Quiet conversations of water moved through a forest. Words chattered across smooth, black stones as a clear stream turned one way and then another, threading among jail bars of tree roots. Where the sun reached through a canopy of sycamores and alders, light etched the water, igniting stones at the bottom of the stream.

Aravaipa Creek is famous for scenes like this, but this was not Aravaipa. It was one of Aravaipa’s numerous sisters, a small creek flowing out of the Galiuro Mountains in Southeast Arizona, its water eventually bound for Aravaipa itself. This is one of the nameless places, overgrown and heaped with boulders.

I walked along the stream with my young son, Jasper. He held my finger firmly, not yet comfortable walking on his own. He used his other hand to part grass in front of him. My wife and our friend had gone ahead to scout a side canyon in search of routes. Waiting for their return, Jasper and I strolled along the stream, following bends of moss and cobbles. I crouched under fallen lances of alder trees, twisting around to keep my finger available...