The Colorado River: A Modern Pilgrimage through Nature's Wonder

The Colorado River

I found myself standing on the banks of the Colorado River, admiring the mesmerizing beauty of nature and the river's humble beginnings. The sun's golden rays painted the world around me in the last light of the day, and then suddenly, at sunset, the hues changed, and the scene became greyer, snowy, and cold. At this tranquil spot, the Colorado River, strong enough to carve out the Grand Canyon, was still just a mere stream weaving through the breathtaking landscape.

The next day, I would hike through the snow as close as I could to the source of the Colorado River. But this was my starting point because I saw the river for the first time, and this was my first crossing. Although it took me just a few steps over a small bridge, it was the beginning of an astonishing journey that would lead me to traverse the river countless times in the coming days. The river became my faithful guide, showing me natural wonders at every bend and bringing me to diverse villages and towns in five states in the American Southwest.

The Colorado River grew in strength and grandeur as I ventured further downstream. I thought about the millions of years it has carved deep canyons where each bend tells its own story. As a geographer, I'm always fascinated by how a river etches a narrative in the fabric of the land.

In my country, rivers write slowly on the earth, majestically and in broad strokes. The mighty Rhine kept out Caesar's men on their way up north and later divided the low lands between the Catholics in the South and the Protestants in the North. The river wrote the geography while we wrote history by creating a country out of the water.

The Rhine is a heavyweight fighter, plowing through the Dutch sand and clay, pushing its mass of water toward the North Sea. But the Colorado River is smaller, faster, and curvier; it's a lightweight fighter, making quick moves and grabbing each opportunity for progress. It creeps through the rocks, knowing it will eventually carve its way through the stone, using sediment as sandpaper and patience as a virtue.

Following the river's path, I knew I would enjoy the changes in temperature, height, climate, rocks, plants, and especially the ever-changing tapestry of colors. The cold winter colors of Colorado would change into the vibrant hues of trees and plants further downstream, where the river's serene waters served as a stunning canvas, vividly reflecting the glorious colors of the flowers, creating a breathtaking spectacle that I couldn't help but relish.

There is a sacred beauty in following a river. Like a pilgrimage, I got up every morning with only one straightforward task: follow the water as if you were guided by the Camino de Santiago's famous yellow arrows. But this was a modernized version: seeing the world through the windshield of a car changes the perspective of a traditional pilgrimage walk. Still, in many ways, my journey brought back memories of walking the Camino Frances, the more than a thousand-year-old pilgrimage in Northern Spain, an 800 kilometers walk to what some believe to be the grave of Saint James.

Having my eyes fixed on the horizon of the highway felt at times like the same fixation I had on the endless horizon of the way of Saint James during my hikes in the unforgiving heat of the Meseta. And on both journeys, the sight of the next town brought both joy and an abrupt disturbance of my tranquil state of mind. Like in Spain, each day's routine on the journey profoundly affected my spirit, soothing my soul with its rhythmic flow.

I often stopped on the river bank, where I experienced the tranquility of the water that mirrored the calmness I felt. On this journey, I discovered new perspectives and embraced the wild beauty of the American Southwest. It led me from the snowy Rocky Mountains to the heart of canyons, where the towering cliffs whispered tales of ancient civilizations and echoed the wisdom of long-forgotten times when nature was part of life and where no entry fee had to be paid to khaki-clad rangers in a small air-conditioned toll booth.

This journey guided me through untouched wilderness, exhibiting the resilience and majesty of nature, but it also brought me to civilization as defined by the consumers of Las Vegas. I see no need to describe the urgency of leaving Las Vegas, swapping a world of make-believe for the unbelievable beauty of Arizona's deserts.

There are so many ways to describe the Colorado River. For some, it is a symbol of adventure, a challenge that needs to be explored. For others, it symbolizes life, or more profoundly: food, income, and ultimately a source of conflict on a hot, troubled planet.

I'm still searching for what the river means to me. Not a lack of words or ideas stops me from expressing how I experience the river's significance; I still have to sort out the journey's abundance of impressions and thoughts.

When I grew up, Colorado, the state, was for me synonymous with America. And although I know better now, the feeling never left me. The Colorado River is an extension of that image. It represents a gateway to unmatched natural beauty, fascinating history, geology, and a barometer of our planet's changing living conditions.

The river reminds me that life is a continuous journey, where each step reveals the boundless beauty of life in all its forms. It may die in the Mexican desert, a river's life cut short and sadly no longer reaching the sea, but the spirit of the river, and each water drop that ever joined its journey, will always be there.

I have advised many friends to someday walk a pilgrimage. But this journey by car is an alternative to consider. The spirit of this river, and its spectacular route, may open your eyes to life's endless possibilities that lie ahead. So go there someday, embrace the wild, the unknown, and let this majestic river guide you to new horizons.

---

---

Let me add a few more thoughts:

Today in Ottawa

I'm writing to you from Ottawa, Canada. My journey along the Colorado River ended in late April, but I still have many photos and stories to share; I left you in my last writing in Moab, just across the border from Colorado in Utah, which was perhaps just one-third on my way to the Arizona-Mexican border. I shared my search for dinosaur fossils and ancient petroglyphs with you in that story. So if you don't mind, I will catch up once in a while with a Colorado River story, at my own pace, in the months to come, and I even play with the idea of using the material for a book someday.

Meanwhile, travel continues. I was in New York City and will soon be in the Netherlands and possibly Germany, and I dream of returning to Spain this year.

This newsletter is a mix of opinions, news about climate change and related issues, storytelling, travel photos, and other forms of content. My last few posts were about American politics from a historical perspective, or maybe I should say a warning against the dangers of neofascism. You may think it looks unrelated to the stories of my journey along the Colorado River, yet there is method in 't.

This publication is called the planet because I am worried about the lack of understanding of our planet's challenges like climate change, biodiversity loss, water shortages, and pollution. That is what motivated me to start writing this newsletter. But that story can only be told if I also cover governance and politics, as well as stories about the beauty of nature since we must know what's at stake, and when you love our planet's beauty, you're more inclined to fight for its protection.

Perhaps I should split this paper into two versions: the news and the stories, the "bold and the beautiful"; a climate/politics/news version, and one on nature/travel/photography/storytelling. But I hesitate to take that step since I believe it is all one story of our beautiful planet, threatened and admired, wasted and protected.

Suggestions on how to do better are always welcome, and thanks to those who wrote to me.

Oh, and since you are still here: thank you for your support, and a special welcome to new paying subscribers. If you haven't subscribed yet, please do: you make it possible for those who can't afford it to read this newsletter for free.

Some related newsletters I published:

I took the photo of the Colorado River that you find in this newsletter of April 18 at about the same spot as the photo at the top of this newsletter today. But it looks different because I took the picture the next day in changed light conditions and in the downstream direction instead of upstream.

And this is the second one I posted about the Colorado River:

And there are seven more newsletters, slowly following my way downstream. You find all of them on my homepage at Substack.