Salvation Canyon. Ed Rosenthal

pines and large boulders below. But after a hundred yards or so, I found myself amidst multiple short paths circling the grass, but I couldn’t see a clear trail weaving through. I scanned the ground for a trail, but found nothing. I needed a marker in the landscape. My throat was itchy; the air had heated up. The sweatband on my hat was damp and dripped on my forehead. I needed to find the shade of the woods and then down and out of Black Rock Canyon, but there were no footprints of any kind, not even my own.

      As I searched for prints, I remembered the last circuit I had made to Warren View. My anxiety level increased as I recalled I had followed a bunch of locals all the way, after one had stuck his head out from the water tanks at the beginning of the hike and offered to take me on a route to the local view of Warren Peak. I remembered that hike with the mismatched group of eight, some in shorts and sneakers, others in hiking gear. The recollection brought my eyes to the boulders rising from the yellow grass a few hundred yards away, where they had led me. I hoped to find footprints at their outlook. I crossed the plateau to the circle of rocks where I had sat with that raucous bunch.

      Searching the sands in front of the boulders for footprints, I recalled the young military vet in a camouflage jacket yelling, “Hey, you faggots, can’t you find the trail? You guys are locals, right?” I remembered us on vague grass paths, him calling out repeatedly, “No, not over there, that goes nowhere.” Or, “Come on, I don’t want to tell your mamma I left you at Warren View.” With his words echoing in my mind, I searched the rock circle for prints, hoping some locals like those guys had just been there. I would then follow the tracks through the woods to the yellow hills, the dried riverbed, and my car.

      There was not a single mark on the dry ground. It was hotter than it had been when I started at noon. I had no more water. I paced back and forth, searching the ground for footprints in a fifty-yard arc between the spot where I lost the trail and the rock circle of the locals. Nothing!

      I thought that if I found the “West Trail” sign, it might be a reckoning point. From there, I would retrace my steps to the water bottles in my trunk, and head to the motel, but between the rocky conical hill and inside the row of green firs that lined the edge of the plateau, there was no sign. The sun continued to burn. Grasses, prickly pear cactus, and creosote bushes, nothing else. My mouth itched, and I was now desperate to find my way back.