Sometimes when I ride my bike I think about the desert.
I think about places with immense heat. The kind that slows everything down. My breath, my pace, my sense of time. All slow to the speed of the prickly pear…
I think about places where the writing on the wall tells a reasonable person to turn back…
Where the only available water isn’t fit for bovine consumption…
But it is an ironic place, the desert. Sometimes there is so much water it gets in the way…
Sometimes the water is the way…
It’s called Wet Beaver Canyon, and yes we made our fair share of ‘wet beaver’ jokes. But one was less a joke and more a reality...
The desert only lets wet beavers get through.
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