Canyon Without Him

The fire snaps like it wants credit, hemming three dusty trucks into an uneasy triangle beside the river’s ribbon of cold light. Someone carved or arranged the question into the sand with rope and stubbornness—WHERE VOJTA?—as if the canyon itself might answer, or at least blush. Exhaust hangs faintly sweet, mingling with coffee steam rising from the lone enamel mug perched on a rock, a scent that drags the memory of earlier miles when we were sure he’d catch up after the last bend. This feels like a competitive pause, engines cooling while the stars referee. The chairs face inward, respectful of the flame, while the cliffs brood with the patience of old judges who’ve seen better searches fail. I remember how laughter bounced here before night took the temperature down and sharpened the silence. Now the river carries sound away and the fire keeps score of our waiting. We catalog gear, trade glances, and pretend the map still has authority, but the answer refuses to materialize. By morning the ashes will gray, the trucks will roll, and the canyon will remain; Vojta, fragrantly and stubbornly, does not.