Cataract Reflections

Cataract Reflections

Noel Laflin

9-11-14

The rain was unrelenting.  Sudden bursts of newly created streams began to cascade from the red cliffs above.  Rushing torrents of water from the flat desert plateaus of Canyonlands sought their way to the Colorado River below.  Massive walls of red water soon poured over the ridges creating hundreds of instant, fantastic cataracts of every description, height, width, and voracity.  Nature was having a field day.  The sound of water was everywhere. It was a scene I shall never forget.  Mud and water threw themselves crazily over the escarpment from high above and landed on either side of us as we sought a safe middle road down the twisting, ever narrowing canyon river. 

To be a spectator to this show was truly humbling.  Was anyone else even remotely close to us in order to also see these phenomena? I will never know.  All I do know, with great certainty these many years later, is that I have never experienced anything like it since, but would gladly pay good money to be in the midst of such a marvel again.  Nature was giving us a fantastic private show.  I felt grateful to just be alive and a witness to this awesome power.  

Although bundled in several layers of long johns, jackets and rain gear, we all felt the chill of the non- stop rain pounding our tiny rubber craft.  The youngest member of our tiny crew, Jeremy, seemed to be most sensitive to the cold and damp this mid September morning.  He shivered beneath his rain slicker, teeth chattering incessantly. Our guide, Will, discussed the possibility of hypothermia. We decided to make an early camp that day. He scanned the canyon walls narrowing in on us ever closer as we rafted through the steepening landscape. 

Will suddenly nosed our raft toward the right bank, skirting and dodging several falls.  He had spotted our badly needed camp.  Despite the raw beauty bounding all around us, we were all quite chilled by now, especially Jeremy.  We needed dry warmth quickly.

What our intrepid guide aimed for was a cavern.  He maneuvered the raft to the ledge. Our enclosure was some thirty feet in length and perhaps fifteen feet deep.  There were no footprints in the soft sand.  Beverly, the fourth member of our small band, proclaimed it our virgin cave.

We got to work quickly starting a fire and removing wet clothing.  Within the hour our steamy, smoky home warmed quite comfortably, giving every appearance of a gypsy encampment.  Jeremy sat close to the fire, warm and snug once more.  The waterfalls still poured all around us. They raced over the canyon wall across the river, as well as to either side of our overhang. Beverly broke out her magic wand and soon filled the cave with shimmering bubbles.  Will tinkered with the porta-potty, waiting for the storm to abate, so he could find a suitable viewing point for its placement. 

The rain did stop abruptly by late afternoon.  Within fifteen minutes the raging cataracts gave out altogether.  The sun broke through and lit up a range of mountain peaks, far in the distance, glistening in the late light of day.  

As promised, Will went in search of a proper viewing area.  Upon his return, he tossed several rocks at our feet, as we sprawled upon open sleeping bags.  They were of two distinct types, geodes and fossils. Tiny crystal gardens twinkled within some of the split round rocks. Miniature fossil ferns and other exotic tropical plants were imprinted within compressed layers of stone. I envisioned this area a million years ago, a land that time forgot.

“Found these about seventy-five feet from here,” Will announced.  “One of the waterfalls must have washed them down from a gully above; the fall broke some of the geodes open. There’s a lot of ‘em.  Wanna see?”  

We followed our guide, balancing along the narrow ledge as we walked Indian file. A small landslide had piled the natural treasure smack dab in the middle of our path.  The porta-potty stood to one side of Will’s find.  Now we had not only a room with a view, but a treasure trove over which to ponder, literally at our feet.

Dinner, along with a few good stories and a passed-about bottle, took us late into the evening.  We let the fire burn down on its own as we lay side-by-side listening to our river rush by, not more than six feet away.  We drifted off to sleep, lulled into oblivion by the sound of the Colorado.  We lay curled against one another, protected from the elements, within our snug cavern. 

With dawn came Indian Summer weather once more.  We pushed off late that morning and entered new twisting canyons filled with sunlight and inviting natural clear pools, begging us to jump ship and have a dip.  We stopped frequently to do just that.   We heard voices up ahead and soon realized that our solitude was broken.  We had entered the backed- up waters of Lake Powell, which brought motor boaters up-stream in search of a canyon swim or shade.

The hurried good byes are all a blur now.  Upon reviewing the photos of the trip, I find the final shot of us.  With arms thrown over one another’s shoulders and wide grins spread across our brown scrawny bodies, we hang drunk-like clinging to one another.  The small plane that took us back to Moab stands motionless behind us.

Over time I went on to explore and challenge other rivers.  All held their allures and adventures.  None ever rivaled the natural rawness and surprises, however, which captured our spirits within the cataracts of Canyonlands.

I should like to see a summer storm of this magnitude once more.  I’d like my eyes to be blinded by the sheer, raw power and spectacle created by the flowing of the mud-red cataracts, bringing down crystal gems and ancient reminders of jungles past - just to be laid at my feet.