I’m one of the first to cross the threshold of the river into the canyon. The squeals that greeted me for last year’s retreat echo softly, then dissipate. I survey the dock and envision who stood where, who sat where, who clicked cameras. I remember skin-against-skin in hugs and handshakes.
All’s silent now, still, save for the gentle lapping of the Frio. The dock’s a ‘jumble with overturned, drained canoes and kayaks, the “small boats of skins” as the Inuit called them.
More of us will come soon . . .
Follow the flow over to The High Calling where I’m sharing reflections today from the Writers’ Retreat at Laity Lodge. Come on. You know you want to.