River Virgins in Santa Elena

 A poem and photo essay

Deep in Santa Elena Canyon

It finally happened.

My turn on the river,

one of the few here

who has not canoed or rafted or tubed

down the Rio Grande.

In Rock Slide

            Which is not grande.  Not now

            at low water,

            diverted upstream by

            dams and irrigation

to a little creek here

at Lajitas, where we put in.

At "metates"

Me up front in gleaming Number 30,

            also a river virgin,

born in Old Town, Maine.

Bud at stern;

on patrol, John and Elaine

in trusty Number 21.

Tricky spot at Rock Slide

            November. 

No wind, sleeveless,

dipping oars quietly

in the low water

gliding

then “running” the little riffles,

            sometimes hanging on rocks,

            good New Balance shoes (also Maine made) soaked.

Darning needles and mosquito hawks

in tandem flight

joined tail to head in love,

webbed wings a glistening escort.

            Bobcat ears twitched. 

            Mexican horses and cows switched allegiance.

Grinding hole at "metates"

Metates and a coiled fossil

lured us ashore,

            jay-blue sky

rimmed by an ancient white seabed

hugging intrusions from a hidden furnace.

 

By four-thirty, tents, sleeping pads, the required toilet,

cooler, life jackets, table, chairs, day packs

            and an old tire

found their places ashore

where the river

when swollen and grande,

wipes away the landscape.

            Bud brought little round steaks

            bordered in bacon,

            and vegetables and potatoes

            snuggled in foil.

A little wine (Bud again) and he read

Elaine’s favorite poem by

Robinson Jeffers about the vulture

who thought him dead:

That I was sorry to have disappointed him. To be eaten by that beak

     and

     become part of him, to share those wings and those eyes--

What a sublime end of one's body…

Bud asked, “What makes empires collapse?”

I didn’t have an intelligent answer,

            though I thought I should have. 

The incurious stars, the extravagant ribbon of Milky Way

burn over all empires past and future.  Later,

Orion’s Belt peeked through the tent at several

awakenings,

            panning across my reluctant vision.

Apprehensions about Rock Slide

drove my car into a flash flood

but I found an air bubble and

escaped in my dream

so I was not haunted come morning

when life jackets were zipped.

Rock Slide

Elaine and Bud preparing strategy for maneuvering

 I was on the Penobscot once, in Maine,

rafting with my son and nephew

and two fat ladies,

            oars frantically

            rowing air

            as we sailed over treachery.

 

But with Bud, who knew what to do,

I think woo-hoo

that was easy,

past Rock Slide and Fern Canyon,

            darting black phoebes, sandpipers rocking,

past a watching hawk, a bufflehead

            and Smuggler’s Cave

            onto a shallow reflecting pool,

waving to hikers

at the mouth with Chisos teeth

to the takeout.

We stopped at Castalon

for a V8 and Klondike bar,

a final ritual

and tribute

to the long-awaited seduction.