The road fell out of the sky to a flat plain below where no river was in sight but instead outcroppings of houses could be seen from miles away. The sage smelled especially strong on this day considering the early false spring sun was bright and warmer than normal for this time of year. What seemed like topographical monotony before now towered over their shoulders with snow gleaming and clinging on to the hoodoos as they made their descent into the valley of the invisible river. A sulpher smelled emanated from the water logged ground and the color of dry crackling yellow bushes added to a feeling of staleness. Not what he was expecting after a year of adventuring and fishing in green places and in majestic places and in clean smelling places. But it was still ok because there was dry fly fishing here in the winter and that is not something to be overlooked. A dirt road lead to a culvert and there was a drainage ditch coming out if it. It was a river. A mud cliff and some thorns greeted the hard vinyl and rubber as the clean raft became camouflaged out of necessity, falling some 20 feet to the ditch below. Blue wing olives started popping off the water and soon they all were in their element. The hours flew by and soon the pink sunset greeted them at the take out with a majestic voice and a chorus of curling wave shaped clouds. They wiped off the mud. Poured out the beers. They ascended the sky road and left the invisible river behind.