Something between a thud and a crack. Almost soundless, yet not. I stumble in a snarl of river weeds, a crease between land and water. Impact, its implication a slow revelation, dented knee. No words pass my lips in the canyon, there is no one to hear them. Water rumbles over unseen boulders in the swollen river and morning light crests the canyon wall. My knee swells. Above, a mesa tops out of sight, access complicated with rough sandstone chunks and prickles of desert cacti. Ravens alight, land, gawp, and croak a demand. Lift leg, slide butt, pull backpack—repeat.
Stacy Boone is a backpacking guide. She shares with others how to build their own outdoor relationship. When not guiding she writes. Mostly about water.