. . . “I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable,-and then
There interposed a fly” . . . Emily Dickinson
Have you ever felt like an intruder in nature? I took a boat trip yesterday along the Black Canyon of the Gunnison in Colorado. The canyon spires upward, unblemished. Vultures dive from rock perches and sore with easy grace above the flowing gorge. Waterfalls tumble their entrance into the blue/green chasm. And then there interposed the tin whining of the pontoon boat of 24 tourists.
There we sat, three to a row, engines rumbling, listening to the ranger’s talk of the geological and man-made history of the canyon yet unable to hear the spirit radiating from walls and water. So how do you experience the splendor of nature when you can only access it through the help of the park service with 23 of your “closest” friends? No one was obnoxious; most seemed struck by the magnificence of the scenery, all snapped pictures; still there lingers for me the sense that we don’t belong there.
I am thrilled to have experienced the canyon from the waterway. I guess maybe I just wish I was one of the birds flying quietly while being able to hear the soul of the canyon.