All "3-and-some-feet" of my son is complaining every ten minutes or so, now he is finally sweaty enough to sacrifice the cap that shields his face from the "damn sun" in his face, and now I must wear it. The heavy sweat he left on the brow now sits cold and clammy on my own.
The trail narrows and becomes steep on the right as it levels down toward the left, to a shelf between walls that houses the first pool of water. It is a heavenly dream, miracle, oasis. We do not drink the water, but run our cupped hands across the surface of it, remove socks and lightly splash toes and balls of feet in it. It is cold and welcome. The ancient pictures in the rock are to our backs, high above on the wall without the trail. Looking up we see the water trickling down from over another rock. I do not know what is above that rock or where the water is coming from or what it looks like. For a long while I sat and did not think of it, even after my companions moved on to the higher and further grounds of the trail.
For some moments- a few, I could hear only the water spirits, the wind spirits and the chip of a winged one.