A photo essay from a rafting trip on the San Juan River, a snowmelt-fed river flowing into the desert, for Indigenous matriarchs to reconnect with ancestral waterways and share generational knowledge.
Nestled in the warmth of the canyon walls, strong rays of sunlight beam down on my skin and the river. I touch the water; it is cold. My ears are filled with the sound of rapids approaching. I close my eyes, imagining the long journey the water has travelled from the forested snowy mountain peaks to here, the arid desert – not a pine tree in sight.
Last fall, I was invited to a rafting trip along the San Juan River hosted by the Indigenous Women’s Leadership Network. Our group included 18 Indigenous matriarchs, spanning generations and professions. The trip centered around stewardship, storytelling, kinship, and of course, water, within the ancestral lands of the Pueblo, Hopi, Ute, Paiute, and Diné nations. It was a true honor to be around powerful matriarchs—the life givers of our community—on this river, the life giver for the surrounding desert ecosystem, and the connector between upstream forest communities and downstream desert communities.
The San Juan River begins in the Dził Łigaii (San Juan Mountains in Navajo), which are part of the Rocky Mountain range, and flows into the Colorado River, then accumulates at Lake Powell, a reservoir formed by Glen Canyon Dam. In this 383-mile journey through the southwest, the river encounters several dams that disrupt its ecological health.
These photos shared were from a 28-mile rafting journey from a place called “Bluff, Utah” to “Mexican Hat, Utah” during late summer before entering autumn (mid-September). The photos have an old-school look because I used an old point-and-shoot camera.
Setting off in a tandem kayak with my partner, I watch as the water flows past each bend, every rock, and plant. Water is so powerful; it has carved its way through this canyon.
With every stroke, I learn with my eyes, examining each sediment layer. I smell plants with my nose and feel plants and rocks with my hands. I listen to the sounds of the water and the animals with my ears. As I float along the river, every bend offers something new to observe quietly.
At every stop for lunch or to set up camp I was introduced to more canyon memories.
The Land is my classroom, unlike the colonial classrooms in schools founded on violence and legacy of residential and missionary schools. This classroom allows everyone to be a student because there is always something to learn and observe from the land.
A classroom where Indigenous languages are spoken and shared, like Diné, Hopi, Quechan, Apache, and Ute, to name a few. A classroom that deeply values life experience and generational knowledge.
The canyon is a form of climate recording and reporting; each sediment layer tells a story about the conditions of the land and atmosphere. There are even fossils of flora and fauna from millions of years ago. One of the oldest climate records, going back millions of years – this is a map of the conditions of the Earth.
A silent form of documenting the ecosystems held within the canyon walls.
However, the invasive Russian olives and tamarisk control and limit the boundaries of the river. Where the water flows, the Russian olives and tamarisk outline the path, sucking all the water for themselves. They drain the native cottonwood trees of life because in the canyon, water is life.
In the desert, wherever there is water, the plants create a green silhouette against the brown or red soil following the path of the water.
At lunchtime I look up at the branches of the Russian olive trees. These plants will be included in the canyon’s records – showing abundance and unfamiliarity. The entire river is lined with Russian olives.
A powerful reminder that actions have ripple effects, the Russian olives and tamarisk placed here over a century ago are now a significant part of the ecosystem, the canyon, and the river. In this moment, my mother’s words echo within the walls of the canyon: “We are not the center of the universe or master of the land or river.”
The canyon has a cycle that has been perfected over millions of years from the nourishing acts of trees, flowers, ants, birds, and so much more. Cycles are important because there are natural processes of reciprocity. When cycles are disrupted, like building hydroelectric dams and introducing non-native plants to the ecosystem, the effects are continuous and detrimental to everything and everyone.
Markings of water levels are another form of climate record that you can see. The water level is dropping. The snow accumulation is decreasing each year as the winters are warming, and snowy winters in the Rocky Mountains are becoming less consistent. The name of the San Juan Mountains in Diné, Dził Łigaii, means peaks are snow-covered yearly, but that is changing because of climate change.
On a map, the San Juan River is depicted as something concrete — a blue line that meanders across the hard lines of state borders and past pinpoints representing cities. The canyon expands this narrative, forming a map of rivers, plants, atmospheric conditions, animals, and humans that change with every season.
This waterway has been active for millions of years; it knows all the canyon’s secrets and stories. The water is so powerful, it is constantly changing the canyon with every sunrise, new moon, and new season.
A river is living, always changing in flow, path, color, and amount, with each change recorded in the canyon walls and formations.
One of the many things I love about canyon walls is all the colorful hues they can reflect, from a dark, vibrant red to warm orange to any shade of brown to dark purple to black. On the river, the most vibrant colors appear as the sun rises above the horizon, beaming a yellow-orange light on the canyon walls creating a bright red hue. Unfortunately, this camera cannot capture the vibrancy of colors, so just imagine rich colors.
I can learn about my colors here—all the colors of the rainbow, all the colors of the canyon. I see red rocks, green plants, brown water, black rocks, orange sunset, blue skies, gray clouds, white sediment, purple flowers, yellow plants (the tops), and white stars.
Our time on the river was a journey filled with laughs, stories, and knowledge exchanging in company with the water and all its beauties and challenges, like navigating over sandbars and rapids. Before this experience, I never thought I would ever experience a water journey within my ancestral homelands, let alone with relatives.
As I end my journey on the river, the water will continue to flow through the forest ecosystems into the desert and mix with other waterways connected to other ecosystems. The river is a connector.
With each passing moon, I am reminded of the powerful knowledge and strength of the river and canyon – it is not a matter of saving the river but living in harmony. This canyon has existed for millions of years, and it will continue, watching, listening, and observing the changes within. A reminder that we are not masters of the canyon or waterways; we are stewards. I will continue to honor my relations with this life-giving relative through love and care.
The canyon is the original steward of the river. It has held and sustained the river for millions of years – literally!
Different ways of knowing: Explore the San Juan River
Click and zoom in on the map below to explore the San Juan River from above as it meanders through the desert on its way to the Colorado River. What colors can you see?
Historical climate records from San Juan County, UT show great variation in precipitation levels over time. Data from Drought.gov, shown below, tracks rainfall in the form of a Standardized Precipitation Index (SPI). The San Juan River canyon tells the same story in a different way.
