Read Ebook: Big Bend National Park Texas by United States National Park Service Division Of Publications

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Of course, the chief daily events of life in the desert are eating and being eaten, and predators that favor a certain diet make it their business to be out when their kind of dinner is around. Thus the grasshopper-eating lizards brave the daytime heat to do their hunting. Most often seen is the quick moving western whiptail. The greenish collared lizard may be seen racing along on his hind legs like a miniature dinosaur. Lizards are about the biggest ground dwellers you scare up on a noonday walk--unless you happen on a lizard-eater like the big, pink western coachwhip snake.

At twilight you become most aware of the desert's residents. The coolness brings them out. Some must hurry and eat before it gets full dark, while others have the whole night ahead of them. At first you may sense the desert's coming-to-life more by listening than by looking. You hear the lesser nighthawk trilling like a toad. Then, without warning, the whole desert begins to sing, as katydids, grasshoppers, and crickets join in a tapestry of sound so rich you can almost touch it.

Soon the desert cottontail creeps from his thicket to nibble pricklypear fruit. He stays close to home and prefers brushy terrain. The blacktailed jackrabbit passes the day in a form, a basin scratched out beneath some bush. He can cover the ground in enormous jumps, and his megaphone ears help cool him by dissipating body heat. The desert mule deer, another blacktailed, long-eared browser, may also appear at dusk to forage mesquite and lechuguilla. And a band of peccaries--or javelinas as they are also called--may rattle through the brush. They have a great fondness for pricklypear and their mouths are so tough they eat roots, fruits, pads, spines, and all. The ferocity of these wild pig relatives is more fiction than fact. If you meet one face to face, he may take a few steps toward you, but not out of meanness. He's nearsighted!

Evening can linger a long time in the desert and night can strike quickly as a cat's paw. You watch the sun go down, turning the clouds above the Chisos red, painting Sierra del Carmen crimson, while a single golden shaft breaks through the clouds and hits El Pico like a spotlight. Then the sky goes smoky blue and mauve over the eastern mountains, and the clouds to the west turn ashen as burned out coals.

Lizards

Snakes

Two Non-Drinkers

You can see the nighthawk now against the pale and pearly afterlight, and a star pops out, then another and another. Suddenly, more stars seem to be twinkling than can possibly exist in the universe. In the absence of man-made light they are an overwhelming presence. The Milky Way stretches from horizon to horizon. Who can believe that our Sun is just a middle-sized star, and planet Earth a mere speck spinning on the fringes of that gorgeous luminosity?

On a night of no moon, in the mist of starlight, the mule deer may stay active until dawn. On mild, windless nights the hunters and the hunted come out in full force: insect-eating scorpions, tarantulas, and wolf spiders; seed-eating pocket mice and kangaroo rats; rodent-eating snakes, badgers, and owls. What a hurrying and scurrying, what popping up from holes and burrows, what slithering and digging, what squeaks and shrieks, what patient waiting in ambush. And by what ingenious means do the hunters find the hunted in the dark! Beep-beeping bats locate insects and avoid obstacles by bouncing sound waves, imperceptible to humans, off objects as they fly. The female katydid wears her ears on her knees; by waving her front legs she zeroes in on the male's mating call. Cold-blooded rattlers heat-sense warm-blooded rats and mice. And just as an astronomer opens the aperture on his telescope, so the owl at night widens his enormous eyes for light from far off stars.

Toward dawn the morning star burns like a lamp in the east, and gradually, a pale flush spreads upward from the crest of the Sierra del Carmen. A bank of clouds hangs off the Fronteriza, and as the overhead stars wink out and the morning star burns on, the pale glow turns peach and seeps higher. Just enough air stirs to shake the mesquite. A waking bird emits one cluck. Soon the clouds below the Fronteriza go salmon pink and flare with internal fire. As the sun tops the Sierra del Carmen and spills a glare sharp as ice shards over the desert, you hear a distant bark. One yap, two, a soprano howl, an alto tremulo, then chord upon chord in wild and worshipful sounding chorus. Somewhere in the ruddy hills a pack of coyotes seems to sing the sun up.

Waterholes, Springs, and the Fifth Season

One of the most astonishing sounds in the desert is that of trickling water. One of the happiest desert sights is a pool dancing with aquatic creatures. Who can believe it: Tadpoles darting about, water striders dimpling the surface, blue darners stitching zig-zags through the air and dipping the tips of their abdomens into the water? What a celebration of life in the midst of apparent lifelessness.

