"Down the River" is the longest chapter in Edward Abbey's famous semi-autobiographical, philosophical treatment of the desert, Desert Solitaire. Abbey remains a divisive figure, even within the minds of commentators on his work. Generally people admire his poetic and philosophical approach to the wilderness, and his ability to appreciate its wonders. People generally dislike his disagreeable temperament, his relationships with his five wives, and his inconsistent virtues when dealing with the wild -- killing wild animals, for example, not only for food or out of necessity but apparently for pleasure.
Ideally philosophers demonstrate their virtues in life and not only in thought, but frankly that is more of a beloved rarity than a normal fact. (The Stoics had a particularly good run, I notice.) Abbey died well, and served honorably in the military right at the end of and just after the Second World War. His writing is often insightful and valuable. Each of those things is not nothing, and together they are more than most people manage.
"Down the River" is a striking piece because it captures the last days of a beautiful river that was about to be destroyed by the flooding attendant to the construction of a dam. Those of us who have grown up around the Appalachians, where the TVA operated on one side and Duke Power on the other, have sympathy for what was lost in the destruction associated with such things. Here it was homes, farms, communities, as well as waterfalls and blessed rivers; there no one lived, not since the ancient natives abandoned the valley for reasons unknown, but the treasures he describes are irreplaceable: cathedral-like caves in the canyons, petroglyphs and homes of the Anasazi (as he calls them, following the Navajo, but N.B. the current objection of some of their descendants mentioned at the link), a land of springs and birds and catfish that grilled up beautifully with the bacon grease they wisely reserved on their trip.
As a travelogue it is a very nice piece; I spent the week making in sequence the breakfasts he describes them cooking over campfires by the river. Anyone who has spent time on a raft on a river will find that it brings back the best of those memories. The philosophical turns he takes are interesting, with en passant mentions of Socrates and Aristotle; so too is his musing on what he never describes as his longing for an absent but somehow ever-present God, against whom Abbey bears clear anger for being so evident but inaccessible. He keeps trying to talk himself out of God, but keeps returning to him.
In the end his companion and himself reach the place where government authority commands that they leave the river, leave it forever. There will be and can be no return, no second chance to find the cavern they missed, no second visit to the wonders. All the places seen are condemned to be destroyed. We cannot believe this is possible, he tells the reader; we know it but cannot entertain it. To do so would be to give ourselves over to "helpless rage, helpless outrage."
It's all gone now.



