As a general rule, it is not a
good idea to smack a fellow river rafter with a paddle or to push
him out of the boat in the middle of a rapid.
Not only do
such actions constitute a breach of wilderness etiquette, they can
cause hard feelings that might result in unpleasantness later in
camp. And there’s also the possibility of drowning, which would no
doubt lead to complications involving the authorities. But there
were times during a recent trip down the Selway River in Idaho when
I was tempted to bludgeon one of my fellow rafters.
The
provocation? He was wearing a wristwatch. And it kept beeping,
chiming out the hours as if he had an appointment to keep.
I had some appointments of my own. There were some
ospreys atop a dead Douglas fir downstream that I planned to watch.
I intended to rendezvous with several groves of western red cedars.
There were some polished rocks on a gravel bar demanding my
attention, some sandy beaches requiring inspection.
I did
not, however, require a watch to keep these appointments. They
would occur, or not, on a schedule determined by the current and
the movement of the sun and moon across the sky. On a wild river,
in the middle of one of the largest wilderness areas in the Lower
48 states, a beeping wristwatch is about as useful as an anvil.
But it is so hard to sever the technological tethers that
bind us to the world we have built. They grow stronger and draw
tighter with each passing year: cell phones, pagers, laptop
computers with wireless modems, e-mail, Global Positioning Systems,
instant messaging, 24-hour television news, satellite radio that
floods even the great empty spaces of the West with an unceasing
barrage of music, news, commentary and commercials.
It is
possible to be too much in touch. The more we talk, the less we
listen. The more chatter we hear, the less we think. The more we
obsess about where we need to be and what we need to do in the next
hour, the next day, the next week, the less time we spend in the
here and now. Now, for me, had become floating
down a river.
The Selway River rises among the
snow-covered peaks of the Bitterroot Mountains in north-central
Idaho. The Bitterroots are a rugged part of the Northern Rockies,
and the Selway flows through the heart of a whopping big chunk of
federally designated wilderness draped across the spine of the
continent. There are no roads in most of the area, and aside from a
handful of remote airstrips, the only way into its forested heart
is on foot, on horseback, or by boat.
These were the
travel options of a not-so-distant past: walk, ride, float. If you
are willing to behave according to the landscape’s terms, a journey
into such a place can be as a much a journey through time as
through space.
As time-travel options go, you cannot do
better than the Selway. Clear as crystal and nearly as cold as ice,
it begins life as a small but rambunctious stream, becoming
powerful and swift as it gathers the contributions of tributary
creeks. Where the gray cliffs crowd together, flashing rapids
alternate with deep emerald pools; where the canyon walls step back
from the river, allowing it to spread out, the water grows shallow
and slides transparently across a bed of polished cobbles that is
as colorful and intricately patterned as a mosaic assembled by a
master artist.
You can give yourself over to this place.
Leave the laptop at home, stuff the cell phone into the glove
compartment, pitch the computerized notebook into the nearest trash
receptacle. Wear the wristwatch at first, if it makes you
uncomfortable to be without it. But turn off the alarm.
On the first day, your head will still be ringing with the din of
modern life. Gradually, though, silence will seep into your pores.
Time will slow to the river’s pace. You will talk only to people
with whom you can make eye contact. For entertainment, you will
have traded animated pixels for the interplay of sunlight and
shadows in dense forest, the passing parade of wildflowers and
birds, the headlong rush through walls of water. Your mind will
clear and your spirit will grow calm.
Eventually, you
might even take off that wristwatch.
John Krist
is a contributor to Writers on the Range, a service of
High Country News (hcn.org). He is a columnist
for the Ventura Star in
California.
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