Back in the Big Ditch

It’s been a handful of days since I arrived home after 25 days at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. This was my third journey below the rim, covering 280 river miles with 22 human beings.

I’m consumed by the dichotomy of wanting to bring this experience to the world and feeling the sheer impossibility of the task.

Flooded with calls and texts from loved ones, I’ve been asking myself this very question: “how was it?”

The riot of wildflowers, soaring condors, gargantuan ocotillo, crystal green ribbon of water, Earth’s ancient history written in rock layers, cloudless nights and electric lizards might be a way to begin. The humpback chub on our fishing line alone — five million years old, found nowhere else on Earth, built for a river most creatures couldn't survive — embodies the sheer magic of the natural world we communed with. But no, that doesn’t quite explain ‘how it was.’

Ok. Maybe it's the belly-aching laughter that echoed around every bend, the dance parties that unleashed a ferocity in us long slumbered, or the hands that rigged, cooked, and washed each other's hair — a love that lives only through touch.

If I tell you about the 2nd lap at Duebendorff rapid with a de-rigged boat, 11 people and 2 paddles, or the way Raleigh’s flute hummed through Blacktail in the night, you might have a sense. But that doesn’t quite cover it.

There was a sprained-but-maybe-broken (no-definitely-sprained-but-uncomfortably-far-up-a-slot-canyon) ankle and 2 scorpion stings (nursed back to health with a duct-taped bottle of whiskey).

Tears fell on the sands of Deer Creek. Blood shed into the river itself. Some days were painted with grief for seemingly no reason at all. We were reminded the impermanence of all life when one was taken at Pearce Ferry rapid. We were reminded the power of the river too.

We became the sky and watched emotions come and go like weather. We were on the path because the path itself disappeared. Life expanded in every direction, leaving us somehow entirely full and entirely emptied.

How does one cover it all: the dance of life unfolding before your eyes and through you?

On one of our last days, sitting in a schist alcove, my friend Tom asked me, “Mara, when you’re feeling joy, is sorrow at your table?” I sat still for a moment waiting for the answer to surface.

“Yes, often. And you?”

“Yes, but joy has won by a landslide.”

This might be the closest I come to answering ‘how was it?’