Approaching the river here, at yet another right angle joint in the bedrock granite, I could see continuous snow crossing the flow, perched up in the boulders. It looked pretty marginal, but conceivable. I’d have to look closer. The Rubicon rushed by heedless, waist deep or deeper, pumping hard enough to bowl you over, and sweep you into the frothy boulders below. It was about fifty degrees out, the sun baking down on the snow, water running everywhere. I had seen where the river’s edge snowbanks had collapsed in the melt in the last couple days. As the river level came up it undercut them, and as they melted in the hot March sun, and became unconsolidated, they calved into the flow.
