I tell this one the same way I told the ranger at Hans Flat, straight through, no drama, because it doesn't need any.

It happened in Canyonlands, Mays District. On a three-day loop we'd planned to run from the

Hans Flatside down past the Mays overlook toward Pictagraph Fork. It was late April, right after

a small shoulder storm had left the potholes shining and

the air clear enough that the Henry's looked cut from paper.

We had permits.

We left our itinerary with the Ranger.

We carried paper maps in a zip bag, a compass, extra water, a short rope for pour-offs,

first aid basics, and a tin pie pan for our cooking

fire so we wouldn't scorch the rock.

Two of us.

I'll call my partner E.

We're desert people, not experts, but careful.

We leave notes on dashboards and on ranger desks.

We eat on our feet and keep track of the sun. Day one went the way you want a maze day

to go. The track out from Hans Flat was the familiar washboard, slow, rattling, with the feeling

that your truck is working harder than it looks. We parked where we said we would, left our info on the

dash, shouldered packs, and stepped onto

wide slick rock that catches your foot in all the right ways. Every shallow basin we

passed had some life in it, tadpoles wiggling in brown tea, a film of pollen skimming the edges,

dragonflies strafing the mirrored sky. We walked in the habit we've built from miles elsewhere.

We spoke when we needed to, and shut up when we didn't. The cairns were what they usually are

...