I admit it. I love winter. I love the way snow accents and highlights and draws the eye to things unseen in summer. Oh, the cold gets to me sometimes, but the older I get, the less I find myself wishing the time away to more pleasant seasons. The day we took these pictures over the Rio Grande, the wind whipped at our coats. The bridge was largely empty. It was viciously cold up there. But when I look at these pictures and I think of the company I enjoyed that day, I'm glad the memory of the stinging cold stays with me. I'm glad I can remember the way the sun made me squint. I'm glad I remember two expectant dog faces in the car windows welcoming us back and wondering why they couldn't get out this time. When I think of Liv's incredible focus on roadside plants when we crested that gorge, as if there was nothing more interesting up there than the place she parked to gather scent one day in late summer, I laugh. Up there. Where the world opens up into a high, lonesome plain, made all the more amazing by the knowledge that a crevice in the Earth awaits the one who stumbles around in the dark. It was blissfully amusing.
And then there was this view. And the angle of the shadows.
And the glow of the waning sun on the water.
Honestly, it was magical.
And this is also what I remember. The one who brought me here.
One gorge at a time.