Sometimes, when I'm floating the Buffalo River, I look up at the towering walls of limestone, with their streaks of white, caramel bands and shiny anthracite. I like to imagine a sky-scraper sized Bob Ross dabbing those bluffs with his palette knife, then lining the cliffs and ledges with junipers from his brush. What a happy world. How else could it be so picture perfect?
Then I realize, dude, you're stoned. Hell's half acre is around the next bend. You better shake it off.
Then I realize, dude, you're stoned. Hell's half acre is around the next bend. You better shake it off.