The Little Colorado River is an enigma. It is often dry, but carries huge floods. It begins in mountains of spruce but flows through deserts of sand. In springtime, its water is borne of high country snowmelt from the south. In summer, the river runs with thunderstorm rains to the north.

The Southwestern monsoon sends floods down the Little C that often go nowhere, lost in a tangle of tamarisk or soaked into a pit of thirsty sand. One might find a river at one bridge and a mud hole of bawling cows at the next.

Thus, it was with some elation that we found a bubbling brown river at the closed-for-now road crossing.

Just downstream, the toe of frozen lava ran across the river’s path, creating a shelf of speeding water called Black Falls.

The temporary river quiets below the cascade, as if taking a rest from the tumult. Re-gathering, it picks up pace, snaking across the desert in the shadow of the Peaks. Was it rising or falling? We couldn’t tell. Didn’t really care. For now, the empty river was alive.