Coastline Pilot -“Chasing Down the Muse”
October 4, 2002
By Catharine Cooper
“Let the beauty of what we love be what we do. There are a hundred ways to kneel and kiss the ground”
Rumi
Sunlight casts soft shadows on the canyon’s center, teasing me with subtle reflections of the redwall and tapeats in the swift running waters of Kanab Creek.. Late September light is seductive and sensuous. Drained of the burning heat of summer and not quite the cooler air of fall, the light and I bridge the seasons as I climb gingerly into the morning.
Stepping through green rushes and heavy red silt, I nearly place my foot upon a sleeping rattlesnake. She lifts her head and rolls an eye. Then, recognizing that I am no threat, she tucks her neck back into coil and resumes her resting. Beyond her, deep tracks of grey heron and big horn sheep are deeply etched in the recently flashed mud. I walk up canyon, mesmerized by the quiet broken only by running water and the soft call of the canyon wren.
Kanab Creek is the largest tributary canyon system on the north side of the Grand Canyon. It’s walls are richly colored – tans, reds, golds and mauves - and carved by centuries of rushing water and screaming winds. Large boulders litter the creekbed, shoved from upstream flashes and from rock falls of its steep slopes. It courses approximately 60 miles from Kanab, Utah, to its terminus in the Colorado River. Numerous steeps provide sustenance for verdant plant life that includes Maidenhair ferns, Cardinal Monkey Flowers, soft yellow Four O’Clocks and purplish Hooker’s Primrose. The canyon cliffs are home to bands of desert bighorn sheep as well as the endangered peregrine falcon.
I’ve set out hiking alone - a walking meditation, camera in hand, eyes fixed on the light and shapes of rocks and water. I travel in a Zen-like space, lulled by the creek’s flow. One by one, the rest of the hikers from the Canyoneers’ river trip pass me on their journey to the Whispering Springs. I smile as they pass, un-swayed by their hurried cadence.
The scent of sheep, musty and fresh catches in my nostrils. The hikers’ tracks, those who have just passed me, lie beneath fresh sheep prints. How is this possible? The sheep have come between us without a trace – save these thick cloven prints. I stop and scan the narrow canyon, but my eyes find no trace. The sheeps’ sure-footedness can carry them onto rock ledges where their soft tan color blends completely with the terrain. I sense they are gazing at me, maybe even ‘sheep’ laughing at my attempts to discern them.
A Monarch butterfly brushes my arm as a pair of tiny Anna’s Hummingbirds whiz skyward in a jubilant mating ritual. A blue damselfly lights on a shimmering boulder. I stoop lower, barely breathing, hoping in stillness to gain closer proximity to the silently beating wings. This arid canyon teams with life.
Eventually, I join the other hikers at Whispering Springs. Cool clear water spills from a cliff overhang into a deep pool. We swim in the fresh water, snack on gorp and fresh fruit, and relax out of the sun’s glare. Our ‘other’ lives continue to slough away as the canyon’s magic opens our souls.
The morning softness yields to the brilliance of mid-day as we scramble down rocky faces back to the boats. The reflections of the side walls in the water are sharper and of more contrast. As is true with each side canyon of the Grand, the shifting light adds varying dimensions, so that the landscape never looks quite the same.
Just before the creek’s end, I am again startled by the scent of musk. I scan the rocky ledges and find nothing. At the mouth of the canyon, I turn, and there, just beyond the water’s edge, stands a small female sheep. I stop, lower myself close to the ground and reach for my camera. As I am set to release the shutter, she bounds out of view, as if she were never there.
