Red Dirt Girl

by Kajsa Vlasic

            When I was a little girl, I thought it was normal to live in the desert. I thought it was typical to come home after a day of playing and empty mass amounts of red sand out of my shoes and pants onto the concrete living room floor. I was used to the harsh rays of the sun penetrating my fair skin and bleaching out my already-blonde bob of hair into a mess of loose platinum curls. The vast expanses of the savannah made up the only home I knew and its open areas, filled with the kind of wonder both children and adults dream of exploring, kept me calm. It was my sanctuary.

            The Kalahari Desert of southern Africa derives its name from the Tswana word kgala, which means “of great thirst.” The semi-arid savannah stretches out over Botswana and sections of South Africa and Namibia, between the Orange and Zambezi rivers. It is vast and dry now, but once it was a much wetter place. Covered by Lake Makgadikgadi 10,000 years ago, it is now the barren homeland to many.

            The sand in this place is dyed a rich red. Between the empty spaces rest giant Baobobs, acacia trees and tall dry grass. The Kalahari is a mysterious place. Not only is it desolate, but the legends and tales of the San people, the Bushmen of this desert, describe this open space as the home where they used to live undisturbed and free. They lived without connections to other tribes. There were no roads, no tourists, none of the busy life that most people now call “normal” in this world. It’s a special place, the Kalahari. Its treasures, the barren land and the stories that come with it, are a kind of beauty most people will never know and never feel deep into their bones.

We moved away from my desert home when I was five. Although young enough to not be affected too drastically with a move to the other side of the globe, my never-ending sand-filled playground held a special place in my heart. I never forgot what the aroma of the sand in the yard smelled like after the long-awaited rains finally came and the soil turned into a deep red mud. I dreamed of running through the sand or watching the clouds of debris form behind the family Land Rover when we drove home after safari trips deep into the confines of this African wilderness. I could feel the grains sifting through my fingers if I closed my eyes tight enough.

Sand is a specimen of history. It is made up of a variety of small rock and mineral particles and not one type of sand is the same as that of another geographic area. Its mode of transport is regularly wind and water. From sand bars to sand dunes to elementary school playgrounds, this grainy substance never ceases to exist in the natural world.

            Desert sand is my favorite. The fine grains sneaks into every fold of your clothing when you’re surrounded by it and weeks later it escapes from your pockets when you find yourself sitting in class or walking around the grocery store. In the early morning, with the desert sun high in the sky, the sand will have made its way into your nasal cavity overnight and it will often times be necessary to forcefully sneeze the debris out. It’s only a reminder of the dusty and dry environment that you’re in.

            Although every desert is physically different, something about them always remains the same. Perhaps it’s the feeling of isolation or the sense of calm relaxation that takes hold in my body when I’m surrounded by nothingness. To those who know what the desert looks like, the term nothingness may seem like the wrong one to use. But I find it to be the only description fit for this place.

            The surrounding desert is nothing but barren. With the high-crested buttes of sandstone, canyon after canyon of loud braying mules and light-footed big-horned sheep, and a mixture of vegetation that has learned to survive without much water, life is present. The anxiety and worry and stress of living in a big city are gone however. There is no time schedule. There are no traffic jams or car accidents. The wait for dinner is not a line of preoccupied individuals standing out the door of a local posh restaurant, but the time necessary to make a home-cooked meal of enchiladas or paella with the cool river water lapping at the shore nearby. The serenity of the desert, the nothingness if you will, is present. It’s a warm sensation. My blood rushes through me, a thousand miles per minute of sheet joy to be in a place I can connect with. This void, a physical detachment from the busy world around me and the expectations that come with it, is natural. I can feel my heart rate beating a stead seventy-two beats per minute and I know that this is where I am supposed to be today.

A few months shy of turning twenty I find myself standing in the darkness of the desert completely alone. Tents are pitched on either side of the road of the Sand Island campsite, just outside of Bluff, Utah, but everyone’s asleep and it’s just me sitting in the middle of the dirt with the full moon above me. I stepped out of my sleeping bag in order to find an appropriate place to relieve myself, and now that I’ve done so I can’t seem to force myself back into a tight tent with Cassie and Alysha, two girls I am only starting to know. The light from the moon is so intense that there’s no need for my headlamp. I turn it off and lay back on the gravel. The small pieces of rock dig into my scalp and I realize I haven’t been this happy in a long time.

