In September, I was fortunate to have the opportunity to float the San Juan river which divides the Navajo Nation from Utah on the Arizona/Utah border. This Grand Canyon Field Institute and Wild Rivers Expeditions trip was lead by my favorite river guide Christa, 2 additional boatmen, and 7 passengers. A good group it was, gelling in a way that I have been told is less frequent than not. We all told stories, listened, and worked hard as we explored 87 miles of this muddy, brown stream.

It is hard to explain what I experienced, for it remains overwhelming to me even now. The knowledge shared between Christa, Taylor (the new co-owner of Wild Rivers) and Greg (a botanist and archaeologist) was astounding. While I did my best to absorb the information conveyed about the history of the people (from ancient native Americans to the Mormon settlers), the million years old rock formations, fossils, and the river itself, I must humbly admit that I remain completely ignorant.

As an assistant in training to the crew, I was removed from the comfort of being an expert in my geek world, instead learning again how to do the simplest of tasks. Cutting vegetables, anchoring a boat with the bow line, even shitting in the out of doors (a task for which I would have claimed to be an expert prior to this trip) was given a new, strict, and valid set of rules.

I sat silent night after night in the kitchen and around the campfire, having little to contribute to the conversations. My favorite subjects of climbing and highspeed internode communication fabrics were utterly boring in comparison to discussion of the means by which people lived in that arid land, leaving just enough evidence for us to piece together a compelling story of who, why, and where they lived and died.

I was brought to tears one afternoon as Christa told the Hopi creation story, while our dozen rested on a sandstone shelf beneath a several hundred (perhaps thousand) year old cliff dwelling. I hid behind my camera to mask the upwelling emotional invoked by the passion with which Christa sang, without instrument nor even melody.

It feels so good to be moved that way, for ultimately it is the stories of humans that humans remember most.

Yesterday I drove from Rifle, Colorado to Moab where it has been raining off/on for 3 days. In the low ’80s the temperature was fantastic and the rock surprisingly sticky. I climbed with 3 guys from Carolinas and the locals who came in droves from 6 till what I assume was 9 pm. Big Bend their local, outdoor gym.

I headed South at 8:30 that same night and was overwhelmed by the most magnificent electrical storm I have ever experienced. It extended from Monticello to Blanding, and nearly to Bluff. Heavy, thick, black clouds that threw bolts to the ground every 10-15 seconds, never more than 30 seconds without a series of flashes for a contiguous two hours. There were dozens of horizontal whips of electricity that shot from one prominent underpinning of a cloud to the next, the fire produced similar to that between two or three CDs placed in the microwave oven.

I celebrated my front row seat to this masterpiece with Vivaldi’s flute concertos. I pulled onto a gravel road and faced my car East into the panoramic heart of this living, breathing creature. I literally clapped at the finale of a burst of strikes on three sides of me and above at the same time. Secretly, I hoped it would strike me car just to see what it was like. But when one such bolt came far too close, that desire was satisfied.

At Bluff, I was on the edge of its unfolded wings, the moon breaking through the sharp border where the storm stopped and the clear night sky began. I slept in my car just between Bluff and Mexican Hat, on the pull-out to the road that winds up and up and up the cliff. I wanted to return to where we had camped before our float trip, high on the cliffs West and North of Bluff, but was concerned that if the storm made it this far South, I could find trouble on those dusty roads.

The storm lost its power in pursuit of me, but the memory of it will remain for a very long time.

I was watching the 10 o’clock news at my Grandparents farm in Iowa last night (my one dose of TV for the year). The TOP STORY was an interview with a “homeland security expert” who claimed something really bad was going to happen soon and could happen in Iowa.

When asked what and why, he said (and I quote), “Well, we’re getting pretty close to the election now and you see, the Al Qaeda may attack Iowa because, well you know, we produce all the corn and beans. We’re the source of the food for the U.S. and they would want to disrupt that.” Following a question about what to do to help prevent attacks, he concluded, “Be very wary of strange things your home town and do not be afraid to report suspicious activity to the police.”

You have got to be kidding. No name. No title. No job. Just “homeland security expert”. What? Are 10,000 militant extremists wearing John Deere baseball caps, blue jeens, and basketball shoes with loose laces to drive through rural Iowa in Dodge Caravans saying things like, “Ya think she’s gonna rain?” in order to burn 10,000,000 square miles of fields and blow up grain elevators?

Racing along Wyoming grasslands and South Dakota forest boundary with sun setting to my left, the full moon rising to my right, breaking over multiple, distant grass covered, raised earthen shelves and sand cliffs; fence posts, and glistening barbed wire. Stopped abruptly to capture the moon on digital film, another car on the other side stopped to watch the sun set, clouds on fire on the horizon, burning yellow, orange, and eventually deep red.

Winding up and round into the Black Hills, North bound on HW85. Peaked at more than 6,000 feet, the temperature quickly dropped from the high fifties to 43F. The scent of pine entering my car through the fresh air laden vents. A camp fire at canyon bottom, river side camp ground invoked a smile as I assumed someone was also melting chocolate and marsh mellows between graham crackers.

Twisting round and round, down the canyon, the trees rising higher, split only for moments by white sand cliffs and small open fields whose condensation touched blades of grass reflected the full moon light. I raced by in my Subaru pulling hard around corners, remembering to accelerate, not brake. A good challenge, to program a physiological response to the opposite of that which is autonomous and seemingly logical.

