That Night

I planned a campout here with my son. To show him the canyon. To point my lens at that bluff one more time.

I can’t help it. Every time I find myself in Swan Falls Canyon, I take this picture. I’ve got photographs of this scene going back a few decades. The canyon wall cuts a long, descending diagonal until it sheers off at the point, the scrub below flattened into a texture like suede.

The Snake River carved this canyon. That spring, along its banks, came a biblical hatch of mosquitoes.

We fought through a cloud of them to set up the tent, slapping arms and heads and legs as we pushed the poles through their sleeves, threw in the sleeping gear, and pulled the door shut as fast as the zipper would run.

ZZZZZZPPPP!

We lay in the dark, listening to what sounded like erratic rain. It wasn’t raining.

Zombie mosquitoes were throwing themselves against the nylon walls, seeking the blood we held inside.

We still laugh about that night.