Dropping into the Canyon

It was pitch black that February night when we drove through the canyon on our way to the coast. The only illumination on that route came from passing headlights bouncing off the rocky walls as the sparse traffic wound its way through the narrow bends. The only sound was the roar of the river crashing over boulders far below as it carved its way toward the sea. Heavy nets of metal hung over offending sections: steep slopes notoriously willing to drop boulders onto the road, and sometimes onto passing cars as well, after winter’s torrential rains.

This journey to the coast winds along the cleanest river in our country - the only river, I believe, that does not travel through any city from its headwaters in the mountains to its merging with the Pacific Ocean.

The road through here clings to the canyon sides much as it did when it was a rutted path for wagon trains bringing people and ships’ cargo inland to silver and gold mining country.

The road clings much as the trail did long before that — as trade route between coastal and inland tribes. It thrills me every time I follow its course, just as it has since I first found my way through over 20 years ago.

When we got to where we were staying, a cabin tucked deep in the redwood forest a few hours south, we settled in and made a fire for our warmth. Some part of me still swayed with the curves of the canyon and I found myself wanting to draw those steep canyon walls. Those crazy, steep, narrow walls — whose images always manage to flash in my mind long after I’ve left them behind.

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