{"id":37482,"date":"2025-10-26T00:00:38","date_gmt":"2025-10-26T07:00:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/community.nrs.com\/duct-tape\/?p=37482"},"modified":"2025-10-23T11:27:51","modified_gmt":"2025-10-23T18:27:51","slug":"writing-the-river","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/community.nrs.com\/duct-tape\/2025\/10\/26\/writing-the-river\/","title":{"rendered":"Writing the River"},"content":{"rendered":"

It\u2019s our last morning on the Colorado River, and we float wordlessly toward the takeout\u2014an intentionally silent paddle so that we might reflect on what the last 10 days have brought (and taught) us. The current moves languidly, and we don\u2019t hurry ourselves along, the guides hardly touching the oars. Phoebe and rock wren chirp and chitter along the shoreline, while a lone bat flits overhead. Cliffs stack themselves in layers of time and frame the wide blue sky. In between the cliffs, where shadows give way to sun, the air stirs with a growing heat. <\/span>Downstream, unavoidable, stands Diamond Peak. The towering pyramid of limestone marks our finish line at Diamond Creek. <\/span><\/p>\n

We came to the Grand Canyon under the folly of the Freeflow Institute<\/a>, a Montana-based outdoor school, in order to study water policy and storytelling. Some in the group started at Lee\u2019s Ferry. Others, like me, joined at Pipe Springs, hiking in on the Bright Angel Trail while the group we swapped with hiked out. We were biologists and cinematographers and strategy consultants. Marketing executives and English professors. Forestry technicians and psychologists. Poets and river guides. We spent our days navigating the river, holding class and writing.<\/span><\/p>\n

As we float in silence, I try to take everything in and calcify the images deep into my bones. I find myself searching for some lesson that I might haul home, but all I can really focus on is just how much I don\u2019t want this trip to end. Yes, I miss my wife and dog. Yes, I want to take a hot shower. But this place. This place doesn\u2019t let go.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

We cross under a trolley cable used to access one of the river gauges on the Colorado\u2014the marker that our silent paddle has come to an end. Though it\u2019s over, none of us rush to speak. There is a nervous, though joyful, laugh and then another in response. The guides herd our rafts into a large, shoreline eddy. We sit, waiting for whatever will come next, and I reach down and touch the water with cracked and hang-nailed fingers. After days of studying and writing about the Colorado, it\u2019s hard to see the water simply as water, hard not to think of the history of the river, the policies that manage it, the threats that face it.<\/span><\/p>\n

Kelly, one of our guides, stands on her raft and brings the group\u2019s attention back together. To end the trip, Kelly says she only wants to thank everyone. She says she\u2019s guided many trips down the canyon but claims ours was special. What she appreciates most was how willing we all were to share our writing throughout the course, how willing we were to put ourselves out there. For her, it was inspiring.<\/span><\/p>\n

Kelly asks if she might share a passage with us. She lifts a beat-up book with a cover I can\u2019t quite make out. She sports huge, mirrored shades and a ballcap. Sun-faded PFD. Leopard-print leggings.<\/span><\/p>\n

Reading the first line, her voice breaks. She pauses, composes herself and continues. She doesn\u2019t actually read from the book she\u2019s holding, but from a wrinkled photocopy that\u2019s folded inside it. The reading speaks of love and sincerity and the hard work of trying.<\/span><\/p>\n