An occasional essay on issues pertaining to the Western landscape
Sound and Silence on a Wilderness River
Frederick H. Swanson
Frederick H. Swanson
photo by Fred Swanson
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A desert river at dusk sings a quiet song, if you happen to be camping away from a rapid or waterfall. The current circles in languid eddies or dances over cobbles, always moving but in no hurry. The sound it makes blends perfectly with the flutter of cottonwood leaves, the calls of birds in the willows, and the silence of bats’ wings in the twilight. The music continues as night comes on, a peaceful and welcome presence in the darkness.
One evening last August, deep within Utah’s Desolation Canyon, five of us were stretched out on the still-warm sand, waiting for the first stars to appear. Joining me was a couple my age from Baltimore with their two young grandsons, all of them eager to witness the kind of night sky we westerners take for granted. We were two days |
into a six-day river trip down a ninety-mile section of the Green River outfitted by with Holiday River Expeditions, which offers this and other wilderness river trips from late May through September. This would turn out to be our only really clear evening, and we were glad to have a chance to view a night sky undimmed by any nearby towns or other artificial lighting.
Before long the bright stars which form the Summer Triangle--Vega, Altair, and Deneb--were showing themselves in the darkening sky. I had hoped that Jupiter and Saturn would be in view, but these giants were hidden behind the rocky rim which rose above the river’s far shore. As the last of the day’s light faded, I pointed out the “teapot” asterism in the constellation Sagittarius, which represents a celestial archer. At this time of year it stands high in the southern sky, its drawn bow facing to the right. Sagittarius lies amid the brightest part of the Milky Way, toward the galactic center, within which several tiny star clusters stand out as gems laid upon the heavenly canvas. This sight never fails to impress me, even with eyes dimmed by age.
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Before long the bright stars which form the Summer Triangle--Vega, Altair, and Deneb--were showing themselves in the darkening sky. I had hoped that Jupiter and Saturn would be in view, but these giants were hidden behind the rocky rim which rose above the river’s far shore. As the last of the day’s light faded, I pointed out the “teapot” asterism in the constellation Sagittarius, which represents a celestial archer. At this time of year it stands high in the southern sky, its drawn bow facing to the right. Sagittarius lies amid the brightest part of the Milky Way, toward the galactic center, within which several tiny star clusters stand out as gems laid upon the heavenly canvas. This sight never fails to impress me, even with eyes dimmed by age.
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Nighttime falls in Desolation Canyon. Photo by Bureau of Land Management
As we gazed at this display, a meteor appeared from off to the right, streaking from west to east, straight through Sagittarius. A true bolide, it sped across the sky as if the archer’s loosed arrow had drawn cannon fire in return. The fireball flared twice before breaking into fragments and burning out. I gasped and shouted to the others in our party, who were off chatting among themselves, but they didn’t catch it. We five, including the two boys, were lucky enough to be looking in the right direction. Once I calmed down, I told them it was one of the brightest I’d seen in my life. We went back to our stargazing, now with a heightened sense of the mysteries that lay out there in space.
A river trip lingers in memory long after the sunburns fade and the boats and gear are stowed. There are the sunrises creeping down canyon walls, the waves crashing over the bow of the raft, the quiet post-dinner conversations that seem to flow as naturally as water. The river’s currents continued to affect me after we’d returned home; for several days I was unsteady on my feet, as if I’d spent a month at sea. Even my dreams rocked me in gentle rhythms, with images of shimmering water and canyon walls floating by.
Bessann Swanson
The others in this small party included my wife, a middle school teacher from Brooklyn, and our two guides, Zak and Ellie (who happens to be our daughter). They were all fun companions, but I especially enjoyed the two boys, who exhibited the natural curiosity most young people have for outdoor environments. Every morning before breakfast, the three of us spent a half hour investigating the myriad animal tracks in the sand, speculating on which animals might have made them and what they were doing. Once we were out on the water, we took turns paddling the inflatable kayaks our guides had brought along. These youngsters will have this immersion in the wilderness to recall as often as they wish, just as I recall the weekends and evenings my family used to spend fishing along the banks of the Missouri River, back when when I was these kids' age.
Of all the memories we took home with us, that meteor stood out. I could not recall more than a couple in my life that were as bright. There was the green streak that fell to earth twelve years ago during a family campout on this same river, miles downstream in Labyrinth Canyon, astonishing the three of us as we tended our campfire. There was the fireball I saw as a child from the back yard of our suburban Iowa home—a flaming wreck that seemed as big as the moon. If there were others, I’ve lost track of them. But much of what I remember about these celestial fireworks is the setting in which I saw them. Usually it is with family or friends, with whom the wonder of the moment becomes our shared experience. This makes it seem more real, and more meaningful, than some marvel we alone have witnessed.