It’s been years since I’ve really spent much time isolated in the desert. With the expectations growing up of going to school, obtaining a degree and then creating a career and lifestyle that suits your sensibility and interests, the city life is one you have to accept for some time. But it’s when I get back to this place, this desert, that I realize how much this environment is a part of me. I fall asleep for a while out in the middle of the road and wake up to the sound of people in a nearby campsite moving gear around their truck. Though the sun hasn’t risen I can sense it will be morning soon and I head back to my tent to try and rest for a while longer. I can hear Sadie snoring from her perch on the picnic table and I smile as I slither my way into my bag and drift off into my dream state once more.

The sun is up once I actually wake for the day. Seeing the condensation on the outside of the tent makes me cold deep inside. The desert cold is the kind you can’t just shake by standing up quickly and moving around. It’s the chill only a piping hot cup of coffee grits can warm until the sun’s rays burn through your clothes and the heat of the day begins.

            By the time the sun starts warming this area up, the boats are loaded and it’s really only a matter of finding our places in them and beginning our float journey down the San Juan. I’ve never done this before, and I know deep down that I’m afraid. Not afraid of the physical exertion required or the people I’m joining on this trip, but I’m afraid of the water.

            I’ve been afraid of large bodies of water since I can remember. The unnerving feeling that settles in when I don’t know what’s under the surface makes me shake. Water is the element I have no understanding of, no connection to, no experience with. So, as I step into the paddleboat with a crew of women I find to be some of the strongest and most independent females I will ever meet, I take a deep breath and remind myself that this will be another adventure to add to my list.

Three days later, on the last stretch before reaching our final destination at Mexican Hat, I float down the river in a completely tranquil state. I find myself in a corner of Utah I have never experienced. Alone in a duckie, paddling when I feel like it, staring up at the rich and clear blue sky, I take in all that surrounds me. My bikini bottoms are soaked through from the water that spills into the inflatable kayak when Lyra passes by me, splashing it my direction with a forceful slap of her oar against the surface of the river. The rays of the sun burn my fair complexion. The familiar feeling brings a smile to my face, although I know my mother, a survivor of skin cancer, will relay the importance of sunscreen to me when she sees my peeling skin under the hem of my shirt in a few days.

            Today, I don’t mind being alone in the water. The river doesn’t scare me. My anxiety is gone. I accept that the distance we have covered is a fairly mellow stretch of river flow, but no longer fearing the substance that surrounds me is a beautiful feeling. It dawns on me, as I float by myself, that perhaps it’s not so much the river, but what lies beyond the shore that is keeping my emotions in balance.

            The San Juan River is surrounded by desert. The Colorado Plateau is roughly centered around the Four Corners area of the southwestern United States. The magnificent rock layers of this area, sculpted by river and time, remind us that many have walked here before. Earlier in the trip we took the time to explore a wall of paintings. I know that remnants of Puebloan culture cover the shores of this area. The pictographs and pottery shards serve as memories and clues of adventures that once took place. The desert environment of this area gives sparse vegetation. The surrounding landscape, a mixture of peaks and cut-off buttes, are build up from years of erosion. There’s no place like it on earth.

            As I float down the river, surrounded by new friends sitting on rafts, marveling at the beauty that surrounds us, I realize that my parents raised me in the right way. I paddle through some rapids, attempting to balance my Coke can in between my knees without spilling, and watch the buttes that surround me. Some people spend their entire lives in busy cities with not so much as a trace of real nature in their environment. I was fortunate to be raised in two completely different environments, both with incredible access to the physical world.

            Being in this void, this quiet, this isolation, is what rests peacefully in my bones. My mom carried me for nine months with the desert as our surroundings, and even though she’s not with me I can feel that deep connection with the dry and open space.

            On this day I feel lucky to be surrounded by a kind of people who understand this awareness. These people, good-hearted souls with the temperament perfect for river life and desert life alike, are the kind I hope to continuously surround myself with. And although I cannot be in the desert always and cannot float through the canyons of the desert every day of my life, I am happy that when I do these people become my family.

            To an average person, the connections between Utah and Botswana are slim to none. But to me, they complete a puzzle. These two far corners of the world, full of desert sand and desolate beauty, come together and make up what I call home. My father says I’ll always be a “Kalahari girl.” He’s wrong. A mixture of Utah sands and Kalahari desert skies, I’ll always be drawn to the desert. Any desert. Any place where I can hold red in my hands as everything else in life falls away.