Water is the single most important need of almost all life forms in the desert. The larger mammals, many birds, and some insects must drink daily to survive. Some amphibians and arthropods must spend at least part of their lives in the water. Each waterhole is a little oasis supporting its community of plants and animals, and drawing from the outside world a thirsty parade of creatures that comes to it to sustain life.

Apart from the river, there are at least 180 springs, seeps, and wells in the park that serve as wildlife watering places. Most of these are springs located within the grasslands on the lower slopes of the Chisos Mountains. Springs differ greatly, ranging from a seep with 0.5 centimeters of water standing in the grass, to a 25-centimeter deep pool the size of a table top, to a string of pools connected by a flowing stream. Since springs depend for their flow on water seeping through the ground, and since this in turn depends on rainfall, the amount of water found at a spring may vary greatly from season to season and from year to year. Other crucial factors are evaporation and the water consumption and retention properties of the spring's plant life.

You can see most springs a long way off. They stand out like timbered islands in an ocean, with tall cottonwoods, willows, and honey mesquite, and man-high thickets of thorny acacia festooned in silver showers of virgin's bower. Dozens of little rodent holes perforate the ground among the roots and the tall grasses quiver with furtive comings and goings. Life at such a spring follows a regular pattern from dawn to dusk, although it may actually be busiest at night when most desert creatures are abroad.

Here on a willow trunk is a life-and-death contest. Rubbed raw by the branch of a neighboring tree, the willow is exuding sap from a saucer-sized wound. Drawn to the sap, six butterflies stand on the damp spot peacefully feeding, slowly opening and closing their wings. All at once a mantidfly pounces from ambush and grabs at a butterfly with his clawed front legs. The butterfly leaps like a scared horse, and in reaction the whole group takes to the air. But in a moment they settle back down, roll out their tongues like party toys, and begin to sip. Another fierce lunge by the mantidfly, another scattering of butterflies. And all the time you can hear the tick-tick-tick of a beetle boring a burrow in the diseased wood.

As evening comes on, the doves come in from the desert, flying low along the line of seepage. The vultures return to roost, lazily circling the cottonwood's crown. While it is still light the butterflies seek cover in the cottonwood leaves. As it gets dark the moths come out, and after them the bats, beep-beeping as they cut erratic patterns through the dusky air. Soon the breeze will die down, and the starlit night will throb with the long drawn trill of tree crickets. In the wee small hours there will be no sound, no breath of air or outward sign of life. Then suddenly along a sandy trail moves a blackness shaped like a high-backed child's chair. It is a striped skunk, tail-high, come to take its turn at the waterhole.

Few and far between are the springs with sufficient flow to send a brook singing down a ravine. But such a place is Glenn Spring, the chief spring along a dry draw that starts in the Chisos and cuts deeply through many-colored clays as it crosses the desert. Historic photos show Glenn Spring enclosed within a man-made rock wall. Today you cannot even find the source, so thick is the tangle of tules and cane grown up around it. The flow from Glenn Spring trickles down the draw about 1.5 kilometers , collecting in pools and gurgling over rocks before it goes underground. Some of the pools are crystal clear, and some are black with the acids of plant decay. Deeper pools are fern-green with algae. Little black snails harvest algae on the rocks and leopard frogs croak and plop, so quick to hide among the reeds that you can hardly find them. These slim, spotted amphibians, insect feeders, mate in water. Their larval young, free-swimming tadpoles, must live in water, feeding on microscopic organisms until they grow lungs and legs for life ashore.

The tadpole itself falls prey to giant water bugs, air-breathing water dwellers that are also strong fliers. The water boatman is a vegetarian who sculls about from one underwater plant to another. You can hardly tell him from the backswimmer except that the latter swings his oars upside down and spends much time on the surface hanging head down, the better to spy the aquatic insects upon which he feeds. The water strider is another hunter, but this spider-legged semi-aquatic skates atop the water, seeking terrestrial insects that have dropped onto the surface. Just as the birds and bats eat different foods at different feeding levels, so do the creatures that inhabit a pool, be it only centimeters deep.

And the creatures above the pool: The damselfly alights on a reed and rests with its transparent, netlike wings closed above its slim body. The stouter-bodied dragonfly rests with its wings outstretched and likes to fly in tandem. Both of these aerial beauties must lay their eggs in water, and their larvae are fully aquatic predators that breathe with gills like fish.

