We enter through a crack in the land, a keyhole, crunching down snow crust on a north slope, head of a steep drainage crowded with piñon and juniper. A Neapolitan circus of red and white striped canyons sprawls below like octopi, fossils of amoebas the size of small cities. Born of water and wind, given back to water and wind, turned to liquid skeleton, this is all of Southern Utah, an empire of geologic weirdness peppered with ancient ruins. We fit into it like small creatures, burrowing animals, four of us making first tracks of the season. The desert opens like a fan, like an organism, a breathing thing.
Sweat, stop, shade, rest. Packs on the ground, beads on foreheads, dripping down backs. Mid-February can be cold and hot at the same time.
Sitting against his backpack, Jeremy says, “We’re spoiled with how much storytelling is available.”
Jeremy Collins, artist, climber, filmmaker, author. The forty-three-year-old father of a son and daughter is talking
3,100 words to go
You’re just getting to the good part.
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