The View from Mule's Ear

by Valerie Johnson

            Clinging to the side of a mountain with all the strength I could give my fingers while praying to God that I wouldn't die is not my idea of a vacation.  And yet, there I was climbing up the side of Mule's Ear and wishing that I'd thought of a way to fake a broken ankle.

            “Put your foot here, grab this rock, and pull yourself up.”  I wasn't sure if it was Dan or Willie telling me what to do, but I did exactly as he said because he had done the same thing and survived.  That meant that I had a good chance of living too.

            I pulled myself up to a small bit of flat rock and sat down.  I couldn't tell if I was halfway up or not from where I was at.  Despite being at the back of the line and knowing I was probably holding everyone else up, I took a water break in the unrelenting midday sun.  From here, I could see the land stretching out beneath me.  Our camp was still visible, but only as distant orange and blue dots hidden in the trees and bushes next to the river.  There was a stripe of dark green that marked where the river flowed, then dry gray and brown desert soil, sand, and vegetation.  On the other side of the river, a mountain emerged from the sand with wavy layers and sharp chipped sides.  On my side was a brief expanse of donkey-trodden desert before Mule's Ear poked out of the earth.  Speaking of which, there was a family of donkeys grazing in the wash below.  “Ooh!  Picture!”  I snapped a couple as proof of life.

            I packed up my water and kept following the other climbers.  I couldn't keep taking breaks like that because everyone else in front of me was moving and even though this wasn't a race, I still felt the need to keep up.  I grabbed a rock, pulled on it to make sure it wouldn't move under my weight, hauled myself up one more step, put my foot on an innocent piece of ground, and scrambled for handholds when it slid out from under me.  I swore at the fragility of sandstone, took another step, and paused to catch my breath while the panic subsided.  This took a couple moments because my asthma constricted my windpipe.  (Dang it, that would have been a legitimate excuse not to go on the hike!)

            I made my way up slowly, and as fast as I felt I was able.  I followed Dan's, Willie's, and Prof. Gills' instructions to the letter, mirroring their steps, but still tested the rocks they told me to step on or hold on to.  I didn't talk much, partly because I was on my own, and partly because I didn't want to divert my attention.  Then Willie started asking me about my major, my Honors thesis topic, and my plans after graduation.  As much as I enjoy talking about myself, this really wasn't the right time and I started wishing he would just let me get to the top of the mountain in peace.  I did find out that he's a cowboy and has raised horses for several years.  That's pretty awesome.

            Prof. Gills got ahead of the group because he had the rope to get us up the last step to the ridge on top.  (Which led me to ponder a question I've had for years: How does the first climber get the ropes attached if they're needed to climb up the mountain?)  Now, I had a bit of a problem with scrambling up the rock face in the first place, but I thought it was manageable.  Ropes to me meant that I had gotten to the boss level of rock climbing.  This was some serious business.

            Ahead of me, Sharon was shuffling on the edge of a rock face with the help of her son, Willie.  She has a legitimate fear of heights, but with some shuffling, instructions from Willie, a yellow rope, Prof. Gills as an anchor, and a nearby bush, she got up and over the rock and on her way with the others.  I only have a reasonable uneasiness concerning heights, so I thought that maybe I could make it too.  I took small steps across the small lip of the rock while holding on to a couple handholds at eye level, and reached for the rope.

            Fingers are incredibly strong, at least when compared to how much they can take compared to the entire hand.  I've heard it’s better to hold a baseball bat with your fingers instead of the rest of your hand.  Even though it feels like a better grip, it's actually weaker.  And I use my fingers for everything – knitting, stitching, writing, sewing, signing.  I trust the strength in my fingers.  I grabbed the rope and with some leverage and traction from my shoes, pulled myself up.

            The next step was to cross a small chasm by walking along one side and leaning against the other with my hands.  Not nearly as scary as the ropes, but still slightly nerve wracking.

            “How are you doing, Valerie?” Prof. Gills asked me once we reached the top of the ridge.

            Well, I was tired, scared, anxious, hot, thirsty, frustrated, and had a sweaty back from my cheap backpack.  In my anger, I lashed out with, “I was so close to dropping this class at the beginning of the semester because of this hike.”

