There is an inexplicable mystery contained in Red Bluff’s omnipresent grit.
You feel it around the fire at night, watching the embers glow and meteors smearing gently across a twinkling sky.
You feel it squatting bare foot in the dust, watching fecund lines throb in from the Indian Ocean.
You feel it in the camp, where the whole world of human affairs retreats into a shadowy hinterland, irrelevant and insubstantial.
All that matters is the present moment. This is it.