Of all the memories we took home with us, that meteor stood out. I could not recall more than a couple in my life that were as bright. There was the green streak that fell to earth twelve years ago during a family campout on this same river, miles downstream in Labyrinth Canyon, astonishing the three of us as we tended our campfire. There was the fireball I saw as a child from the back yard of our suburban Iowa home—a flaming wreck that seemed as big as the moon. If there were others, I’ve lost track of them. But much of what I remember about these celestial fireworks is the setting in which I saw them. Usually it is with family or friends, with whom the wonder of the moment becomes our shared experience. This makes it seem more real, and more meaningful, than some marvel we alone have witnessed.
Watercolor by Bessann Swanson - www.bessannswansonart.com
Although I enjoy watching the Perseid meteor shower each August, or just witnessing the occasional grain of stardust as it takes aim at the Earth, I try not to attach too much importance to these rare marvels. More important, I think, are the everyday wonders one sees on a trip like ours: the paw prints of beaver in the mud by the river’s side, with the wavy mark of its broad tail leading up the sandy bank; the minnows that nibbled at our feet while we stood in the river’s shallows, bringing giggles of delight from the two boys; the lone herons which glided from shore to shore, serene and prehistoric-looking; the gaggle of turkey vultures warming themselves on a sandbar early one morning, their wings held askew to catch the sun, content to let us pass by.
While drifting down this stream, I tried to express thanks for my immersion in its waters and in its wild surroundings. I wanted to offer something in return, a bit more than just leaving a clean camp every morning. To give thanks not only for the life that thrives along a flowing, undammed stream, but for the surrounding wild lands—part of which now enjoy the status of federal wilderness law as the Desolation Canyon Wilderness, which Congress enacted the previous March along with part of Labyrinth Canyon and the San Rafael Swell. In these places, at least, we humans have stayed our hand somewhat, allowing forces other than our own to have a say in how Earth is managed.
Yet not far from Desolation Canyon lie vast oil and gas production fields, the vanguard of which comes closer to the river every year. Out of these and countless other wells clustered across the West flow the energy resources which made our trip possible--from the airplane flight we took to our put-in point to the neoprene rafts and kayaks we used. It was as if the canyon’s walls were a curtain pulled across our vision, shielding us from the paradox of our fuel-consuming recreational pleasures.
There’s no resolving this dilemma, short of staying home, which is no solution. A week’s interlude in the wilderness serves as a badly needed counterbalance to the congested and frantic world we live in. Our sojourn on the Green allowed us to witness a world in which rivers run freely and the sky dazzles at night. Knowing that such places exist, we can imagine how wildness might play a larger role in our lives. We can dream (and dreams are essential to creating different futures) of a day when the human presence on this planet is more respectful of the forces and influences that gave birth to our species. Re-emerging out of our industrialized and overpopulated chaos—the planetary cataclysm that is the Anthropocene—spots of beauty might once again colonize the overworked and undernourished parts of the earth, forming small footholds, tiny but spreading sanctuaries, across the planet. That, anyway, is the dream that keeps me going.
While drifting down this stream, I tried to express thanks for my immersion in its waters and in its wild surroundings. I wanted to offer something in return, a bit more than just leaving a clean camp every morning. To give thanks not only for the life that thrives along a flowing, undammed stream, but for the surrounding wild lands—part of which now enjoy the status of federal wilderness law as the Desolation Canyon Wilderness, which Congress enacted the previous March along with part of Labyrinth Canyon and the San Rafael Swell. In these places, at least, we humans have stayed our hand somewhat, allowing forces other than our own to have a say in how Earth is managed.
Yet not far from Desolation Canyon lie vast oil and gas production fields, the vanguard of which comes closer to the river every year. Out of these and countless other wells clustered across the West flow the energy resources which made our trip possible--from the airplane flight we took to our put-in point to the neoprene rafts and kayaks we used. It was as if the canyon’s walls were a curtain pulled across our vision, shielding us from the paradox of our fuel-consuming recreational pleasures.
There’s no resolving this dilemma, short of staying home, which is no solution. A week’s interlude in the wilderness serves as a badly needed counterbalance to the congested and frantic world we live in. Our sojourn on the Green allowed us to witness a world in which rivers run freely and the sky dazzles at night. Knowing that such places exist, we can imagine how wildness might play a larger role in our lives. We can dream (and dreams are essential to creating different futures) of a day when the human presence on this planet is more respectful of the forces and influences that gave birth to our species. Re-emerging out of our industrialized and overpopulated chaos—the planetary cataclysm that is the Anthropocene—spots of beauty might once again colonize the overworked and undernourished parts of the earth, forming small footholds, tiny but spreading sanctuaries, across the planet. That, anyway, is the dream that keeps me going.
Drill Rig near Canyonlands NP
Mike Duniway, US Geological Survey
Mike Duniway, US Geological Survey
Evening in Desolation Canyon. BLM photo