The diesel engine rumbles to life and we leave the old house in a trail of swirling dust. Dodging cow plop and swatting flies, I open and close the sagging gate again and hurry back to the truck. As we bump along, I watch for the city on the horizon, thinking about a refreshing shower. A swimming pool. Air-conditioned movie theaters. Whenever Dad glances at his side mirror, I take a good look at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. A few minutes later, he pulls off at an entry gate with a sign that says PALO DURO CANYON and stops at a security hut.
“Need a map of the canyon, Fred,” he says to a man inside.
In the lane opposite us at the exit gate, a large, square woman in a khaki shirt, green pants and Smokey the Bear hat is arguing with a man standing outside a dust-covered SUV.
“Open the back end,” she tells him. Her hair is a burnt yellow and the skin on her cheeks is rough and red, like it’s been rubbed with sandpaper.
“That’s Winnie Burns,” Dad says, his voice low. The uniformed woman sorts through things in the car. Backpacks, jackets, a cooler.
“What’s she doing?”
“Winnie’s a park ranger. She’s in charge of the Naturalist Program, among other things. Not sure what’s going on here.”
The woman is still talking to the man when we drive away.
I look over my shoulder, watching her. “Gee, she’s big and . . . and square. She could be a football player.”
Dad laughs quietly. “Yeah, Winnie’s more a burly girl than a girly girl, and she’s one of the smartest people I ever met. Expert on wildlife and artifacts. Knows this canyon like the back of her hand.”
“Can she do that . . . can she stop people like that?”
“She can if they’re on park property.” He glances at me. “Her bark’s worse than her bite. You’ll like her. She’s a nice gal.”
“Nice—? Dad, she was wearing a gun.”
“Saw that.” He blinks slowly. “Game wardens can carry weapons, and park rangers can serve in that capacity, too. Winnie keeps a close eye on the archaeological sites in the canyon, especially when it comes to making sure nothing’s taken out. Sometimes tourists pick up souvenirs.”
“Think she’ll put that guy in jail?”
“Don’t know.” He hands me the map he picked up. “This is for you. It points out all the key sights and hiking trails. Canyon’s a hundred twenty miles long, but this end’s the only part open to the public.” He glances at me again. “Thought you’d like to see where I work.”
I do want to see what Dad does now. He’s worked with computers as long as I can remember. I can’t imagine him working with a hammer and nails instead of cables and Wi-Fi.
I follow along on the map as Dad points out the Visitor Center, a trading post and several buildings he’s repairing that were built by something called the Civilian Conservation Corps a long time ago. Driving farther, he points out rock formations, rest areas and trails and camping spots named after plants. Hackberry and Chinaberry. Sunflower and Juniper. After a while, things start to look the same.
“That outcropping’s called the Sad Monkey.” He points to a red sandstone formation. “See the face in the rocks?”
“Um . . .” I squint. “Um . . .”
“Well,” he says, “the light needs to be just right, I guess.”
As he drives deeper into the canyon, I start to squirm. Mom told me to look upon this trip as a fun adventure. So far, I’ve seen a deep canyon, parking places named after plants and piles of rocks that supposedly look like a lighthouse and a sad monkey. Interesting, but not my idea of fun or adventure.
Dad slows at a spot where the road goes through a small creek. The posted speed limit is five miles per hour. Shallow brown water swirls around the truck’s wheels as he drives through it.
“These low-water crossings are given to flash flooding.” He tilts his head toward the surrounding hills. “Canyon walls act like blinders, so a storm can be on top of you before you know it. It starts to rain, keep your eyes on the skies and steer clear of water crossings.” He looks at me. “Got it?”
An uneasy feeling starts up in my stomach.
“Cassie?”
“I heard you, Dad. I’m not deaf, you know.”
After fifteen slow miles and several low-water crossings, my stomach reminds me of something else. “I’m kind of tired and hungry. Can we go to your house now?”
“Figured you’d be hungry as a bear,” he says. “Got supper all planned.”
The turn signal ticks. The light on the dash blinks. Dad turns at a sign that says MESQUITE CAMP AREA. RV campers line a driveway, like a wagon train that’s been circled against attack. I hold on to the roof handle as Dad bumps his way past the other campers and down a short dead-end road. He parks next to a camper with WINNEBAGO painted on its side.
“Home sweet home,” he says.
The diesel engine stutters to silence. The city on the horizon disappears like a mirage. The queasy feeling in my stomach balloons.
Mom—I have to call Mom.