A River Bigger Than Itself

On our fourth day in the canyon we floated in silence. Twenty-two of us—all of whom work on issues related to Western rivers—drifted on rafts to the confluence where the muddy, untamed Yampa joins the the clear, dam-controlled Green. We were here to learn the value of a wild river in a landscape where every drop of water is measured, allocated, and carefully managed. And we were here to discuss the future of such a river in a region increasingly pressured by drought and population growth.

I expected to come away from the trip with a story about water policy and the compromises needed to keep water flowing downstream. But the first night, after we’d set up camp in a gaping sandstone chasm, I pulled out my journal and started writing about something else. I’d spent dozens of nights camped along desert rivers in the American Southwest, and on the surface nothing about this evening seemed exceptional. Firelight danced on the sandstone walls