Many of the same water insects inhabit yet another type of waterhole, the tinaja, a natural pothole that traps rain or runoff in solid rock. Dependent on rainfall, tinajas often dry up, yet they may be the only water source over a large area. If a tinaja is deep enough it may survive evaporation, but the water may shrink back so far below the lip of the bowl that animals cannot reach it. A cougar once drowned in a tinaja here because it could not climb out again. Tinajas may also turn into death traps for the plants and insects that inhabit them. In a well-balanced pool the algae create the oxygen and food that aquatic creatures need, but as the pool dries up there is less and less oxygen and the products of decay become concentrated. At last these become so poisonous that the reproductive engine cuts off and the pool is literally dead. But even a dead pool may be a source of life to outside animals.

Ernst Tinaja is a good site for watching desert wildlife. It lies in a rocky, canyon-like drainage near the Old Ore Road. Though the upper tank measures 6 by 9 meters animals may not be able to use it because when the water is 3 meters deep it lies more than one-half meter below the edge. But mule deer and javelina frequent the smaller pools, which likely hold algae and a roster of aquatic life.

Other important tinajas may be found on Mesa de Anguila. The mesa top has a maze of trails leading to and from tinajas that have served as a focus of life across countless centuries. You can find Indian shelters in the form of overhanging cliffs up and down a canyon, with a permanent tinaja right in the middle.

Like the so-called lower animals mankind has long been dependent on waterholes. Since the first prehistoric Indians came to Big Bend, people have lived beside springs and tinajas. And what a pleasant prospect you still find from the sooted rock shelters above Croton Springs as you look out across the grasslands and the tules at the spring, toward the crenelated wall of the Chisos. Rounded red boulders beside the spring contain age-old mortar holes, ground so deep you can stick your arm in up to your elbow.

Before the day of automobiles, all the peoples who traveled through Big Bend routed their trails from water to water. On the way to Oak Spring you can sit in the shade of a Comanche marker tree, a great oak bent in a bow with all its branches growing upright. Comanches marked a good campsite by tying a sapling down; with maturity it naturally assumed a horizontal or bowed position.

As Big Bend opened to ranching, the need for more watering places grew. Ranchers drilled wells, put up windmills, and scraped out stock tanks. Some of these waterholes remain to this day. The wells at Dugout Wells and the Sam Nail Ranch are still maintained. Without regular care such improvements would soon disappear in the desert.

One of man's inadvertent "improvements," the tamarisk or salt cedar, has proved an unwelcome water guzzler. The tree is about the size of an ordinary apple tree, but it loses to the atmosphere about five times as much moisture as an apple tree does. In desert country where water is so scarce, tamarisks pose a serious problem. Brought to this country from the Mediterranean area for use as a windbreak, salt cedar escaped cultivation and spread like wildfire across the Southwest, invading river bottoms, drainage ways, and waterholes in unbelievable numbers.

The tamarisk spreads by runners and apparently reaches isolated springs when mammals and birds bring seeds in on their fur and feathers. Growing at the rate of nearly 2 meters in a summer, the deep-rooted tamarisk uses up a disproportionate amount of water and actually lowers the water table. It is useless to man, and wildlife does not browse it because it tastes so salty.

Big Bend National Park conducts a tamarisk eradication program as a water conservation measure centered about the springs. It is hot, dirty, time-consuming work because tamarisks are almost impossible to kill. No known creature can be used for control, and if you leave so much as a root hair, another tree will grow. You have to saw the tree off and paint the stump with a special approved chemical that does not harm other plants or wildlife and will not contaminate the spring. This effort to save the precious amounts of moisture stored in the Big Bend landscape requires constant vigilance and back-breaking effort.

Big Bend Ranching Days

Big Bend has five seasons--winter, spring, summer, fall, and that extra blooming season that bursts out any time you have a good rain and other conditions are right. The more rain, the more spectacular the display, with flowers, buzzing insects, croaking toads, and nesting birds in a complete new cycle of regeneration. Imagine the gravel wastes of the Castolon floodplain awash with flowers--solid carpets of little white and yellow and purple blossoms on either side of the road. Running back from it are desert baileyas and grasses, with orange caltrop blowing like orange butterflies in the wind. Picture Cerro Castellan's red flanks green, with pockets of ochre blossoms amid white heaps of volcanic ash. Imagine Mesa de Anguila's talus slopes misted with grass, Santa Elena Overlook smelling garden sweet and so matted with little low-lying flowers that you cannot put your foot down without crushing dozens. You have never seen their like before and may not soon again, for this is the floral profusion that follows desert rains.

