Last summer, migrating north through New Mexico and Colorado, I began encountering arroyos with water running in them. At first this seemed unnatural and unwholesome, but I tried to keep an open mind. In fact, wet rivers can grow on a person. Nevertheless, now that it is autumn, it is a relief to be back where rivers beds are dry and walkable.
Besides, is there really all that much to see in a wet river? Perhaps, if the water is clear and shallow. Thoreau certainly did his best while paddling down "The Concord and Merrimack Rivers," but even his fans probably don't consider this his best essay. What would he have thought about the dry washes and canyons of the Southwest? Imagine if he had not died prematurely and had somehow hooked up with John Wesley Powell on his exploration of the Colorado River.
Starting from our campsite near Cottonwood AZ, the dogs and I drove upcountry. Further along this dirt road there was a big-name canyon that got a few tourist visitors. I was slightly tempted to follow; but I knew that brand-names look too much like they do in a postcard, which you can see at any gas station. Instead, I parked where the road crossed an arroyo that looked uninteresting; yet, downstream it hinted at exciting possibilities. Perhaps we could even pop out into the Verde River, one of Arizona's rare wet rivers.
The river bed was red sandstone and black volcanic basalt. It's a dramatic combination of colors. It's not for nothing that Hitler chose these colors when he designed the Nazi flag.
I started to get a sinking feeling as this dry wash slowly devolved into a slot canyon. I hate these things almost as much as caves, old mine shafts, etc. Still, the discomfort and fear come with a heightened awareness of everything around you.
Not being real rock climbers, we soon had to bail out by scrambling up the sides. On top I was surprised to learn that we were almost at the confluence with the Verde River.
Besides, is there really all that much to see in a wet river? Perhaps, if the water is clear and shallow. Thoreau certainly did his best while paddling down "The Concord and Merrimack Rivers," but even his fans probably don't consider this his best essay. What would he have thought about the dry washes and canyons of the Southwest? Imagine if he had not died prematurely and had somehow hooked up with John Wesley Powell on his exploration of the Colorado River.
Starting from our campsite near Cottonwood AZ, the dogs and I drove upcountry. Further along this dirt road there was a big-name canyon that got a few tourist visitors. I was slightly tempted to follow; but I knew that brand-names look too much like they do in a postcard, which you can see at any gas station. Instead, I parked where the road crossed an arroyo that looked uninteresting; yet, downstream it hinted at exciting possibilities. Perhaps we could even pop out into the Verde River, one of Arizona's rare wet rivers.
The river bed was red sandstone and black volcanic basalt. It's a dramatic combination of colors. It's not for nothing that Hitler chose these colors when he designed the Nazi flag.
I started to get a sinking feeling as this dry wash slowly devolved into a slot canyon. I hate these things almost as much as caves, old mine shafts, etc. Still, the discomfort and fear come with a heightened awareness of everything around you.
Not being real rock climbers, we soon had to bail out by scrambling up the sides. On top I was surprised to learn that we were almost at the confluence with the Verde River.
Maybe Thoreau's essay on the Rivers is not as famous as Walden, just as this unnamed dry wash is overshadowed by the famous canyon a couple miles up the road. But I'm glad we explored it. In Rivers Thoreau says something pertinent to travelers:
"The most stupendous scenery ceases to be sublime when it becomes distinct, or in other words, limited, and the imagination is no longer encouraged to exaggerate it."
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