The drive to Chukar is no joke, certainly not a road on which it is advisable to drink a hot cup of coffee, both for burn risk and increased anxiety reasons. Off-camber and rocky, it is enough of a deterrent to keep the masses away. Combined with the steep trail down to the river, one in which the assistance of cowboys and mules is welcomed, if not necessary, arriving at the water feels like standing at the entrance to a portal. Awaiting us, either through serendipity or precognition, is Rooster, the BLM ranger and our Charon-esque steward of the mythical watercourse.
Mustachioed, wiry, and possessing an ethereal calm that hints at the wisdom and peace within, Rooster is an archetype of the man that I aspire to be. His knowledge of this stretch of the Gunnison could fill tomes, but he is not a lecturer, he is a listener. I suspect that he would censure those that violated the sanctity of the magical place, but even his reproach would be measured and direct, rather than fiery and ranting. The delicateness with which he treated flora and fauna (humans included) alike speaks to a gentleness of spirit that is the mark of a true sage.
Rooster inherently exists within a byzantine bureaucracy, but he does not appear overly constrained by the red tape. The overlay of politics on our precious natural resources has always been an uneasy coexistence, decisions made in sterile boardrooms that have irreversible effects on primordial lands and streams thousands of miles away. It is as foolhardy as the British trying to beat the colonists with military orders concocted in London and comically outdated by the time that they arrived in Virginia many months too late. And yet Rooster just chuckles at the arrogance.
Rooster is the mentor that we all need, his demeanor something that should have a lineage, psychically if not biologically. To spend even a day, let alone a season, rowing Rooster from campsite to campsite, through fierce rapids, to internalize his thoughts and his placidity, is more than enough foundation upon which to build a life. To find oneself on his oars with open ears is to set the sanguine path of existence. It has become more challenging as the government struggles to staff the positions, but it is a worthy goal.
It is Rooster’s mandate to know the river and the people who come to pay pilgrimage. Yet his interest in the comings and goings of rafters and kayakers is clearly more than professional. His desire to understand the depth of a person is glaringly genuine, almost startlingly so. Even upon a first meeting, his recall of names, places, details is a rare trait indeed. The manner in which he inquired after a friend who had recently lost both of her parents was enough to reduce me to tears. Compassion, empathy, a deep filial love, these were all communicated with just a few gentle words. It was astounding and inspiring.
Reaching the take-out, the disappointment in having to step back onto shore and into the “real”-er world was palpable. I had experienced it after winter hut trips, SCUBA missions, bike adventures, but this was my first time in its grips after a river excursion. De-rigging next to Rooster and his partner, the casual conversation, the good vibes steadied me, assured me that this was a world into which I wanted to wade deeper.
As Rooster backed up his truck to depart, he rolled down his window, called me by name despite just meeting me the day prior, and wished me well until we saw each other again. It was a simple gesture, one that could have gone unnoticed, but one in whose thrall I will remain for the rest of my days.