River Reflections

While on a business trip to a Rocky Mountain resort town, I found a nearby trail and decided to take a walk. The trail was easy, paved, following the Animas River as it wound its way out of town. Not only was I away from rehearsals and concerts, but also away from my two wonderful and chaotic sons, aged four and two, who were home with my wife. I had time to think, to reflect, to just soak in the sounds and sights around me without worrying that my two year old would race off and fall into the river or hearing the bickering, squabbling and arguing of two little boys. It had been a long, long time.

Years ago, when I was attending the Aspen Music Festival, I would go on long walks in another Rocky Mountain resort town. I fell in love with the mountains – the snow on the peaks, the cool, dry air, the smell after the rain – all unlike any other place I have lived or stayed (Texas, Oklahoma, Maryland, Boston, Maine, and Michigan). I used to hike the medium-difficulty Hunter Creek Trail almost every day. There was a spot partway up the trail where the water had carved large, smooth, bowl-like openings into the boulders that had settled in the creek. In the summer, these spaces were relatively dry, and I would shed my shoes and settle down into the smooth contours of these rocks, occasionally dipping my bare feet into the icy water of the stream. I didn’t read or write, I just sat and listened and breathed, the river rushing cold all around me. It wasn’t merely meditative and refreshing; it renewed my sense of all being well in the world. Despite the frustrations and sorrows of both professional and personal life at the time, I could return to the many challenges awaiting me after my time alone up the trail.
One of the dreams I harbored as an adult was to one day live in the mountains -full-time, not just for a few months in the summer. By various twists of fate I ended up in Salt Lake City, Utah, nestled within the ranges of the Oquirrh, Wasatch, and Traverse Mountains. World-famous ski resorts are only a half-hour drive away. So I now live and work in the Rocky Mountains that I fell in love with over twenty years ago.

Back to now, and the trail following the Animas River, which winds around the Four Corners area where the state lines of Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona meet.

I started my walk at a point where the trail passes a shopping center and a large hotel. Good parking spaces abound, and I took advantage of this opportunity to stow my rental car while I got a little closer to nature, even if on a paved trail.
Many other people, many kinds of people, were enjoying the trail and the river at the same time I was. I saw a fly-fisherman, but he was too far away for me to see how he was faring in his endeavors. Of more interest to me was a Native American woman, probably in her mid-forties, standing down near the riverbank, looking into the water. She stood perfectly still, in profile, and I had a sudden vision of her ancestors, the initial inhabitants of this region, standing in just such a way, thoughts on the river itself rather than the skiing and tourist amenities that abound in this area today.  I stood perfectly still myself, unwilling to do anything to break the tableau in front of me.

Eventually I continued on my way. A trio of joggers, two women and a man, paced alongside and eventually passed me, one of them talking on her cell phone, the other two gossiping about mutual friends. A woman with twins in a jogging stroller ran past going the opposite way. From personal experience, I can tell you that running while pushing two children is much less exhausting than simply walking with a pair of toddlers on the loose. A large Hispanic family was ahead of me, and I passed by them in groups: first the parents with a toddler in a stroller, then a pre-schooler with a school-aged sibling, and finally a pair of boys in their early teens, rangy and awkward, with the uncertain bravado of boys in the grip of puberty who can sense manhood on the horizon, just out of reach.

On the far side of the bank was a family with two dogs, a Jack Russell terrier and what looked like some sort of pit bull mix. The dogs were running up and down the bank, barking with anxiety as a third dog (maybe a Golden retriever?) was trying desperately to swim upstream. It wasn’t going well, and I felt a chill of fear. Was I about to watch a dog drown? I have retrievers, 2 Labradors, and they’re usually smart enough to swim with the current, to ease over to the bank and get themselves out. This Golden, though, was swimming against the current for all he was worth, his head dipping under the water again and again. The other two dogs ran back and forth, back and forth, yapping and barking excitedly, as if urging the retriever to make his way over to the riverbank. The Golden was beginning to tire, his efforts to swim losing steam. The family was waving and yelling frantically to the dog, their words lost on the stiff breeze picking up from the west. Suddenly it was as if a light bulb went on over the Golden’s head, and he began trying to paddle to the bank. Unable to fight the current any longer, he rode it over to one side of the river, finally emerging, bedraggled, clambering and sliding onto the river bank. A joyous reunion commenced, the Golden shaking river water all over dogs and people alike, and I let out the breath that I hadn’t known I’d been holding. Relieved, I started walking again.

