By Greg
More from our February quest for water in southern Arizona.
Here. A small vibrant stream flowing through a bed of greenish stone. High enough upon the shoulders of mountains to carry a sense of winter dormancy. High enough upon the shoulders of mountains to carry a sense of the promise of water. As if these pools, this stream, could be relied upon. Flowing. Even now, late in a dry winter. Providing for strange creatures. For the quiet trees and grasses and mosses and flowers. Adorned with copper leaves of a recent autumn. Waiting expectantly for spring.
There. Other mountains. Lower. Of pale, yellow stone. Painted with a sense of desolation. As if water would be found here only rarely. Never to be relied upon. The only promise one of hardship. Yet we found water. Secreted away in hidden pools. We found signs of spring's beginning in the blossoms of many flowers. The hollow bodies of insects suggested either a dangerous past or a more vibrant future -- we were unsure of which. Small water for small flowers. For small insects, sure. But also water for the female fox who screamed her yearning from the dark of our corral-side camp.
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Wet Water Stop:
Dry Water Stop:
