My anticipation clutched and tugged at me, pulling me away from all distractions.  We were close, only a few hundred sun-bleached, sandy yards away.  The road to the house that my family gathered in every June looked as it always had in my memories: open blue sky above, a stone dry wooden fence running on the left side, and parched light green-yellow grass, cut down to an inch, that to the skin felt more like flimsy razors.  Despite this unforgiving Texas climate, the sense of finally reaching that second home made my pulse pound with the feeling of being in paradise.  The familiar smells on the dry air that rushed through the back car window gave me that joyously eerie feeling of déjà vu 10 times over.

The small and foreign rental car seemed to crawl along past the small cactus plants and other houses on the right side of the road.  I gazed across the barren valley on the other side of the wooden fence, at the large mounds of earth, not quite mountains, but still large enough to wall this world off from the irrelevant world beyond them.

All at once my excitement tripled.  There was our small house, 25 yards from the road.  The large cobble stone siding was various shades of tan and brown, and through the two large glass windows on the right hand of the front of the house I could spot various members of my family announcing our arrival.

The car turned into the front lot, and before the car had even begun to stop I had flung my door open.  I stepped out into the blazing light emanating from the white sun above.  It all felt familiar and right.  I walked to the front door, prepared to receive the barrage of hugs and compliments from the family I had not seen since the year before.  The green wooden door opened before I could grab onto the black iron handle, and my family waited to greet me.  I patiently hugged my family and gave the awkward hellos to my cousins.  Though we were always reserved at first, we always soon warmed up to each other and became comfortable.  My aunts and grandmother gave me hugs, and my uncles gave me hearty handshakes.  I responded with the same polite kindness and was happy to see them.  But this was not the moment that had previously caused me to restlessly tap my fingers.

I made my way to the other side of the house from the front door, scanning the one-room living area and kitchen.  The L-shaped couches were right where they had always been in the middle of the large interior.  As was the bar lined with stools, the table where we played cards and the two spinning chairs that sat in front of two large glass windows, spanning from floor to ceiling, where all members of my family had sat and stared out at the harsh valley at one time.  It was cool inside, a fan spinning noisily about 15 feet above. 

Though I did take notice of all of this, it was only for a moment, my attention had snapped onto what lay beyond the glass wall of windows that formed the back of the house.  I rushed to the sliding door and pushed it aside.  As it hissed open I once again felt the hot dry air grace my skin and I stepped down onto the dry, cracked, splintered wooden deck.

Off the end of the platform was a steep downward slope with tall trees reaching up above the deck, creating a ceiling of thorny razor leafed branches.  At this point even the small lizard rushing away from my footsteps would not distract me.  I leaned on the railing, peering down at what had been calling me for two long hours since we left the airport in the newly acquired car.  I gazed at the Frio River, pushing out the images from my memories to replace with fresh ones.

My heart sank so fast, it felt like it hit the rocks below. The river was there, in the same place with its same glassy clear water.  The white rocks that made the river bed reflected up through the always cold surface.  This was the same.  But the river had changed.  It was low, lower then it had ever been.  Every year after year this moment wracked my brain and the past few years had left me with an empty sense of despair.  The naïve hopes of recovery were pushed away in this moment.  To me this river was everything and for it to dry up would seem an end to everything I had come accustomed to.  But the end of the river’s life was coming closer and closer with each passing year.  I was standing in a pebble filled aquarium, and above a giant halogen light bulb was slowly burning away the life of that world.

I walked down the steep steps to the side of the river and picked up one of the smooth, rounded, bright white stones that had once been submerged under a lush river, now sitting yards away from the edge of the water.  It was dry.  So dry I could feel it sucking the moisture from my fingertips.  I saw a dusty spider run out from where I had picked up the rock and rush to hide from the fiery sunlight.  I tossed the stone into the river, and as it fell to the floor I noticed the glimmering aluminum cans scattered below the surface.  Before these would have been just cans to me, but then, at 13 years old, a hate for the littering tourists who floated down the once strong river current began to seethe.

Just as I was changing, so was my place of refuge.  Not only physically had I noticed the switch, but my own experience of it had become less than what it was.  My disappointment tasted bitter, and as I turned from the river I felt the back of my neck begin to turn red, and burn under the Texas sun.