The next morning a couple from the Bay Area eager for news flagged me down. I related my experience and we parted on gleeful terms, each practically quivering with anticipation.
As I rounded the previous night's curve and then the flats along the river I kept raising Mr. Nose to the breeze. But naught was there. I could only surmise it had been a phenomenon of the evening.
When I reached the bottom I walked across the salt-encrusted "marsh" to the Amargosa (Spanish for bitter) River.
About two-thirds of the way down
The "marsh" and environs are stinkless. Even the dirt lacks a smell.
"Muz be duh heat," he surmisaled. But dem flowerz wuz sumpin' else!