LOG_045_RIVER_GORGE

The skiff drifts into the cool embrace of the canyon’s hands, a brief reprieve from the relentless light. Air knife-sharp, tongues cleaving to the roofs of mouths for want of a drink, dizzying heat rippling over the surface. The river a shining ribbon of deceit: here, the salinity is so high such that only halophiles can thrive in its waters. Open your mouth and feel the salt crystallize on your teeth; open your ears and hear nothing but wind whistling through winding walls worn down by time. Close your eyes and see the living-red heart-pulse of your eyelids, overexposed, reflecting sandstone and limestone and the rich red of iron, the pale shells of creatures long gone ground into dust.