Even the cacti—their pads and withering flowers ringed in fleshy pink and chilled purple—look wrinkled from cold at Lee’s Ferry. The night’s cold causes me to pull the hood of my sleeping bag tightly around my head. Only my nose and eyes are exposed at the opening of the hood. With two fingers and the thumb of my right hand I reach across my body to find the Velcro flap that seals the opening of the sleeping bag at the top of the zipper. I sleep warmly in the cold night.
[this essay dates from 2 May]