Photographers have learned that within a two mile radius of the wave are countless subjects; pink sands, rocks sculpted into lace.  Tracks of dinosaurs found embedded on exposed rock.  

The rain picks up, and then a stiff blast – a single hurricane-force puff, blasts through the wave.  I am pushed to my knees, and I yell in surprise!

But then the sky turns blue and a rainbow appears over a mesa, and all of the intricate and fragile glory of this place opens up.  I look out over a landscape of rocks shaped like tents, of twisted forms, and I cannot stop but imagine this place as anything else but the backdrop for speculative drama.  And just as soon, I see eight or nine arks crossing along slickrock cliffs.

Their crews live in perennial fear of cougars, which is why they do nearly everything within the confines of their machines.  These people, isolated from survivors on the Grand Canyon's south rim, have little knowledge about the dawning civilization on that flat plateau.  The two groups only confront one another (suspiciously) when the Colorado River dries up completely, and they can ford the mud at Lee's Ferry to trade honey and coal, and to recount common stories of hatred for the girl on the horse.

I promised myself to leave not one minute later than four-thirty, to guarantee light my entire walk back.  I leave promptly, and walking back in good weather, I have none of my fears of getting lost.  I am surrounded by my simple story; it keeps me company the entire way.
When I return to the truck, I realize how late it is.  It has been dark for half hour.  Betty breaks from her book.  She had collected dozens of photos from her album for me to look at.  While I look through her photos, we agree to exit House Rock Road to the south.  Stars come out brightly, and in the clear night, we see a layer of clouds lit by moonlight a hundred miles south: it's snowing in the Grand Canyon.

When we reach the highway, Betty's cell phone beeps.  "I have to call my friend before eight.  Because if she doesn't hear from us by then, search and rescue come after us."

This is when I call my parents and tell them I am off the trail.  When I hang up, I explain to Betty that this is my habit. "My parents embedded that in me in grade school.  If they didn't hear from me, they called all my friends parents, looking for me!"

Betty, who must be fifty-five years old, says, "I didn't tell my mom where I was goin'."

Betty is the daughter of ranger-parents.  She was raised in this setting while her parents moved through the Grand Canyon area.  When her father passed away, she settled in a small town near Lee's Ferry with her aging mother.  "This entire valley has only a population of about one hundred in the winter."  She tells me about how electricity is generated, and water is collected from the Vermillion Cliffs area.  "My sisters moved to civilization.  But I like this land, it speaks to me."

When its clear we have good cell reception, Betty calls her friend.   It turns out her mother is worried sick over her, and they had even called her sisters in Texas.  "You better call your mother!" the woman says.

While we drive through the starry night, I hear Betty's mother on the other end.  It turns out Betty didn't want her knowing she was taking clients on the mud roads in winter.  When she hangs up, Betty slouches in the driver's seat and says, "My mother really chewed me out."   Better than fiction, I think, and I say, "see!  Always tell your mother where you're going!"

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