The noise in this coffee shop has risen to the place where
you can no longer distinguish individual sounds, but instead the clanking of
cups and desperate attempts at communication around me have melded into to a
confused white-noise sound. Not
white like fine china. White like
the swirling of aerated water at the base of an Atlantic breaker.
But here, on the road, one thousand miles from home, I’m
remembering a time this fall when it was perfect.
M and I are sweaty, and yet we’re layering on fleeces because
the desert sun has just dipped below the horizon and the shadows it has left
behind are already raising goose-bumps on our arms. We’ve hiked all day through sandy washes and now we’ve
placed our lonely tent in a canyon surrounded by imposing Navajo sandstone towers
that look like immense stacks of red and cream-colored pancakes.
As we settle in for a quiet night of sweet boredom, we find
the perfect rock. It is huge and
flat as a board. Its sandstone
surface faces west and leans back at a 45-degree angle reminiscent of one of
those adjustable beds for retirees.
