A silver thread glimmers in the distance; a tiny reflection in a vast space of unknown rock mazes and labyrinths that remain possibly nameless and certainly without people. Perhaps for entire seasons, these canyons remain empty and out of reach; no human voice careens up their sandstone corridors — only the riotous flap of raven wings. The thread though — that bright reflection is an old and dear friend of mine. There’s a certain sweet intimacy there for it’s a river upon which we have traveled many times, whenever she lets us visit her and travel upon her still and gentle surface. When we are on a river trip, she is our lifeline. She is the only way in and out of an otherwise desolate and incredibly arid environment. And that stretch alone, right there, carries an encyclopedia of memories. That little tiny elbow of the river houses memories of hikes and encounters with desert-dwelling animals. Climbing up rocky ledges, caked in red clay, in search of petroglyphs. Searching high and low for cliff dwellings. Finding beautiful relics of a past civilization that flourished here. Feeling embedded in a world of true magic and a mindset of being a kid again — when this crystalline structure based around the believable dissolves away, if only for a short while, and things that feel out of normal are possible.