Most Big Bend rains come during the six warm months from May through October, but the expected rainfall may vary greatly with location and with elevation. Thus the super-dry desert between Mariscal Mountain and Castolon averages only 13 centimeters of rain in a year, while the Chisos mountaintops may get more than 50 centimeters . Of course some years see more than the average, some years much less. Falling as it mostly does in torrents, very little rain penetrates the thirsty soil. The water just rolls down the slopes, rumbles through mountain canyons, gushes over a pour-off, roars along dry washes, and spreads out over lowland flats in fast-moving sheets heavy with mud. A flash flood can root up and carry off trees and other plants, animals in their burrows, automobiles and their occupants, rocks, and the very earth itself. Then almost as quickly as it came, it may go, leaving gouged and gullied desolation in its wake. Yet in a matter of days, these cracked and peeling mudflats may blossom like a garden.

The reason is that millions and billions of wildflower seeds lie dormant here, waiting for just the right combination of soil temperature and moisture to germinate and burst into bloom. Desert annuals do not store up water as the cactuses do. They do not put down deep taproots as the creosotebush does. Nor do they dress themselves in thorny, waxy, or woody shields as do the desert shrubs. Desert annuals look for all the world like their counterparts in more temperate country. They are just as colorful, just as lavish with leaves, and just as spendthrift with moisture. They live a brief, gaudy life in a hurry, completing the cycle from germination to seed production in a few, short, water-wasting weeks before the desert dries out once again. Then they pass months or even years in the seed stage, waiting for another rain and another burst of luxuriant life. This system works because the flowers produce so many seeds, and because the seeds themselves are marvelously drought resistant and programmed to sprout only at the right time and in the right place.

Each annual and perennial species has its own preferred blooming season and favored locale. The long-legged Big Bend bluebonnet may start flowering in December and keep on blooming until June. Sometimes this rangy relative of the Texas bluebonnet will bloom in such masses that the lowlands look like they have been painted blue. The daisy-shaped nicollet also likes gravelly soils, while the desert verbena does best in disturbed areas. This lavender-pink sweet william, a spring bloomer in the lowlands, appears later at higher elevations as springtime ascends the mountains. As a rule the spring bloom peaks in the lowlands in April, and species that prefer higher elevations flower a little later. Thus the bracted paintbrush begins to flaunt its red flags in June grasslands, and beautiful, deep blue tube-flowers may be seen from May to July on snapdragon vines in the Chisos woodlands. Usually the luxuriance of the spring bloom will depend on the amount of rain that fell during the preceding fall and winter, and the months of June and July are apt to show few flowers at lower, drier elevations. But with summer rains in August and September, many springtime flowers bloom again, sometimes more spectacularly. These rains also produce a bright first flowering from such summer and fall species as the low-lying, sweet-smelling limoncillo, and the broomweed that gold-plates Basin hillsides right through October and November.

Flowers

Many insects pass the dry months as the seeds do, lying dormant in eggs or cocoons. The same life-giving rains that waken the seeds quicken the insects. And as the flowers come into their own there is a mass emergence of flying, crawling, and creeping creatures. The timing of this double emergence is no accident. While the plant-eating insects feed, they also pollinate the flowers.

So beautifully coordinated are these adaptations that specialized flowers attract the very insects that do them the most good. Bees perceive color in the range of the spectrum from yellow through ultraviolet, and you will find them on the many yellow flowers of the pea family, blue larkspur, and lavender ruellias. Bees don't distinguish red and orange, so they pass up the brilliant paintbrush which does attract hosts of butterflies. Flies, beetles, and other insects pollinate relatively unspecialized plants like the sunflowers. And night-flying moths respond to the whites and yellows that almost glow in the dark. In its caterpillar stage, the sphinx moth eats the leaves of the night-blooming evening primrose. When it matures the sphinx moth returns to the primrose and, hovering like a hummingbird, unrolls its retractable tongue and takes up nectar, thus paying its debt to the primrose by pollinating the flowers.