            “You were going to drop the class?”  He sounded shocked and a little hurt.

            Why did I say that?  What other reaction had I been expecting?  He didn't need to hear that.  I reacted defensively.  “Well I didn't.  I came on this trip even thought I knew the risks.”

            “Well I’m glad you came,” he replied.

            I bit my lip before I could say, “I’m not.”

            We ate lunch on the top of the ridge next to the actual 'ear.'  We were just over the top so we could look over the desert scenery on the other side of the ridge as we ate sandwiches and fruit.  Half of my water was already gone and I wanted to save the other half for the trip down, so I tried my best to be satisfied with the water I could glean from my food.  I had an especially fat and juicy tart green apple that was the best I had ever eaten.

            When I finally took my focus off my food, I took in the wide expanse of desert that stretched into Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado.  My lips were dry and cracking, and I felt like I was Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly when Tuco forced him to march through the desert, except Clint was probably wearing makeup, and that desert didn't have nearly as much vegetation as this one did, and I'm pretty sure they were filming in Spain.  This analogy would be much easier if his character had a name.  And a hat.

            “There are different kinds of deserts.  Not all of them look like this,” Kajsa explained to me when I complained that Sergio Leone's deserts looked fake and empty.  Not that I know what deserts in Texas are supposed to look like.  I decided then that I should stop using Westerns as a point of reference.

            The landscape was so wide that my camera couldn't focus properly and I played a game of, “Take a Picture Before the Auto-Focus Ruins it,” and lost several times before I gave up and put it away.  From here, we could see the dark green vegetation that snaked through the desert where the river flowed, and the caves in the sandstone mountains several miles away that looked like some giant thumbs had pushed in the walls as if they were made of clay.  In between Mule's Ear and Comb Ridge, the sand was dotted with so many small bushes and cacti that the ground had a gray green hue towards the horizon.  The thing about the desert that Westerns can't capture is just how big it is.  My eyes couldn't see the end of it; only the mountains and the curve of the earth terminated my vision.  I could get lost out here for days, months, years and never see everything.

            This view was supposed to be the reward for climbing all the way up here, but I just wasn't feeling it.  Even sitting on a sloped rock to stop and eat lunch, I was still worried about how close to falling off I was.  If I went sliding down, that would be it for me.  I wasn't even closest to the edge of the ridge.  Sadie had that honor, and thought nothing of it. The landscape is beautiful, but I just couldn't understand how any of this hike was fun, and getting to the top just didn't feel like the pain was worth it.  “You should be proud of yourself for making it up here,” several people told me.  I should be, but no.  I'm not.  Can I go back yet?

            I chose to go with the group that was going straight back to camp instead of exploring the peak further.  My body couldn't handle anything more than a return trip, and neither could my mind.  Prof. Gills promised me that the return hike would be much easier and there would be no more scrambling.  That last part was true because I don't think scooting down on my behind technically counts as scrambling.

            The hike across the ridge wasn't bad at all.  In fact, I probably could have pranced across it if I wasn't afraid of falling into a rattlesnake hole à la True Grit.  It wasn't until our impromptu path took us down the steep side of the mountain with even more loose rocks that I started to worry again.  I followed every step that everyone else took and panicked when they went too fast.  I was so happy I wore denim capris so I could slide down the rocks on my butt without worrying too much about sitting in thorns and nettles.  Dan instructed most of my steps down and stayed with me most of the way.

            The worst part was where I had to jump down about four feet from one rock to the next, but there was no good place to stand and the rock I was supposed to land on was angled down and short.  On top of that, I’m five feet tall.  Do the math.

Prof. Gills stood there with both hands out to catch me.  “I will not let you fall,” he told me.  And I believed him because he was not lying, but I didn't trust myself to make the jump.

            This was the only point that I stopped and couldn't make myself immediately do as he and Dan said.  I crouched to the ground, wanting to keep my center of gravity as low as possible, and assessed my options.  There weren't any other paths from this point.  I could try to go back and find a different way down, but Prof. Gills had already been down this way before and it would be stupid if I didn't listen.  I could stay put and chicken out, but it would be hours, and possibly a couple days, before emergency rescue crews could get out here and fly me off the mountain, and that would just inconvenience everyone.  This was the only way down, and taking my time wasn't really an option as my water was running even lower.