At the intersection of HW85 and Alt14 which splits left to Spearfish, my birth place, and right to Lead, I noticed a hand painted, carved wooden sign showcasing cabins and tent sites. Were it not for anti-lock breaks, I would have enjoyed a brief spin as I turned hard to the left and applied ample pressure to the brake pedal, returning to the cabin property and entry. I dimmed my headlights and drove nearly silently deeper into the compound, in search of the camp host.

At the very back, where a single mercury vapor yard lamp illuminated a small portion of the property, I noted an open interior door through which the screen door cast warmer yellow light to the walkway. Inside, I tripped over a pair of sandals, entry rug, and nearly fell on to the dog who was too tired (or old) to take notice. The woman at the counter seemed pleased to rent a cabin at that late hour and I was thrilled to find something so perfectly situated at the bottom of the canyon where I was born, on the creek whose unique babble I believe I can recognize from any other in the world. Shallow, even, crisp, and over large, moss covered and smooth fist to head-sized boulders which dislodge once in a while and tumble just once or twice, emitting the deep reverberation of a small underwater collision.

The single room cabin greeted me with the flicker of a flame in the corner gas stove and the wonderful smell of untreated pine. Not one square inch was left without raw wood. The ceiling too covered in tongue-n-groove. I pressed my thumbnail into a piece to demonstrate that it was neither preserved with lacquer, stain, nor even water seal. Just pine. I could not help but smile, for the aroma of that wonderful wood has that effect on me.

I walked to the other side of the drive, plastic fork and kung-pow tofu delight from Wild Oats in hand, purchased in Fort Collins five hours earlier. I erected an overturned lawn chair just inches from the edge of Spearfish Creek, tightened my fleece jacket, and ate.

And then I listened and watched. Even at 10 pm, by the light of the single yard lamp mixed with the rising moon (which just broke the tree tops of the canyon walls, given me the opportunity to watch it rise twice in one night), I could easily enjoy both the surface and submerged features of the creek. Sticks, leaves, and other natural debris swiftly moved by.

I was briefly reminded of Siddhartha’s exploration of his world and the man who lived by the river, surviving, even thriving on what it randomly delivered. I wondered how long I would sit there before the river would bring something to me.

And then I felt more than I did hear something move behind me. When I turned, two white tail deer had crossed half of the yard, now perfectly and fully illuminated by the yard lamp. The lead deer stared at me, attempting to determine who or what I was, its ears moving as radar dishes concerned for enemy approach.

I retracted my eye contact and slowly turned away again, hoping it would not panic. To my surprise, the deer sneezed, it’s head bobbed vertically. It stopped, moved its front hoof forward and then back again, and sneezed even louder. At this, the both turned and bounded back to the roadside.

It appears they are not interested in my zesty tofu.

That night, at the local bar and salsa dance, word spread and enthusiasm grew for the new caves. The next morning I was thrilled to find I would be accompanied by Tom, Anibal, Renier, Devin (a lively, light-hearted forest service worker from Canada who had the propensity to drop his drawers for the camera whenever given the chance), Turbo, and Russo (they call him “the Russian” for his face and body are wide, strong, and fair-skinned; and he has the strength of an ox as was soon discovered).

Due to the rain and resulting humidity, the cave with Green Machine and La Venganza was soaked, completely unclimbable. I thought we would have to return. But Devin found a passageway and having crawled the length of it discovered it opened into another set of open-air caves, dry and wonderfully climbable. He returned on the outside, along the base of the wall only to require a two person crew to remove all of the stickers from his curly black hair.

Russo borrowed a machete from a local farmer and in less than an hour accomplished more clearing than I had in a day. He is an unstoppable machine, a monster with a machete, and as I learned, scuba gear and machine gun. Anibal made it clear that Russo was his right-hand man on all caving and climbing expeditions because he always got the job done.

Russo was one of those people who always smiles and always has a good story. He is friendly, but something tells you that should there be a war, you’d want him on your side. While in the Cuban military he trained as the equivalent of our Navy Seals. He was once dropped from a helicopter several miles from shore, at night, into the ocean. He swam for 18 hours straight with a full compliment of provisions on his back and kickboard to his front. This guy does not stop.

Another time he was dropped from a helicopter to test a new sport-chute (a parachute that maintains an air-foil as it glides). He landed in a farmer’s field only to be greeted by surprised and highly reactionary farmers armed with machetes. Because of his light skin (Cuba has a rich diversity of ethnic backgrounds) and the fact that he dropped from the sky from an unseen plane in full military camouflage, they assumed he was part of an American invasion. They ran at him while he was collecting his chute and yelled, “Get the American! Kill him!” Russo could not believe what was happening and turned, yelling back, “What? I am Cuban!” They continued to run at him, waving machetes and yelling.

He released himself from his chute, faced them and yelled, “No! Listen to me–I’m Cuban!” But they didn’t believe him. He turned and ran, thinking, What are these people doing? Wait, what am I doing? I have a machine gun! He turned again, still running, waved his gun and yelled, “You people are crazy! I have a machine gun and you have only machetes! What are you doing?!” No matter, they kept running at him, yelling “Kill the American!” Russo thought, These Cubans are c-r-a-z-y! No one will ever invade this country! Eventually, he was able to convince them he was in fact Cuban and walk to the rendezvous point without further concern for the farmers’ army.