“Just a pocket of cold air,” Mark said. But he quickened his pace. By 10:45 PM, the trail had become a suggestion rather than a path. The River Walk 17 signage was ancient—wooden posts eaten by termites, arrows pointing in three different directions. We relied on the sound of the current. Left is downstream. Right is home.
By: RealWifeStories
Not ours. Ours were soft on packed dirt. These were deliberate. Slow. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. They were coming from the treeline behind us, but when we stopped, they stopped. realwifestories shona river night walk 17
“Mark, that’s our lantern,” I said.
But Mark had the lantern. I had the thermos. And we were both stubborn. The first quarter mile was beautiful. The moon was a perfect crescent, casting silver shards through the cottonwoods. The river sounded like a lullaby. Mark held my hand, joking about how this would be the “most romantic” of my RealWifeStories yet. “Just a pocket of cold air,” Mark said
There is a specific kind of silence that lives along a river at midnight. It is not the silence of a vacant room or the pause between conversations. It is a living, breathing thing—thick with the rustle of unseen wings and the whisper of water over stone.
But the figure from the opposite bank was now standing at the edge of the water, on our side. The River Walk 17 signage was ancient—wooden posts
By 10:17 PM, we parked the car at the old trailhead. The map said River Walk 17 . It's a local designation for the 17th access point along the Shona—a path the park rangers advise against using after dusk.