There are mountain rocks, river rocks, heavenly rocks, earthly rocks, male rocks, female rocks, rocks neither male nor female, hard rocks, soft rocks, stationary rocks, flowing rocks, killing rocks, life-giving rocks, rolling rocks, flying rocks, sailing rocks, walking rocks, talking rocks, dancing rocks, rocky rocks, and non-rocks.

Our canoe rides a gentle current. Green rolling farmlands, craggy mountains, low lying wetlands glide by. Except for a few gentle strokes of the paddle to keep us heading in the right direction, we exert little effort, abandoning ourselves to the river. The afternoon is perfect. With the sun shining and clear water, I see sunken rocks rush past beneath us in the riffles and pools. The canoe’s shadow races over submerged boulders, stone clusters, and washes of pebbles. The history of these mountains and rivers is written in these rocks. All of them predate most plant or animal life. How many millions of years of sculpting by water and weather has it taken to create these incredible forms?

The canoe slides towards a rock outcrop. We land. The place boasts a fine spring and a pleasant vista. I cook dinner while my partner unloads. We have been training together on weekends, and by now feel confident as a team. Tomorrow, we will be encountering Class Four rapids. The locals call it “the falls” because of the river’s steep drop-off. The turbulent eddies below the rapids are a treasurehouse of outdoor equipment, deposited there from capsized canoes.

Next morning, before the sun lights up the predawn sky we have our breakfast and break camp. By the time the mountain tops are aglow we are underway. Within two hours we enter the two-mile stretch of rapids that precede “the falls.” The river narrows and the canoe picks up speed. We drop to our knees, lowering the boat’s center of gravity and adding some stability. Shimmering wet boulders scattered throughout this watercourse seem to bob up and down as we plummet towards them. Spray hits our faces, blinding us for a moment. An occasional wave sweeps aboard. Our training and teamwork are paying off.

In the distance we can hear the deep rumble and roar of “the falls,” our real challenge. I see mist from the churning waters hanging in the trees ahead of us. A swift current passing over submerged boulders creates huge standing waves with wild, white manes. The foaming turmoil is upon us before we know it. There is no turning back now, no time for fear. Paddles dig deeply as we parry and dodge rock after rock. Some are clearly visible, others hidden deep enough to remain invisible yet ground or flip a loaded canoe.

Reading the water and responding appropriately occur all in one instant. There is no room for reflection or discussion. The river has no mercy for the unwary or unskilled. Our bow smashes through an unavoidable standing wave and we take on about a foot of ice cold water. As it sloshes around the bottom, the canoe’s balance gets precarious. No time for bailing. Boulders streak by as we slither and slide in and out of souse holes, past rocks that flash towards us with foaming speedboat wakes. Swaying and pitching we work our way through the boiling turbulence into the smooth water. The river widens and slows down. The canoe, half full of water, drifts sluggishly. Soaked to the skin, we realize that we are shivering uncontrollably, half with excitement, half from the cold.

We beach the canoe and start a roaring fire. Dried out and fed, we return to the river and continue our journey downstream. Thousands of egg-laden shad pass us on their journey upstream to their spawning sites. The beauty of the day silences us. The river is smooth and lazy now. Leaning back, we let the current and the day carry us. We drift as if in a dream—an unfolding dream of wild nature, overhanging cliffs, towering pines and oaks, breathing bogs. The river nourishes our souls, while no more than two miles in any direction we are surrounded by manicured lawns, blacktop roads, MacDonald’s golden arches and all the endless conveniences of our civilization.

I have watched the creeping advance of civilization descend on the wild like a great dark cloud blocking out the warmth and light, enshrouding all that is free, untamed, and vibrant. Can I ignore my responsibilities and my passive compliance in the rape, squandering and destruction of our wild heritage? The dawn of each day witnesses the disappearance of countless acres of wilderness, hundreds of species. Acidic lakes are unable to support aquatic life. Before they reach the sea, some of our great rivers are sucked dry by overuse. Politicians debate, activists demonstrate, prophets of doom proclaim the end, while the jackals of commerce and special interest gorge themselves on what little remains of what this planet needs to support all of its life. What has been lost cannot be reclaimed. What would it take for all of us to realize that wilderness, indeed wildness, is critically necessary for the survival of this civilization? If either is to continue both must prosper; the wilderness unmanaged, raw and free, the civilization cultivated, controlled and developed. Wildness and civilization are interdependent, have a mutual causality, and share the same path.

As the journey continues, days slip by like cattails and cypress along the shore, glittering pebbles and mossy rocks beneath us. Conversation and commentary fade away and we settle into an unspeakable awareness and silent awe. We are ahead of schedule by a day and only about a half-day’s paddle from the end of our trip. We decide to stop and spend the last day celebrating this river. As soon as we share this thought the perfect cove manifests right around the next bend.

The campsite is next to the shallows of the river, bordering one of the most striking and beautiful community of rocks and boulders I have ever encountered. For the next thirty-six hours we disappear into the landscape, I with my camera, my partner with his journal. The river muse is unreserved and generous, unlocking sights, sounds and smells. The flow of water sings a sweet, lonely, and primeval tune. Changing light transforms the rocks into an endless stream of shifting forms, images, and feelings. As the day slides toward sunset each hour reveals more stunning faces concealed in this place. Then, the light is gone. I set the camera aside and let the night sounds in: spring peepers, the whisper of water, the sigh of the land.

The morning arrives wrapped in fog. Everything is illuminated with the eerie bluish glow of filtered sunlight. Yesterday’s forms have vanished, fresh images appearing in their place: shifting contours, hallows and protrusions, a stream of images—dancing, somber, comic, profound, unreasonable, sensuous, voluptuous, ascetic. Some are as gentle as a spring zephyr, others as stunning as a blow between the eyes.

The mix of river and earth, wet and dry, the different densities of mist absorbing the morning sun, reflections from the flowing water—all collaborate to create an ever-changing and astonishing drama. As the mist rises, direct sunlight floods the valley, and with it, more transmutations arrive. The range of perceptions and feelings is staggering. Universes and aeons pass through this cove no bigger than a tennis court. By midday I am completely exhausted. Propped up against a boulder, half in and half out of the river, I watch a water snake slither among the rocks. I drift off to sleep and dream of singing, dancing rocks.

Departing, a short stretch of paddling brings with it the first smells of civilization. Fast food grease, engine exhaust, factory smokestack effluent. Then the sounds: revved-up car and truck motors, insistent beeping horns, screeching brakes, the faint pounding of a bass speaker. And the images: even rows of houses, geometric parking lots, black telephone and electric lines intermingling with the green of maple and pine and the blue of the sky. Bridges and walkways crisscross the river; shad traps fill the shallows; people frolic along the river banks.

The spider web and the Brooklyn Bridge are both the work of nature. We must learn how the delicate dynamics of this unlikely relationship work. The earth’s heart is big enough to hold both. The question is, how big is the heart that we manifest?

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