            I took a deep breath, stood back up and grabbed the holes in the rock that Dan had pointed out.  Going over the jump in my head, I saw myself missing the rock and sliding down the bend of the mountain like a waterslide, but with rocks, thorns, and donkey dung.  Then I jumped.  A sharp rock jabbed my side and left a bruise, but I was more concerned with knowing that I caught Prof. Gills' hands and put my feet exactly where they needed to go.  I was safe and on solid-ish ground.  (I say ‘solid-ish’ because it’s sandstone, and you never know.)

            I slid down more loose rocks on the rest of the way down and swore when I struggled to find my footing again, but those moments were nothing like that jump.  We got down to the flat, sandy land and followed the wash and donkey trails that switched directions back and forth several times, until that led us to a 30 foot drop-off.  The donkey path led us down and around that point to the flat expanse back to camp.  The closer we got to the river, the taller the vegetation got until it was taller than me, which isn't an achievement.  The sand gave way under our feet easily, which made walking more difficult, but at least it didn't slide out from under me the way the sandstone did.  I ran out of water completely by this point and would have run back to camp to get more if I had the strength to run.

            The perfect way to end this trip would be of an image of me getting back to camp and taking a swig from a vodka bottle.  (Filled with ice water, Mom.  No need to panic.)  But that's not where it ended.

I took a walk in the river, sunbathed on the rafts, and changed into my world traveler costume for dinner.  It wasn't until I was sitting by the campfire in a trenchcoat that was too small for me and digging into my left arm that was killing me anyway, and a thin skirt that wasn't warm enough for me, that the enormity of the day really hit me.  My stomach was churning, and I couldn’t eat any more of Jackson’s cheese, much less dinner.  Jackson talked to me for a bit, trying to help me feel better, but it just wasn’t working.  Tears were pushing themselves out of my eyes, and I couldn't explain why.  I already put them away on the walk back to camp when I was out of water and ready to take a nap in a stuffy tent.  They would not be stopped now.

            I went back to my tent, telling myself that I was changing from my coat to my sweater, but really I was hiding.  I figured that I could cry for a few minutes and be done with it before anyone would notice.  Good thing I started this whole trip with a cold or else I wouldn't have had any tissues.  Did I want someone to check up on me?  A little bit, but I didn't expect anyone to.  Then again, I get worse when people try to talk to me.

            Someone did notice, however, when dinner was ready and I wasn't there.  Sadie came to check up on me, and when she didn't come back with a report, Savannah came a few minutes later.  They found me crying and sitting on the foot of my sleeping bag.  I couldn’t make myself turn away their help.  It turns out that the bruise on my side was actually a good-sized abrasion, which Sadie cleaned up.  In the meantime, others came to make sure I was okay, including Carl, Jackson, and Jill.  Then Sadie and I just talked while she massaged my aching back and arms and I got over whatever was making me cry.

I did something scary that I was completely unprepared for.  On top of that, I had been worrying about this since August and I kept that tension with me for a long time.  Talking with Sadie was the only way I could just let that go and look back on my excursion with a bit of fondness.

            Yeah.  I finished the Mule's Ear hike.  And the view was phenomenal.

Cat Stevens and Coffee

by Cassie Adams

            I feel like a fraud as the trip hums busily along without my assistance. I wonder if Professor Gills is judging me for thinking I’m part of the “river-family” when I clearly have about as much expertise as Paris Hilton (ok, maybe a little more). Sure, I know how to row more or less, and I know what to do if you fall in a rapid, get stuck on a rock, or faceplant (or boatplant, if you’d prefer) into a canyon wall. But these seem like things anybody could figure out if pressed. Still, I have an aching feeling that I must prove myself as a veteran of the river, hoping that like an old friend who’s gained some social status she’ll recognize and acknowledge our comradery in front of this new crowd.

            But the plain facts are that I don’t know a lot of things that are expected of river veterans. I don’t know the names of the plants of the desert (except the pesky goddamn Tamarisks), and I don’t know how all the rocks were formed. I only have a fleeting interest in petroglyphs, and if I were to be stalked by a mountain lion, I’d be dead meat. I don’t know how to tie fancy knots (although I’m up two for two thanks to Carl and Peter 'showing me the ropes' on the trip), and I don’t know how to row a boat without oarlocks. And you would think by now I’d know how not to burn the tops of my feet, but here I am with a blazing red Chaco-shaped burn.

