Rio Grande Headwaters, Colorado

We camp at Ute Trailhead in the San Juan Mountains and in the morning, a white crystalline blanket covers the ground; my breath moves through the air with each exhale, spiraling up into a still, blue sky.

The horse skips, runs, tosses and bucks inside his pen – whatever it takes to warm up. We are not accustomed to 30 degrees in August, desert rats that we are, and his coat is one of summertime - not wintertime.

And he is sore, raw today, unlikely to be ridden. My fault for over-cinching his girth on our steep climb from the bottom of the Gorge the day before.

So instead of four hooves, I take four wheels and drive the forest road - a bumpy, tedious thing which seems to narrow exponentially with each torpid mile and eventually becomes too rocky – or so I decide after nearly three hours in and a few good hard hits on the running boards.

I am torn on whether to try again tomorrow. Whether to leave the horse unattended for so long, clearly this trek being an all-day event of four-wheel driving, narrow ledges, then eventually hiking at 12,000 feet. As with all worthy things, the roots of the Rio Grande are protected by difficult passage.

It is a pilgrimage of sorts, for me, to visit the birthplace of this mighty river so dammed and throttled on her way south to the Texas gulf coast that she sometimes hardly shows up at all. There’s something about her I relate to, something maybe we all can.

By my count, the horse and I have ridden close to 130 trails spanning Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, touching Colorado and California. All of them alone. Solo. Seul. Allem. Uno.

What started in anguish became an escape, deliverance, then finally completion. For it is only in solitude that we can truly face the current underneath and know her depths - I’ve been chasing these waters for years now.

My world was gray for a while, then black, then gray again, but now the wildflowers have taken over. Blooms of lilac, red, white and yellow spread their color across the rocky landscape – across the mountains, the deserts. I live in the dark no more.

In the evening, the dogs wrestle, the horse grazes, I gather her waters and wash, pouring strength and clarity across hair and body – a baptism of sorts. My hair has never been cleaner.

And I realize, we are in the headwaters, north of any dam or human intervention. This is pure Rio Grande, unfiltered. Maybe this is enough. Maybe I don’t need to conquer her, after all so many have already. Let her have her secrets, this river, she has so few left to give.

Do not let the world get hold of you, my friend...

govern, throttle, take you for its own.

Run.

Run like the river, the deer, the elk, the wolf.

Fly.

Fly like the blue jay, the magpie, the eagle, the hawk.

Give of yourself with caution. Be wary of those who want it all.

Their path is not your path.

You see, she is me and I am her.

It just took me a while to figure it out.