Virgin River Cattails
It's almost 5 years since I went on this trip to the Colorado river. To mee t various wilderness gods and find out more than a few things about myself. I remember people laughing and telling river stories and talking about this and that, and how the "groover" -- riverspeak for the toilet (an ammo can really, with a toilet seat on top of it) -- always was set up in a place with a great view. Why is it called "groover," someone asks. "Imagine what it would be like if it didn't have a seat; That's the way it used to be," was the response. ... Yeah, imagine that. The stories ... finding sand years later in your gear.
Returning to Flagstaff after the trip I called Jeff Foott on the phone in his room at the Radisson, "I'm on the groover," him; "How's the view," me, repeating the mantra of twelve days on the river. The hotel room after unpacking was an adventure in sand, I unpacked, sand ... the fine pink and brown sand of the Colorado ... spread throughout the room. I moved my gear to my truck, which now had sand. Sand. I went home. Sand everywhere. Invasive; vacuum, clean, more sand.
I just opened a lens filter case in preparation for this weekend's trip to Yosemite and felt that fine sharp texture ... the fine sand of the Colorado. I thought of all the friends I made there.
Tomorrow, Andrew and I will head into what is predicted to be a storm in Yosemite, probably unlike this storm that Jim Fitzgerald and I drove into last year, but this week promises ten feet of snow in the higher elevations, and rain in the valley. Oddly enough, Jim will be there in Camp 4 when we arrive. Andrew and I will hopefully ski, or snowshoe out to Dewey Point. Me, sandy photo gear, cat crap on my glasses, pink sunglasses, and a camera. The joy never ends. Zen.
