The summer before last Julia and I took a spontaneous camping trip on a Monday, just her and I. The campsite was empty and we hiked down to the river. We took a right and climbed up over a big rock and looked down into this idyllic little cove with a rocky beach and glassy green water.
We waded out into the water, past the curve of the rocky beach we had come from. Downstream the riverbed wasn't a layer of river rocks, but rather huge expanses of bedrock that had been smoothed and hallowed out by the current of the water. In the hallows smaller rocks had been carried down and found new homes.
I found myself captivated by these little collections of rocks. I found myself awkwardly standing in the water trying to focus my camera through the water, the reflections, the ripples of light on the rocks. It looked like another world, one where it was hard to tell what was real and what wasn't.
The next day we drove out to the painted hills. Another otherworldly place, where the air was hot and dusty. There, rocks were nestled together in the cracks in the ground, lined up on the pebbly soil, and one impressive pillar of a rock stood in the dip at the bottom of a hill. Different rockhomes. Rocks being held by the crackled mud hills. Rocks being held by water. Real, or not real?