Whitewater Gorge I said the boy's no good.

Set around June 25th.

The river called to him. The water level was lowering day by day, but the fish were plentiful. Most were fat and fighting against the current. He enjoyed watching them struggle; within the hollow, Mesa took the time to rest for a few hours, then journey up-river until he came to a shallow place populated by other scavengers.

There were ravens in the trees, at least one vulture lingering on the warm drafts overhead that he could spy; he could smell bear and knew to be cautious. As he hiked the gorge, a pair came in to view: a mother and a cub.

The cub looked to be playing among some pine saplings and had snapped one. The mother — who Mesa watched with much more focus — fished with swipes of brazen paws at the riverside.