Second Sunday in May, Mother's Day. Mami and Auntie Gardi, off to Indian Canyons. The three of us walking through dry desert, full bloom over, flowers sprinkled still. Mami racing ahead, Auntie Gardi and I loitering over hidden flowers, the view each time we turn, round a corner, remember to look up. Hidden white flowers, tiny purple stars on dried stems, large yellow blooms, huge rock faces, and then the stream. Fresh mountain water tumbling across the desert. A shock, a gift, a glory. The sound is everywhere we walk. Crossing the water again and again, the bottom clear, colored stones calling to us. Winding through Murray Canyon, climbing, turning, breezes keeping away heat, becoming strong winds. White puffy clouds, rounded red rock ridges meeting sharp blue sky. A steep slippery scary part, vow to do the downhill on my butt, not taking any chances. A wrong turn, a dead end, no, no, not the waterfalls. Backtracking, finding the path. Folks returning, wet, swimmers. Around the next bend. People snapping pictures of a floundering Monarch with their cell phones. The wind too fierce for him?
The falling water loud, cacophonous. Big rocks like carvings, sculpture, the pool small, inviting, clear bottomed. Stopping later in the shade, eating rice wraps that fall apart on us, small heirloom tomatoes, fresh strawberries. Mami and I with brown desert dirt butts, Auntie Gardi laughing behind us. Counting the crossings on the way back down the winding trail. Well placed stones making paths across the stream, or splashing through the water, the cold on my feet, my calves, sweet in the warm day.
A sea of furry grasses, waving in the wind, brushing bare arms and legs in passing, soft as feathers. Eleven stream crossings in all, each way. Then walking across open desert to my dusty red car, tired, satisfied, glad. We'd seen the Seven Sisters.
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