By Nathan Horowitz

My son Nate (13 years old) wrote this powerfully descriptive narrative of a Slot Canyon. I was blown away and got his permission to share it here:

A slow drip, drip, drip, running down a sandy mountain, that no one could hear, in the middle of a cold and desolate desert.

Occasionally, those drips of water would turn into a roaring river, rushing through the desert like a pack of howling coyotes.

Overtime, these simple events would continuously happen, unbeknownst to most souls, except for the occasional flock of birds, who had no interest in it.

Years upon years passed and overtime, the flat desert began to have a crack in it from the running water. Soon that crack would become a pit; a deep, dark narrow pit stretching for miles, and only the water knew.

Eventually, adventurers found these slots of whimsical wavy lines of orange and tunnels so narrow, only mice could fit through. The canyons would eventually fill up with people looking for adventure, and soon the lovely natural walls of the slot canyon became a hot tourist destination where the tunnels would be filled with voices to cover up the whistle of the wind.