All this talk about the Rapture, Judgment Day and the End of the World has me thinking about my own religion: I belong to the Church of Desert Creeks.
Deer Creek in Grand Canyon is home to the greatest patio in the world. It is part of sweeping bedrock shelf of Tapeats Sandstone that perches next to the creek as it enters the twisting narrows and finally plunges to a 100-foot waterfall near the edge of the Colorado River.
The patio probably got its name from river runners, who are professionals at enjoying the outdoors. If Sunset Magazine published Backcountry Living, the Deer Creek patio would be the center spread. But if this new religion sticks it could also become known as the Lord’s Patio. It is undoubtedly a holy place.
Most people hike up to the Deer Creek patio from a river trip, and are lucky if they get to spend an hour lounging before it is time to leave paradise and head back to the boats. I have never been satisfied with so little time in such a glorious place. But to plan for a longer stay requires a multi-day backpacking expedition from the North Rim.
One May several years ago it was my good fortune to be at the Deer Creek patio for a couple days. I was part of a National Park Service research expedition that was surveying the small mammal populations at the campground near the patio.
The Deer Creek patio was filled with the spring fury of blooming plants and bird activity. Bird by bird we peered into the window of this riparian ecosystem. We watched a black phoebe feed insects to her nestlings’ gaping mouths. Three of them were crowded into a nest that was no more than a small cup of sticks and mud affixed to a shelf in the narrows.
A pair of American dippers were courting—singing and strutting to each other with their bills pointed up. Sophie, my field companion studied them in Montana streams for her master’s thesis and enthralled me with stories of their life history. Dippers are one of the few songbirds that can swim. They actually wade underwater and eat aquatic invertebrates. Their compact, round physique with short tails and tiny wings make them well adapted to frolic among rushing streams, which is their preferred habitat. With Sophie’s powerful binoculars, we watched the couple fly with dried grass sprigs to a spot beneath a small boulder-chalked waterfall where they were building a nest. Dippers get their name from their constant dipping—a rapid, rhythmic bending and straightening of bird knees. Why they actually dip has generated many theories from scientists, but remains a mystery.
In my tent that night my mind was swimming with all the questions. Raindrops the size of dimes fell from the sky like bullets accompanied by ferocious gusts of wind. Minutes later the sky cleared. I peeled back the stifling rain fly to reveal a view of the statuesque figures of cottonwood trees against the moody blue darkening sky. The smell was a rare fragrance of water in the desert, of roots reaching deep into the earth to access moisture. Their canopy makes a temporary home for the migrating summer tanagers and common yellowthroat warblers so they may court, defend and nest all around us in impossible shades of bright red and yellow.
Stars appeared and I lay naked on top of my sleeping bag, feeling the rare sensation of humidity on my skin. Contentment swept over me like an easy breeze. A tiny, delicate mint green moth was attracted to my headlamp. When it rested on my hand I admired his thick antennae and lacy, metallic wings. I wondered if this moth could be the same species of inchworm that I saw earlier that day working its way down a willow stem next to the creek. How long will this moth live? Does it contemplate the End of the World?
The more I look the more pieces I find to the puzzle of the natural world, one that will take my whole life and beyond to fit together. The abiding mysteries keep me believing in forces greater than me, especially after a day spent worshipping at the church of desert creeks.
