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Steve kept stopping in wonder as they set up camp.
Betsy had led them to a lazy curve high in the headwaters of the Rogue River. A broad rock ledge had forced the river to swing wide to the south before curling back around the other side and continuing on its way. It created a low rock promontory surrounded on three sides by water and by towering trees on the fourth.
The rock also made a perfect perch for the Firehawk, its black-and-fire paint job appearing to actually burn in the last of the sunlight.
In the upstream and downstream curves of the rocky bluff, two broad beaches of sand and gravel had been built by the spring floods. It didn’t take a group of firefighters more than a few minutes to have a good campfire rolling on the upstream beach. There were a few pitched tents, but
