Wren’s Wild Journey

Silas

It was a crisp morning in Durango, Colorado, and I was at a laundromat, doing the mundane chore of laundry, the hum of washing machines a backdrop to the scent of pine still clinging to my clothes. As I folded my base layers, I conversed with a guy who looked like he'd just crawled out of the wild; his boots were caked with different dirt colors, and a frayed pack slung in the corner. His name was Silas, and I pegged him right: a kindred spirit, maybe even wilder than me, with eyes gleaming like he'd seen and laughed at the world's edges. Over the clatter of dryers, I learned he had guide experience, both dry and wet, leading packs through deserts and down churning waters. We talked for hours, swapping tales of the backcountry until the last sock was folded, the clock nudging just past noon. Hungry for more than stories, we grabbed lunch at a nearby diner.

Over burgers, Silas mentioned the Rio Grande, spinning a yarn about a canoe trip he'd guided last winter for a small group—their laughter echoing off canyon walls. I leaned in, hooked, picturing every stroke of the paddle in vivid detail. Then he proposed a plan: canoe the Rio Grande next winter, put in at Colorado Canyon, and take out at La Linda, a stretch he called both challenging for the inexperienced and beautiful for everyone. He offered to handle the logistics—maps, permits, gear—since he thrived on the nitty-gritty details. At the same time, I admitted I'm more of a word-picture guy, painting the journey in my mind before we'd even launched. I offered for us to use my Old Town Expedition for a canoe, and he agreed it would be perfect for the trip. By the time we finished our meal, the idea had taken root, a shared dream stitched together over coffee mugs and the promise of a river waiting to test us. We became friends that day, and for the next year, we roamed the wild places in the western USA together. We'd work wherever we could until we could head out again for places we had yet to tread.
One spring afternoon outside of Ouray, CO, Silas and I were sitting on the tailgate of his International Scout, nursing mugs of black coffee after a morning of scouting trails; I shared a story about my hike through the Narrows at Zion National Park. I'd trekked it solo a few summers back, wading through the Virgin River until I hit a spot where the canyon walls squeezed tight, leaving a frigid pool as the only way forward. The water was a shock of ice against my skin, my pack dragging heavy as I swam, teeth chattering, doubt clawing at me to turn back. But I pushed through, kicking hard against the current. When I hauled myself onto the slick rock on the other side, gasping, the view stole my breath in a new way, with towering sandstone glowing gold in the slanted light, the silence so thick it felt sacred. I told Silas I was glad I didn't turn back; it was one of those moments that carves itself into you. He grinned, shaking his head, his weathered cap tipped back so I could see the glint in his eyes. He knew the exact spot; he said he'd hiked the Narrows some years prior, but a flash flood warning had been in effect, forcing him to detour around that section via a dusty overland route. "Missed the swim, huh?" I teased, nudging his boot with mine. "You gotta go back some time, man; it's worth every frozen second." He chuckled, sipping his coffee, and nodded slowly, like he was already picturing the trip. "Yeah, Wren," he said, "reckon I will. Can't let you have all the good stories." The idea lingered between us, another adventure waiting to be claimed, as the wind kicked up dust around us and the mountains stood sentinel in the distance. We agreed to talk about the Rio Grande trip after breakfast tomorrow. The rest of the night, we sat around the fire, drinking in the sweet crispness of the cool Mountain air. Wren and I found our muses in the free open spaces and the backcountry wilderness, where the world stripped itself bare and let us breathe. The endless stretch of dry Earth, gnarled pines, and rocky outcrops sang to us in a language older than words. Out there, the air was clean, sharp with the scent of sage, and the silence was a canvas for our thoughts. We'd trek for miles, packs on our shoulders, chasing the horizon like it held some secret just for us. The wilderness didn't care who we were; it only asked us to show up, feel its pulse, and let it shape our souls.

Silas and I had roamed as vagabonds of the backcountry museum for five thousand miles until the Rio Grande welcomed us to its sandy throat. We shoved our canoe into the Colorado Canyon's embrace on a January afternoon. The river murmured secrets as we began our float, my first on this grand river. The canyon walls rose like jagged teeth, the water a shimmering ribbon threading south to the Atlantic, a grand drinker of tales older than the stones themselves.

We heard them first as whispers—faint, ghostly voices weaving through the wind—bandits, long gone. We could make out the sound of echoes bouncing between the North and South banks. A crow, our dark herald, cawed above, shadowing our run as we paddled with haste, paying in sweat and maneuverability. Heavy and wide, the canoe bucked beneath us, a stubborn beast we tamed through the afternoon's ride. We beached on the Mexican side by dusk, and after a couple of minutes, a group of vaqueros rode up, spurs glinting like stars. The ranch owner, a weathered grin beneath his hat, welcomed us after a short chat, and they all rode off to burn more of the invasive cane that is a nuisance choking the banks on both sides. We set up camp and had our evening grub, and later bedded down to sleep soundly by the river's soft lullaby.

Dawn broke cold; I had coffee steaming in my battered stainless-steel cup. I was a little uneasy about our rushed packing of the boat yesterday, but my friend laughed away my frets. We spent 15 extra minutes organizing the gear and supplies to lower the load's center of gravity. Soon, our paddles were singing again, rhythmic, like a heartbeat. Santa Elena Canyon loomed ahead, twenty miles of wonders carved in stone. Rockslide, the first rapid, tested us two miles in, a churning gauntlet with no margin for error. Well, we erred and got a little wet.

Beyond Santa Elena, Fern Canyon stood desolate, save for trickles feeding shy ferns. We climbed and found a pool of virgin water beneath a seep, and we knelt to drink its sweet gift like pilgrims at an altar.

That night, two thousand feet below the canyon rim, I lay in the sand, gazing up through the slit of sky. I could see YAHWEH's hand as the stars wheeled overhead. I could feel the Earth slowly turn and the vibration of motion in my bones, the river's melody cradling me. I felt the moon's pull, a tidal force tugging my soul skyward, and I drifted into dreams of flight, wild introspection, and fantasy.

A couple of weeks later, trapped by sandy winds in the flatlands of "The Unknowns," we waited out nature's assault. When the grip broke, we paddled free, chasing the river's thrill through silty bends and shallow sand bars. The Sun was a molten ball, hot against my shoulders, and the water was pulsing, with each stroke of the paddle vowing to the unknown ahead. Eventually, the canyon walls parted, displaying a beautiful, boundless blue sky. Yet, the whispers clung, bandit ghosts carved in stone, forgotten tales, a silent chorus of lives past.

A little further on the river, the walls of Boquillas Canyon rose like a jagged crown before us, its rapids roaring as we braced and pulled, hearts stitched to every wave. The river was both master and slave, testing and giving us life. Beyond the churn, stillness fell, and the crow returned, a shadow friend guarding our sleep with its piercing caw, a thread through the canyon's maze.

We ended our grand adventure near La Linda, offloading and dragging the boat out of the river on the edge of a well-worn sandy expanse. Two hundred twenty-three miles we'd come, from sand to starry slit, the backcountry museum alive with relics of firelight and echoes. The Rio Grande had carved us, too, a vein of life mirroring our souls.
Beneath the stars, I lay forever bound to its wild whispers, river-blessed, a fleeting soul on ancient tides.