar; both a comfort and a lesson to you;

See? This is where you end up when you thaw out, melt, run merrily away from Colorado. Dammed or reclaimed? It’s all a matter of perspective.