            But I do know that sometimes it’s nice to have no barriers whatsoever on your line of sight. I know that one of the best feelings in the world is to sit at the end of camp looking out, and to pretend for just one moment that there is no camp. To forget about the boats and the people and to remember that nature will go on without us. I know that sometimes it’s worth walking barefoot even if every step lodges a new burr between my toes, and that I’ve never slept better anywhere than I do on the bow of a raft listening to each wave pass. I know what it’s like to forget time altogether, and let the days blend together as I return to my natural state.

            So I relax and forget the desire to prove myself. This is the river. There is no self. There is be, there is do. I focus on getting to know my trip-mates rather than on impressing them, and it turns out to be an infinitely better use of my time.

            I’m a firm believer that you can’t really know a person until you’ve been on a river with them. On the river, all the bullshit of city life falls away. People are no longer categorized into those who text back quickly or post obnoxious facebook statuses, those whose numbers I have or whose numbers I want, or those I wish didn’t have my number. On the river there are just people. The playing field levels instantly, there’s no cool, no fashion, no clean, no pretty, no makeup, no shaving. No pressure.

            In the “real” world, I usually find that the only authentic communication I can muster is in writing. On the river, authenticity is the norm. When you let people open up and simply be themselves, they will always surprise you. True, not everyone finds this ability on the river, but I’ve found that the majority of people see the river, at least on an unconscious level, the same way I do: as a way to forget yourself, and by doing so to find yourself more completely than you ever have or will at home (assuming there’s a place you can call home besides the river).

If you listen closely, the river will be the only therapist you will ever need. It gives perspective and wisdom when you get too close to your own life to see it clearly, something I’m a bit of an expert at. Sometimes the best part of a rafting trip is the few days after you get back. The day you get back from “roughing it” you become grateful for many things you may ordinarily take for granted: flushing toilets, showers, air conditioning, and clean clothes. You realize what a miracle it is that we can commute such large distances in a small amount of time, and you will never appreciate a comfortable bed as much as you will after sleeping with naught but a deflated piece of “padded” rubber between your spine and the earth for five days.

The only way to see where you come from with any clarity is to put some distance between it and yourself. To live in the present fully we must be able to pay attention to our surroundings with fresh eyes, rather than wading through the routines of life with a cold detachment, convinced that what matters most in life is what’s comfortable and familiar. This is another of my areas of expertise.

 In fact, the pull towards numb comfort and the inability to gain perspective on my life are representative of two defects that lie on the opposite end of what I think I’ll name “the spectrum of inevitable stupidity.” On one side, there’s laziness, routine, comfort. On the other hyperactivity, anxiety, obsession. One of the things I admire most about the river is that it doesn’t bother with finding the balance between apathy and overzealousness; it doesn’t have to. The current takes the path of least resistance without being cowardly.

This was something I thought (and talked) a lot about on the trip. It sounds like hippy nonsense, but life really is a lot like rafting. You need to know where you want to go, but in the end it all leads the same place, and if you go with the flow you’ll usually be a lot better off than if you panic and overcorrect. The river does not respond well to our attempts to control it. You must work with the current rather than fighting against it, or you have already lost before you even put the oars in the water.

My dad taught me everything I know about rafting. Which, as previously mentioned, isn’t much, but one of the best things about my dad’s style of teaching is that he tricks you into thinking there’s not that much to it, anyway. My aunt used to call him “Rocket Man” when he worked for NASA, and I’m convinced he’s the only person who could succeed at explaining Rocket Science as if it’s not that hard. In the end, it’s kind of true. Nothing’s that hard if you’re patient with yourself, and realize that everyone starts somewhere.

I’ve gotten a lot of compliments on my dad since the trip, as if he’s my accessory or pet. But I’m glad my classmates saw what I see; “cool” might not be the word to come to mind for a mechanical engineer, but he’s cool because he’s, as Sadie pointed out, one of the few people left who’s just a genuinely nice guy. He was even more impressed by the class than they were with, him, though, I suspect, given the fact that his main spiel since our return has been “You know how they say this generation’s lost? They’re not. And I’ll tell you why. College kids back in the ‘90’s were drinking coke in the morning instead of coffee. These kids already are drinking coffee, and they listen to Cat Stevens.” When he gave this spiel to my aunt, she replied, “So that’s all it takes for you to regain faith in a generation?” to which he replied, “Well, yeah!”

