18 NOVEMBER
We blijven zes dagen in Page en vermaken ons geweldig goed. We bezoeken een Navajo Village openlucht museum. Zien alleen de buitenkant, want het is tot maart gesloten.
We g
aan opnieuw naar het visitorcenter/museum bij de Glen Canyon dam, zien daar een paar indrukwekkende korte documentaires.
Over ons bezoek aan deze dam schreef ik in 2013 al. Nu citeer ik hier het verhaal van de Coloradorivier, vanuit de beleving van de rivier zelf.
‘ I begin as snow falling high in the Rocky Mountains, each
flake different from its neighbor, each shaped by the weather that day – hard
dense ice crystals on a wet day, light fluffy puffs of snow on a cold dry day.
Snowflakes collect together into a snowpack, measured and noted by
climatologists. I gather my forces over the winter and in spring I melt into
water droplets and am pulled by gravity , trickling into rivulets, running into
creeks, coursing into streams and as I flow downhill my streams join together, more
and more water until I plunge and swirl into great rushing rivers like the
Green, the White, the Gunnison, the San Juan. Small rivers join bigger rivers
and eventually I come together to form the mighty Colorado. I follow a course
well known to the indigenous people, a course I have carved over uncountable
centuries. They call me by my most ancient names. They still use my waters for
traditional ceremonial purposes, for irrigating their traditional crops of
cotton and corn and for irrigating new crops too, like alfafa and potatoes. I
participate in their ceremonies and flow through landscapes populated with
their ancestors and histories. In the depths of my canyons fish swim against my
flow, birds hunt for fish, plants of every type draw my water through their
roots, animals of every description drink from my shores. Most species are old
friends, but some are new to me. I give
to them all freely. I run a course used by many explorers, adventurers and
scientists as they try to conquer me, describe me, map me, understand me. I
encounter new places like Lake Powel, where people gather with friends and
family, float on my placid surface, hike tributary side canyons, soak in the
sun, make memories. Here I gather my waters, build my power and slowly make my
way through the reservoir until suddenly I plunge into a tide chute and slam
against the blades of a massive turbine, pushing it with my incredible force.
Dam and powerplant operators measure me, harness my power and share it with the
West, powering factories and farms, lighting lamps on citystreets and
nightlights in babies’ rooms. I am released back in familiar Glen Canyon, a
deep and timeless canyon I have hewn from rock, every twist and bend well known
to me. I carry silt and stone through the ancient Grand Canyon to carve it ever
deeper. People draw water from me to irrigate nearby fields just as they have
since times immemorial, to make distant desserts burst with new and delicious
fruit, to feed their families, to feed their nations. You have probably eaten
fruit grown with my water by farmers. I am joined by still more of my
tributaries as I flow towards Mexico where people also use my water to grow
crops, to feed their families , to feed their nation. Still I trickle towards
my delta, nearly dry now, a delta I have reached only a handful of times since
I was dammed, a delta I barely remember, where once I kissed the sea. Instead I
rush, I gush, I course through canals, pipelines, irrigation jets, tubes, taps,
always ready, always flowing, always serving, every drop accounted for, every
drop needed, every drop precious – the source of life.’