"You just drive out to places which might kill you. Telling you, so many things here could."
They look back with a half-smile, maybe not understanding at all.
"Yeah, I get it, I'm just from a different kind of place," I say, and then everyone is quiet.
Where I'm from, there is none of this. No beautiful endless and strange rock formations or deserts or wild canyons.
We pile up into a car and drive out to walk around big beautiful things which are lethal. Next to them, we're small. We didn't make them – they were here for million years.
I remember random things from these trips, like seeing a jack rabbit with very big ears which were almost see-through, gleaming in the beautiful early morning light.
Why do we have to do it again and again?
Because I guess this is how we rest. Because this is what we do, and who we are. Maybe this is where we find it.