Every generation thinks they’re different, but some things always stay the same. There’s something in people that guides us, and will take us where we need to go. Like the river, the world keeps us on track if we let it, so we’ll all be okay if we just listen to the part of us that keeps us listening to Cat Stevens and drinking coffee. I might be giving my dad more credit for that thought than he would desire, he’s a smart guy who’s capable of speaking for himself, even if he does call me “Annie” once in a while, despite the fact that she’s my fraternal twin, and we don’t look anything alike.

I’ve come to realize that a person’s absence can shape an experience as much as their presence. I’ve been on very few river trips without Annie, but those trips always seem to be shaped by her absence as much as anything. The first trip I went on without her was also the San Juan. We did a longer stretch that time, and I spent the entire trip flirting with my cousin’s friend, Cassidy (male, his mom was high on painkillers when she named him, don’t ask me), who also went by “Cas.” Which actually worked out okay, because usually when people called for one of us we were together anyway. He was adopted, like me, but by his aunt and uncle. His aunt and uncle had a daughter his age, who turned out to be his quasi-twin. We talked about what it was like to be raised comparing yourself to someone more intelligent and emotionally stable than you. At the time, that’s how I felt.

Nothing ever came from Cassidy’s and my mini-romance, and like most mini-romances, I now mostly remember him with a fond chuckle at my complete ineptitude at interacting with other human beings. But the San Juan seems to be etched into my formation: it was my first ever river trip with Annie and my family, then round two with Cassidy at a stage in my life when I was having difficulty finding my individual identity, and now our relationship is rounded off by a third encounter, with writing class that's taught me how to embrace the in-between, after finally realizing that I’m ok with myself as an individual. A lot of the self-discovery talk on the trip was fueled by a mutual quest for individuality as experienced by the twins: myself, Savannah, and Garrett.

I’m sure, now that I’m back in the world of self-consciousness, that all the twin talk probably got pretty annoying. But on the other hand, I think the struggle to find yourself is something we all understand, regardless of whether or not we have one specific person to bounce our self-awareness off of. The twins all got along swimmingly partly because of our shared twinhood (in a sense, I'm not even a 'real twin,' sharing only the same amount of DNA with Annie as any sibling), but because we all have given a lot of thought to who we are and how we fit into the tapestry of existence. We’ve all done a lot of meditating, one could say. “Meditate” is one of those words I hesitate to use because it tends to make people laugh. I’ve never consciously 'meditated,' really. The word makes me think of yoga class where I was asked to breathe into my toes and imagine giving someone a flower in my heart-room, or to open my loins like a lotus flower, and other such absurdities.

However, let’s not sell a word short just because of our preconceptions. To meditate: (1) To think deeply or focus for a time for spiritual purposes or to relax, (2) To think deeply or carefully about (something). This, I have done. A lot. I don’t consider myself spiritual, but I guess that’s another word I should look carefully at the definition of. That’s a whole different meditation, however, and for now I guess I’m content to accept the fact that I have done a lot of meditating in my life thus far. This, I think, is the big thing the twins had in common (which is not to suggest we were the only ones, most Honors students, I would guess, think deeply about the world around them on a quite regular basis).

Savannah expressed frustration that the caption on Ellen Melloy’s The Anthropology of Turquoise had been changed from the original copy’s “meditations on desert, sea, stone, and sky” to “reflections” on the same. This does seem to be doing the book a grave discourtesy, unless, I suppose, it was in an effort to highlight the reflective nature of light. But I think that the meditation is a great word to describe what Ellen Melloy does for nature writing, and that the meditation is an especially useful device when writing about nature. Nature pervades our senses in a way that can sometimes only be described by “meditating” on its effect on us. Because the great thing about nature, particularly the river and the desert, is that by showing us itself in all its harsh, perilous, and unforgiving glory, it reveals to us a lot about what goes on inside us, beneath the petty anxieties and frustrations of day-to-day life, in the part of us that doesn’t need words, the part that speaks the language of the river, sand, and sky. Nature speaks to our cores in ways we can only hope to comprehend after thinking deeply and carefully until we finally figure out what it means to us.