Essay by B. J. Bergman
Excerpt:
Dave Foreman has hung up his monkey wrench, but the veteran
wilderness warrior stubbornly keeps on putting Earth first...
We're afloat, finally, easing into a delirious
languor, still upstream from Navajo Bridge and barely 20 miles below the
concrete monolith called Glen Canyon Dam. Hour One on the Colorado:
immensity is general, all is a blur of rock and water, sun and sky and
anticipation. There's no sign yet of the fabled rapids; we're just
drifting, descending lazily past the bright Vermilion Cliffs on our way
to the depths of the Grand Canyon. Creatures of wristwatches and leather
shoes, we are molting, reinventing ourselves, crossing over to river
time. This is by definition a private process. Chatter seems vaguely
profane.
It's Dave Foreman who spots the great blue heron on
river left. We watch as it trolls the shoreline for fish, then launches
itself abruptly and effortlessly, skimming the water's surface and
gaining altitude, gliding along the contour of the sandstone wall until
it vanishes from our view. Foreman keeps staring, as at an after-image.
"They're so wonderfully prehistoric," he announces to no one
in particular. "You look at a great blue heron and you just see how
they're linked to dinosaurs."...