As the party travels upriver next to what appears to be a small stream that is slowly growing in stature, the rocky trail becomes steeper and slicker as it ascends the eastward slope. The steeper sections have fitted stone steps, and occasionally wild flowers peek from small beds.
The river becomes a cut. The wind picks up from the east, cold and fresh. It smells of smoke, and bowels.
Here on the slope’s trail you find a few shreds of bright green kimono and a crumpled fan. There is also some curdled blood and a tuft of startling orange hair. An ancestor stone is here, freshly broken but carefully stacked together again.