We crossed the river about a dozen times, hopping from rock to rock above the rapids, but at one place, at the base of Paw Hill, the only way to cross was to wade. That will be the only crossing that I will remember, the only one that will matter.

Cool water matters on a warm day. Bare feet on cold rocks in rushing water matter.

I remember wading across a river in the desert mountains a few years ago – the cold water, the soft sand.

Rock hopping above the rapids is good, but not enough. It is wading that matters. One must step into the river to live, step into the river to remember.