Watchman Campground, Zion National Park

Late arrival: 11pm

I find my way unknowingly to the Virgin river, led by the soft, white light all around me. Midnight haze. Cottonwood arms reach, stretch. Their silhouettes introduce the rushing water like a star on stage. White water washes, rushes, cleans away my fear and doubt. I follow the jagged horizon as it cuts up and down through the sky, dividing the constellations into new formations. A smoky scent from campfires comforts me, and moonlight graces each tree top like pixie dust. Shining bands of silver stretch out over me. I feel safe here, like inside the arms of an old friend.