Lessons from a River Trip...

It was only after loading up 4 days worth of food, water, clothing, and my family onto the raft and getting behind the oars that I learned we could be blown upstream by the wind. About 15 or 20 minutes into our float we were assaulted by gale force winds thrashing up counter current waves and spitting wet air into our faces. Like little rubber duckies, our raft and the raft of our extended family, were at the whim of the wind, pegged up against the rocky shore.

We hunkered down and waited.

I was humbled. Excited about the adventure? Yes. Though also caught off guard and wondering, if despite still being above water, I was maybe in over my ahead. I am not a seasoned river guide. I’d been on precisely one other river trip, a week in the Grand Canyon, where I was more of a passenger than anything else. I was under the impression that this portion of the Colorado River, known as Ruby Horse-thief, was fairly tame. And, the river itself was relatively tame, but the rest of the elements had a say in the matter too. Innocence, naïveté, or an (over?) ambitious sense of adventure got us onto the trip, and now perseverance, a positive attitude, and trust in my heart, mind, body, and family was going to get us through.

The morning of our departure we’d found a nail in our tire which led to significant delays so we got on the river way behind schedule. But everyone was in good spirits and took the challenges and unforeseen quandaries in stride. While at times circumstances felt scary and unsettling, it didn’t seem like we ever crossed the threshold into danger. Discomfort on the other hand was available in plentitudes - heat, sand, blisters and aching shoulders from rowing into the wind, and that relenting desert dryness that seemed to pull every molecule of moisture from our bodies were close companions on this trip.

Personally, I do my best to embrace the discomforts. They bring me closer into contact with my vitality and resilience and in a way I feel more alive. I can’t honestly say I don’t complain at all, but I like to believe I don’t complain too much. I do my best to take care, to not let discomfort turn into an injury or pain that hinders my ability to take care of myself and my family. I do my best to relish in the satisfaction of an achy body as a sign of good hard work.

Throughout the trip I was trying to figure out what it was trying to teach me, what lessons I could walk away with, but like the powerful gusts of wind, I could sense the power but couldn’t hold on to anything concrete. There’s a sort of wordless quality of stirring in my belly, an imprint of the mystic deep silence of desert cliffs, and an experience of strings of light from the open starry sky of wilderness brushing my heart that reverberates in my being.

This journey invited me into precious connection and shared experience with my family and asked me to embrace the mystery and the unknown and trust that magic is all around even if I can’t quite understand what it’s doing or why.

Sometimes a family trip has a cognitive clarity and is full of new information and learning. This trip was more like a koan the clears your mind of thoughts and brings you into a reverent unknowing.

What’s for sure is that as a family we forged beautiful memories, celebrated and reinforced a sense of adventure, a devotion to connection with nature and with family, and came out a bit changed, even if we can’t put our finger on how.

As a writer, as a learner, as a lover of words, heck as a bit of an intellectual, I’ve been surprised to be living a path that’s bringing me into closer contact with my life and experiences in ways that leave me speechless, in ways that pull me more towards poetry than prose.

This is the medicine I’ve been learning to share with more and more people lately. Contact with the ineffable. Connection with themselves and with life that feels magical, that feels meaningful, that is beautiful. With the strange and luminous fact of being alive. If something in these words stirs a quiet recognition in you, I’d love to hear about it — or meet you in the space where words run out.

With Love,

Noah