Squamish

The trees are tinseled with green beards that must have been donated by punks who spent too much time in the sun. Logs piled-up in the river, some branches still have color. The fish are somewhere. Not here. They filmed part of the Revenant here. Those people would have died from hypothermia before getting a chance to be shot or mauled or scalped. It is nice to not worry about those things. My waders have a slow leak—half-way up my right leg. The water is only cold for a minute, then body heat takes effect—similar to pissing yourself. Round boulders—copper, white, and grey-blue make it hard to walk. God tells me my ankles hurt. The river is wide and shallow—quiet for once. I have no beer, but a few crackers and cheap cheese are good enough take a moment to think. I should Instagram this.