The Canyon's Edge: List 1

He pulls out rope for rappelling, cams for climbing, carabiners for carrying, gloves for gripping, and harnesses to hold us.

He pulls out rope for rappelling, cams for climbing, carabiners for carrying, gloves for gripping, and harnesses to hold us.

The sun is rising behind the dark line of mountains, their tops jagged like the edge of a serrated knife.

The sapphire sky
breathes in
the desert morning
and breathes out
pink flame to burn up
the wisps of silver clouds.

It’s quiet except for the skittering of small lizards and the ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah of a cactus wren—the sound like an engine that won’t turn over.

Dad and I finally reach the edge of the isolated, unnamed canyon he found for us. It’s narrow, widening and tapering, twisting and turning as far as I can see.

I can only see the bottom in snippets, some of it hidden by the curving walls or outcroppings, some of it so dark that anything could be waiting in the shadows.

I can only see the bottom in snippets, some of it hidden by the curving walls or outcroppings, some of it so dark that anything could be waiting in the shadows.

The walls I do see are layered and look as though they’ve been burned in places. That’s the desert’s varnish.

On the other side, maybe only fifteen feet across, a kangaroo rat scampers to the edge, seems to be inspecting the canyon, too.

He leans over and looks down into the crevice, whistling. “Isn’t she a beauty?”

Snickering, Dad unbuckles his backpack and tosses it on the ground.

Dad finds a good-sized boulder at the edge and sets an anchor in it, then two backup cams in case the anchor fails. He raises a finger and says matter-of-factly, “Redundancy is essential.”

He stands at an angle on the edge of the canyon, his rope going taut, and a moment of hesitation, of fear, crosses his face.

With no one holding the rope at the bottom to help him, he has to control his own descent, slowly threading the rope through the descender, his face twisting in pain and determination—no, it’s defiance.

With no one holding the rope at the bottom to help him, he has to control his own descent, slowly threading the rope through the descender, his face twisting in pain and determination—no, it’s defiance.

Fear fills me, churns my insides, overwhelms me, makes my mind want to escape to somewhere else, into my poetry.

Dad’s already munching on some beef jerky, so I grab a protein bar and make my way to an outcropping along one canyon wall where the rock juts out like a small stage a few feet high and wide.

“You have to say that. You’re my dad,” I say, my voice hoarse.

“Seriously, though,” he says, “I used to like writing haikus.”

Flipping through my notebook, I find one. My choice is not random. My choice is entirely deliberate.

“Hypervigilance,” I say. “Dad won’t let me go to school.” I slowly look up at him. “He’s protecting me.”

I grit my teeth. “Can’t we even talk about it?”

I want to fight and scream and cry and lash out.

His face fills with anguish before he turns away from me, picking up his backpack and latching it to his body, making it clear he’s done with this discussion, which was hardly ever a discussion at all.