Carbonado, Washington began to doze off. Down below Mount Rainier in the foothills of the Cascades the river ran hard.
He walked out onto the bridge and took deep breaths of the understated splendor.
When he leaned over the rail, he saw how the history of the west can’t help but reflect the history of its water.
Staring down at the Carbon River from the Fairfax Bridge he saw currents of glacial meltwater converge.
Two histories raced through the same channels. They united to create a collection of myths vast enough to thunder through the floodgates of any reservoir.
That’s what he saw in the day’s final woodsy sunlight in Carbonado, Washington.
