Lot Rocks

We headed for the Weber just before dusk. It's low on account of the drought. The spring run-off rushing sound was long gone; the calm, tranquil fall flow was music.

We all set off on our own, each escaping to different spots, our minds following our feet as all else but river dashed out. Dad was his usual boy-ish self; the boy who appears only a few places. I think the cabin brings it out in him most, though. He was off down the bank, leaping rock to rock, quickly jumping out of sight.

I began the hunt. I like to try and find the round rocks. They know the river well. They've lived it. They have felt Spring run-offs and fall tranquility, over and over again. I made a small pile a few hundred yards from the bridge. I'd return every so often to make an exchange, tossing back the less-round. I chose a couple for E.

Richard opened up a small hole in a long rock wall that other river-goers had started, letting the trapped water rush through, mightily. Dad put the last touches on his new form of rock art. He pointed it out to me from the top of the bank, quite pleased with himself, the boyish grin on his face bearing witness to the fact.

We entered Weber Meadow View just as the last bit of sun touched the mountains.

Just as all got quiet before we fell asleep on the deck under the stars Dad said, as he always does, "Can you hear the river?"