A breath of wind blew down the canyon, but its treetop rustle was lost to the murmur of the river – running at 13,500 cubic feet per second – the pulse, its every crash, its ebb and flow and eddy.
Swallows hunted insects above the water and a long-billed bird dipped on a stone near the boat ramp. On the northern bank, yellow spots of color showed against the green grass. I checked my watch. It was almost 11:00am.