Mapped

It’s all been mapped.

Every street, hill, hollow, river, and stream. Satellites peer down from five hundred miles up, gobbling the earth, stitching together the globe. Cars driven by computers, cameras mounted on their roofs, patrol our neighborhoods, cataloging the architecture of our lives.

The mystery humanity lived with for eons, laid plain. Captured in hi-res. Filed into servers.

Yet here, on a snowy hillside in Garden Valley, sits a quiet bend of the Payette. The cold air smells of fresh snow and wind through the pines.

Mapped. Not discovered.