Knee deep in the Rio Grande, because it’s only knee deep. (Taken with instagram)
Slight chance of rain
This morning we hiked through a dry slot canyon 20 miles west of Lajitas. This is my kind of canyon - a narrow gap cut through 200 feet of stone by eons of wind and water, carving a trail a mile deep into a mountain, where eventually, it opens into the cliff face above the Rio Grande. Water forces its way through the stone, carving twists and pools and waterfalls, leaving the stone smooth as a concrete floor when we clamber around those bends. The walls on either side are gnarled and sharp and riddled with caves. The early morning sun sets them glowing in a deep burnt red far above, and the bottom of the canyon stays shady and cool. As we climb deeper, I think that a flash flood in a canyon like this would kill us, there is no escape. And it feels like hundreds of years may have passed since water last gushed through here, except that a brilliant green young mesquite grows out of every crevice deep enough to hold on to a few grains of sand. That’s an extreme sport to me: a moderate hike in a cool place with just the tiniest hint of danger. It hasn’t rained in these parts since a year ago October. The only other life we see are millipedes - lots of them, I don’t know why, and in the cool shady canyon, only 1 big curious fly.
Driving back past that trailhead a few hours later, it starts to rain in the desert.
Arriving at Lajitas after 8 hours on the road. Shoes off, feet in. (Taken with instagram)
