She knows the river and she knows the
desert. Her calloused, thick fingers say she knows how to use all the
tools in her garage too.
The desert, she reminds us, is danger.
"If you're hiking and need to pee, jus' turn and pee. Don't
wander off the trail looking for privacy because there ain't nothin'
out there tall enough to give you privacy anyway and it all looks the
same. You'll never find the trail again and we may never find you
either. We lost our survivalist last week."
She rents us two canoes for the price
of one — "The water's too low for you guys to share" —
and drives us to the put-in. She'll pick us up in three days. If
we're late, she'll wait. If we're early, we'll wait. A tiny canyon
wren fills the rocks with his song as time slips by like the Rio
Grande itself.
Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4
Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4
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