We floated
away from the Ruby Ranch put-in, away from the muffled
roar of an irrigation pump and the fragile patch of alfalfa it defended from
the relentless desert sun. Adrift on the Green River, bound for the depths of
Labyrinth Canyon, with no motor, no ice, no stove; nothing of much substance
standing between us and the rhythm of the river. We had granola and Silk for
breakfast, fresh cherries and chicken jerky for everything else. SPF35,
matches, and one change of clothes.
Most
important, we had time. Time to lie back against our gear bags and fall in and
out of sleep as impossibly artistic formations of sandstone cliff and tower
drifted through our vision. Time to hear the voices of mourning
dove, blue heron, raven, and beaver. When we needed coolin’,
we had time to fall out of our makeshift canoe catamaran and ride the current like
carefree cadavers, buoyed by our PFDs, smiling faces
aimed at a cloudless sky.
Labyrinth
has no rapids; nothing to break the spell of stillness. My daughter brought a
new GPS unit for some field work she was doing for her new employer, Wildlands CPR. At the trip’s beginning, after the
irrigation motor moan had disappeared into the desert’s perfect silence, she
took some test readings. With the help of seven satellites, she discovered we
were floating along at 2.6 miles per hour. Ahhh, what
a lovely number! I’d say that was about average for the entire trip. Occasionally
a headwind would rise, or a sandbar approach, and we’d go all-hands-on-paddles,
racing along at speeds approaching four mph.
We were living
on River Time. You may know it as Mountain Time. River Time is close cousin of
Garden Time, but only remotely related to Office Time. It has nothing whatsoever
in common with Nintendo Time. River Time is one of the reasons why we like to leave
the motors as far behind as we can. Traveling at the speed of nature, hours are
stretched like taffy. By mid-afternoon, morning
seems like yesterday, and yesterday is a memory of the distant past.
Why is it
so hard to slow down? Is it because our culture equates frenetic busyness with
productivity? Is it because we have removed ourselves from nature, in the mass
exodus from the Garden of Eden? Now we spend our days indoors, increasingly, in
the words of songwriter Greg Brown, “fascinated with screens, no idea what’s on
the other side.” We haul our roads, RVs and ORVs into
and all over the countryside. Mountain Time flies off like a spooked sparrow,
and we are left marching to the hectic pace of our machines.
Living on River
Time feels *good*, and by all accounts is good for your physical, emotional and
spiritual well being. River Time allows beauty to reveal itself, sometimes from
the most mundane of settings. A few weeks ago, after meditating in an
unremarkable ravine of Gold Rush mining rubble, I opened my eyes to a minor
miracle: a subtle tapestry of lichen on rocks, elegantly
draped with the fine braided lines of dried pine needles.
You needn’t
even leave town. Last Sunday, I joined the Mayor’s Boat ride, 150 neighbors on
a non-motorized voyage from the
After the
speeches, the kayak-canoe flotilla headed back bayward,
but I dawdled. Laying flat on my back, spread-eagled, I drifted with the west
wind and ebbing tide, gliding under the