Black Canyon of the Gunnison

Snow fell last night on the Black Canyon, defying its name.  Cold air moved in like winter, defying my hope that winter will come late this year.  Unheeding practicality, I walked into the visitors center of Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park and asked for a permit to descend steep and untrailed rock to the river.  The ranger explained the risks and asked if I was really up to it.  Sensing no equivocation in my answer, he had me sign that I would hold the US government harmless in case of mishap.  Of course, the US government is scheduled to shut down in three days, so it hardly matters how I hold it. 

I walked along the canyon rim to the trailhead, considering my decision in light and dark of the gorge before me and the barely visible river far below.

Then I trotted off on an easy trail for a couple of miles until the scramble began.  This place is called black because for many years it was unknown, a dark place where the Gunnison River disappeared and then emerged many miles downstream.  Now we know that this canyon is the greatest combination of depth, steepness and narrowness of any place in North America. And I, like a child, would plunge into its depths. 

The scramble began with an inviting chain to hold onto, as if there could be worse. 

The rim grew higher above me and the river’s torrent grew louder as I descended the rocky slope.  

At about half way down, the river still looked a long way below and the climb was getting to me.  Elevation was higher than my home, and weeks of only mild exercise showed up in weak knees and hurting thighs.  I decided to turn around and climb back out.  This ten-year-old mind might as well accept a mature world and be sadder for it, I thought.  Or maybe not, with conditioning.