Writing assignments have their share of misadventures. In his latest Canyon Commentary, author Scott Thybony recalls how the haunting music recorded in a deep, stone chamber made the difficulties worth the effort.
After searching for a group of musicians, I find myself stranded on a beach next to the Colorado River. Outside magazine has asked me to do a story on an album being recorded in the Grand Canyon by the Paul Winter Consort.
For their final session, Winter invited me to join them above Lees Ferry. The exact location remained vague. For years, he has produced popular albums going beyond his jazz roots to create an eclectic style hard to pin down. His group has already made three river trips merging their improvisations with the crash of rapids, the echo of birds among the cliffs, and the buzz of insects around a seep spring. They need one more session to wrap it up.
At the Lees Ferry boat ramp a river guide offered to shuttle me upriver to where he thought the musicians had camped. He spotted their rental boat tied onshore and dropped me off. Finding no one around, I left a note before taking shelter in an overhang as a thunderstorm approached. Twenty minutes later I heard a motor start. Running down to the river I saw a lone boatman motoring upstream. Thinking their camp must lie in that direction, I began bushwhacking through thickets of tamarisk and willow. It was slow going, and I ended up bivouacking.
At dawn I pushed on until reaching the end of dry land. The water had warmed to 48 degrees, and was only crotch deep. Scratch out “only.” I waded across to a sandbar which soon ended in deep water. A few fishermen motored past, so I stuck out my thumb.
The hours now pass slowly as I catch a series of rides without finding any sign of the musicians. A fisherman offers to take me back to Lees Ferry where food and cold beer wait. But a few minutes later I spot the rental boat where it was parked yesterday. Giving up a sure ride, I get dropped off and move quickly through the brush before the boat can leave.
The guy who deserted me is lurking nearby and says without apology, “I got your note.” He tells me he’s the cook for the group, and explains how they were unable to secure the proper permits in time. His job was to set up a fake camp to draw attention away from the real camp hidden nearby. As the two of us talk, Winter and his friends show up.
He introduces himself and the other musicians, John Clark and Paul McCandless. They intend to record at midnight in a spectacular box canyon they have named “Bach’s Canyon” after the great composer.
In late afternoon we head up a bouldery wash lugging a soprano sax, a French horn, and an oboe. On the way I ask Winter why he chose this place to record. “The natural acoustics,” he says, “perfectly match those of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine in New York City.”
We enter a narrow passage leading into a chamber where sandstone walls soar 800 feet overhead. Once inside, our talk quiets the way voices do when entering a hushed cathedral.
At midnight a pale band of moonlight appears high on the outer rim, and the musicians respond with a few stray notes. Suddenly a lyrical, haunting song rises from the depths of the canyon. The music reverberates through the rock chamber with a strange beauty. It seems to have been drawn from the heart of the canyon itself as the musicians improvise with the silence, the wind, and the trilling of a canyon wren awakened by sounds it never heard before.
Next day I ask Winter, “What would you call the type of music you were playing?”
“Our music last night,” he says, “was nature happening through us, within us.”
Scott Thybony is a Flagstaff-based writer. His Canyon Commentaries are produced by KNAU Arizona Public Radio.
