“It’s a valley,” the grandfather whispers, “a bending cut between bone-like mountains that diverge as ribs do from the spine.”

He holds forth his wizened forearm as he speaks, placing a single blunted finger to the elbow of the outstretched limb.

“A tan floor like threadbare carpet rolls away from a glacier-gouged lake as deep as it is clear.”

The knot knuckled digit traces a slithering course from elbow to palm.

“Massive rock blades stab towards the blue glass of that water and five narrow gullies snake in-between their ocher tips.”

His time weathered skin pulls thin as the old man forces the open palm flat. “Each gully hides its own special fun,” he continues.

“One for the jet boats,” the gnarled thumb twitches. “One for the trekking, and one for the four wheelers,” the index and middle fingers curl. “One for the fishing,” the ring finger shivers like a taunt line in water. “And one valley to house 30,000 sheep.” He punctuates the intended joke with a quick wink of his long, bushy eyebrow.

“So how do you find it?” His rich, time-worn voice pre-empts the impending query.

“Easy.” The grandfather’s thick lips jerk upwards at their corners. “It’s found the minute you stop looking.”