A long, high ridge, canyons on either side. Up top, a foot or so of snow spread comfortably around the trunks of ancient junipers and single-leaf pines, forming cornices on head-high outcrops of limestone.
In the canyon to the west, down a few hundred feet of emphatic cliff, northern Arizona’s Permian red rock.
I had been hiking for several hours from the road to the north, the snow deepening from a mere trace where I set out, the sky impossibly blue and fingertips aching with cold. I was wearing a pair of fingerless gloves I used to have, and doubting the wisdom of that decision.
A turn around another limestone wedge, and I found myself at the edge of the cliff. A broad use trail, still visible as a melted slump in the snow, doglegged left and followed the ridge, but I stayed there for a moment.
Down in the canyon were impossible red spires, a forest of stone pillars arrayed downcanyon to the south and lining the far canyon wall. I pulled off my backpack, let it thump muffled onto the snow. A thermos was in there, green tea with mint from the back garden. I warmed my fingers on the cup. A raven flew slalom among the pillars below.
Ten or twelve miles on was a road crossing, a trailhead, a small building where a few hikers had congregated. Matthew had just arrived, was drinking coffee and tightening his boot laces. I finished my tea, chewed a mint leaf that had escaped the screen. “I know a place where we could set up our tents,” I said. “Enough snow for water for a couple days, and there are these red rock spires.”
“Sounds good,” he said, and I woke up.