Insect-eating and seed-eating birds capitalize on each rain-induced harvest. The mourning dove, a common park resident, usually nests in the spring, but it may also nest again later in wet years. The scaled quail may produce as many as four broods in wet years, and you may see little brown chicks in mid-October. You may even happen on a young brown towhee high in the Chisos as late as November. Barn swallows and cliff swallows, both summer residents, nest as soon as they arrive in the spring, and breed again in wet years during August. The blackthroated sparrow may nest in both spring and summer if rains have produced a good crop of seeds, while the rufous crowned sparrow is actually busier nesting in wet summers than in dry springs. The black-chinned sparrow apparently waits for summer's rainy season to nest.

Some mammal populations also rise and fall with the rains. Ord kangaroo rats may not breed at all during long periods of drought, but when a good rainy season produces an abundance of seed, most females soon become pregnant and produce two litters. Females of the first litter may even bear young of their own in the same breeding season.

As the Wild River Runs

At 3,000 meters the golden eagle glides on outspread wings, his head cocked down so he can watch for signs of life upon that motionless desert rolled out like a relief map below him. Largest of Big Bend's airborne predators, the eagle needs an enormous hunting range, and riding the warm air currents high above the border, he can see it all: the flattopped and arched mountains, the sun-bleached lowland, and the silver Rio Grande disappearing and reappearing as it runs downstairs through steep canyons and open valleys. Tilting his two-meter wings, the eagle slipslides for a closer look into a canyon, spots the wake of a surface-swimming snake, folds his wings, and dives like a fighter jet. Before the snake even senses its peril, it is snatched aloft and hangs wriggling in the eagle's talons as the great bird, feathered to the toes, lifts and flies up the canyon with mighty, measured wingbeats.

The waters dripping from the hapless snake's body come from mountains far to the south and north. The Rio Grande begins in springs and snows high in Colorado's Rockies, but backed into reservoirs and doled out to irrigate New Mexico and Texas farmlands, it may hardly even flow below El Paso. What gives the river a new lease on life is the Rio Conchos. This beautiful stream rises in the western Sierra Madres and flows northeastward across Mexico, cutting canyons of its own and joining the Rio Grande at Presidio, 160 river-kilometers above the park. Some geologists say it was the Rio Conchos, and not the Rio Grande, that cut those gorgeous canyons in the park. No one knows for sure. But once the river trapped itself, all it could do was dig deeper and deeper by processes that are still at work today.

A walk along a sandbar will show you that the river functions as a practical sorting machine. The water rolling by is so laden with sediment that you cannot even see rocks 13 centimeters below the surface. On the bar itself a layer of curling and flaking mud lies on top of the larger stones and gravel, which have fine sand deposited between them. The heaviest rocks settle out first, then the sand, and finally the finest particles. Water is a powerful lifting and pushing tool, but these water-borne abrasives do much of the river's work, wearing out the rock, undercutting cliffs, deepening and widening the canyons. It goes on at normal stages of water where the river runs less than a meter deep, during floods when it crests at more than 6 meters , and even during droughts when in many places the river is too shallow to float a boat. So in the slow course of geologic time the mountains are worn away, spread across the valleys, and carried out to sea.

The only streams that have a chance of leaving the desert alive are those whose water sources lie outside the desert. There are few such rivers in the world: the Nile, the Indus, the Tigris and Euphrates, the Colorado, and the Rio Grande. And what a wealth of water-loving life the wild river brings to the Big Bend desert. You can hang big catfish by the gills from your saddlehorn and have your horse walk off with fishtail dragging the ground. So the fishermen tell you.

Life in this watery world is sustained by a food pyramid based on a super-abundant supply of tiny bottom organisms. A third-meter square of riffle bottom has been found to contain more than 100 organisms. Most are larvae of flying insects: stoneflies, mayflies, dragonflies, damselflies, water and terrestrial bugs, various kinds of flies, midges, and dobsonflies. These curious little creatures have evolved ingenious ways of living, breathing, and eating underwater. Some worm-like caddisfly nymphs build protective cases around themselves, gluing pebbles, bits of shells, and plants together with saliva. They have three pairs of legs up front sticking out of the case and a pair of hooks holding on to it behind, so they can drag their houses with them as they feed. Damselfly larvae breathe through three leaflike gills that project from the hind end of the abdomen, and when warm weather comes they crawl ashore, split their skins, and emerge as gossamer-winged adults. The gills on stonefly larvae extend from the head and thorax, while mayfly nymphs have seven pairs of gills standing out like feathers along the sides of the abdomen. When oxygen is in short supply, mayfly larvae vibrate their gills rapidly so as to quicken the flow of water along their bodies. Some aquatic larvae build nets to catch dinner; a caddisfly nymph may spin a kind of silken windsock that he hangs underwater with the narrow end downstream, using the pressure of the current to keep his prey trapped. Some aquatic larvae eat microscopic plants, some eat insects, and some eat each other. Large dragonfly nymphs may even catch and eat small fish. Larvae are consumed by fishes, frogs, and turtles.

