Rafting the Gates of Lodore

I didn’t have a camera with me when we rafted the Gates of Lodore two summers ago. I did, however, take some time to sketch this view from our campsite early one morning. The day before had been surreal. Past the colossal eminence of Steamboat Rock, Wild Canyon had risen and enveloped us in a way which was so profoundly soul-stirring that we later found ourselves gathered on this beach in a state of reflective bliss far beyond mere contentedness and fulfillment; Bliss which awoke within us a humble consciousness of something pansophical. The cavernous canyon had come alive, revealing timeless records of ancient history. Sandstone towers soared upward toward the heavens with venerable grandeur, so tall that they blocked the sun directly above us. We gazed in curious awe at the weathered tiger stripes painted upon the sheer cliffs surrounding us, and few words passed between us as we allowed the river to guide us through that transcendent domain. Upon the rare exchange, our hushed cogitations would reverberate dreamily against the narrow, precipitous walls, seemingly reflecting the ripples of the water’s current. For a moment, it was as though we had been transported to a time and place where we alone existed in harmony with the souls of mountain and river.
 
That evening, the pinks, purples, and blues of a benevolent sunset melded with the greens, reds, and greys of tree and rock which ringed each endless canyon spine. We sat by the fire on the smooth, fine sand of the beach for hours, reflecting upon the day and passing whiskey under the stars. Sometime past midnight, the moon finally shone her light above the walls which guarded our river utopia. Bad Moon Rising heralded the moment from our portable speaker. Someone turned the volume up.

Try as they could, no thoughts of the outside world could trouble our minds. That night I rested my head on the cool sand and was sure that no other experience could ever feel more wholly satisfying.
 
I drew this sketch on a prologue page of an old copy of Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire. Pablo Neruda’s words are printed upon the page:

“Give me silence, water hope; Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes”