River maps are no longer accurate. The blue fingers of creeks and streams on the car's navigation system yield perhaps an arroyo when I glance out the window. A trace of a wash. If water exists it is choked with cottonwood and willow making their last stand; they know this is desperate. Plant wisdom sussed that out some time before we did.

I am now pushing any piece of this guy into the vehicle that I can with little regard to whether things bend the way they should. At long last his seat is in the seat. Legs still dangling but this has crossed over into a doable situation. Both men ask, are you a Park Ranger?

What happens when humans have the chance to hear anything they say reflected back as singsong in a canyon full of flowing sandstone?