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.’