Farther up the trail there were kayakers – lots of them. Men, women, teenagers and even younger children were kayaking on the Animas. The river was flowing swiftly, and was certainly very cold. Although I know nothing about kayaking, I was impressed, with the kids especially. Kayaking looks like fun, but also looks pretty strenuous, negotiating rocks, currents, and eddies.  I decided to learn more about it. As I walked along, I saw several teenaged kayakers getting out of the water and heading towards a school bus. The yellow had been painted over in white, and it sported a nifty trailer designed to carry kayaks. Kayaking school? I’d never thought of that. Maybe my kids will someday go to kayak school. Maybe I will, too.

All the kayakers were getting out of the water and packing up their gear, and for good reason. I had gone walking into an approaching storm. When I began my walk, back at the parking lot, I decided to leave my fleece jacket behind. I was too hot, and had been sweating as I walked. Now the pleasant, cool breeze was growing into something chilly and menacing. Where I grew up, we’d talk about “weather” as if it only happened sometimes. “We’ve got weather coming in” or “we had some weather the other day” typically referred to rain – or even to tornados and tropical storms. “Weather” never meant a clear, sunny day. I knew about “weather coming in,” whether it was in a part of Texas menaced by both tornados and hurricanes or in the Rockies when it could mean flash floods or blizzards. I had hoped for a nice, long walk, but I’d need to revise my travel plans and turn back pretty soon, or risk getting caught in what was looking to be a good-sized thunderstorm (with flash flood warnings in effect until the next day). I went on a little farther, past a playground where mothers were rounding up their youngsters and stowing them securely in their SUVs and vans. I’ve never had a problem with SUVs out here in the mountains, where the snowstorms can be truly awe-inspiring. If you need them – you go off-roading, or you deal with a lot of snow – then you need them. The next person I saw was a woman running in earnest from the incoming black clouds. She was wearing running shoes, but also sported a pricy-looking business suit. I bet she didn’t want to get soaked wearing that.

I finally decided to stop tempting fate, and I turned around, my back to the approaching storm, the cold wind urging me on my way. I noticed that the playground was empty, abandoned swings swaying restlessly, and the last SUV was pulling out of the parking lot.  I saw an empty Coldstone cup, from a premium ice cream store in town. It was resting, forgotten, on the lawn, and I tsked internally. Most people in the midst of natural beauty throw their damned trash away. Then I stopped walking. What kind of man, what kind of person did I want to be: part of the problem, or part of the solution? I went back and picked up the trash gingerly. I don’t like germs, I’ll freely admit that. Using the cup itself, I pushed open the flaps to the garbage can and dropped it in. There, my Good Deed done. My mother, who picks up every piece of trash she sees and throws it away, would be proud.

Of course the kayakers and the kayak-school bus were long gone. I once again passed the Hispanic family, the teen-aged boys leading the way, this time heading the opposite direction. The family with the dogs had disappeared, and several fishermen that I hadn’t seen before were packing up gear and getting in their trucks. Nature had given us plenty of warning; we were all ready to get ourselves indoors as soon as possible.

Near the area where I had watched the Native American woman watch the river, I saw a woman in her thirties with a dog on a leash, something white and long-haired. I was pleased to see that she had a poop bag in one hand. She didn’t look like the type to take her dog running, and a quick glance at her expensive Ugg boots (the real thing, not a knock-off brand) confirmed my suspicion. She smiled at me a little guiltily and urged her dog to hurry up. The dog might be oblivious to the clouds rolling in, but she wasn’t.

I was still quite a way from where I’d parked my car, and I considered the fact that I would probably get drenched. Running would do little good; I’d just be soaked and running instead of soaked and walking. I decided to go with whatever came my way. If I got to my car first, fine. If I got caught in the rain, there was nothing I could do about it, so I might as well relish it. How far from my typical reaction that was! I have always been the type to run for the car, newspaper over my head, trying to stay as dry as possible. But I’m also practical; if there’s no chance of staying dry then there’s no reason to worry about it. The wind whipped at my jeans and a crack of thunder behind me nearly made me jump. I picked up the pace a bit even as I caught the delicious scent of rain in the mountains.

I have often found that the initial journey – whether walking or driving – always seems to take longer than the return trip, and this was no exception. Before I knew it, I was back at the shopping center and the parking lot. I hurried toward my rental car as the first fat drops of rain began to pelt my head and shoulders. A sudden gust of wind sprayed the rain against my back and legs. By the time I started the Toyota, I was chilled through and through, and more than ready to get back to my hotel room and settle down with a book and a cup of hot tea.

And, weather permitting I’d be walking the trail again tomorrow.