Probably the best way to get to know the river is to get out on it. An easy run is through Hot Springs Canyon, by 90-meter cliffs and over nice little rapids. You put in at the site of the old Hot Springs spa, and take out at Rio Grande Village, having to paddle only at riffles.

Suppose it's early on a fine October morning and you're floating along with the current, watching the sky, clouds, cliffs, and river cane reflecting blue, white, tan, and green on the glossy brown surface of the water. The river is too muddy for you to see what lives in it, but you can see the signs: a spreading circle where a fish has snatched an insect from the surface; mysterious little dimples that look like miniature whirlpools; the beaked head and long neck of a Texas softshell poked up like a periscope. This big turtle's shell is really hard except along the edges, but it is smooth and doesn't have the plates you see on other Rio Grande turtles. The Big Bend slider feeds primarily on plants, while the yellow mud turtle enjoys water insect larvae. And ready to oblige is a cloud of mayflies whirling in mad nuptial flight a meter or two above the water. They only live one day and exist as adults simply to mate, but they will sow the river with numberless eggs.

As you round a bend, a pair of great blue herons lifts from the shallows where they've been standing stilt-legged. Now with necks folded and long legs dangling they flap across to the farther shore. Ahead of you a blue-winged teal keeps lifting and settling further downstream. Ducks are seldom seen on the river in summer, but a dozen different species put down as migrants, and some even winter on the river. Now a slim pair of inca doves crosses overhead; you see the flash of rufous wings and white tail feathers. On a sandbar stands a spotted sandpiper, head low and tail high. He takes a step, stops, teeters up and down, and then flies.

The sandbar itself snugs in against the cliffside with greenery growing in three distinct tiers. River cane and mature salt cedar stand 4.5 meters tall against the flagstones. And stairstepped in front of these are seepwillows--not a willow at all, but a kind of sunflower that pioneers sandbars--and a younger, shorter stand of salt cedar. The canebrakes fairly crackle with wintering birds: black phoebes, cardinals, brown-headed cowbirds, and a migrating yellow warbler, perhaps. There is plenty for them to eat in that thicket. You yourself discover a nursery of orange true bugs beautifully crossed with olive green, all crowded together in every stage of development on two or three willow leaves. But the most intriguing thing about that sandbar is the record left by its visitors: a lizard's five-toed track with the long unbroken mark made by its tail, and the great blue heron's left-and-right footprints striding along almost in a straight line. You find the cat-like tracks of the ringtail, the dog-like tracks of the gray fox, and the flat-footed print of the hog-nosed skunk, pear-shaped as a bear's. At the water's edge honey bees are collecting moisture to water-cool their hive. One by one they sip and lift off, making a beeline for a cliff.

In the canyons where water flows from wall to wall, you find shore life restricted to those few plants and animals that can make a home on a cliff face. A spindly tamarisk has established a roothold in a thimble-sized deposit of soil just above waterline, and in cracks and crevices higher up, ocotillo and pricklypear are working down from the desert that tops the wall. Empty cliff swallow nests cluster on the undersides of overhangs. In spring you might see baby birds poking their heads from the colony's doorways.

But even a landlubber can stand in the canyon's primeval presence. All you must do is make it up the ramps and steps that climb the cliff face at the mouth of Santa Elena, then follow the foot trail down again into the canyon. Looking up from the base of these 450-meter walls, you see a vulture and a raven soaring side by side along the canyon's rim. To them you must seem small and as foolishly occupied as the ants drawn up in opposing lines across the sandy path. One step and you could crush the horde. One rock fallen from that height and you are gone. One wild storm upstream and you, the ants, and the sandbar are all washed away forever. Yet you are somehow drawn farther and deeper into the canyon, into this jungle of dark green tamarisk and emerald bermuda grass, through this labyrinth of water-polished boulders, to land's end and water's edge, to the very Beginning that laid these fossil oyster shells in this fierce rock.

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