Jason

Becca was limping slightly, hotspot turning into a blister, but none of us wanted to be the one to ask for a break.

The feeling of being herded along, pushed by something we couldn't see, and something we very much could, those clouds, kept us moving.

We reached the turnoff for the side canyon just as the first fat, cold drops of rain started to spatter the sand.

The main wash continued straight, deeper, narrower.

The side canyon angled up to the left, its walls lower, its bed rockier.

It looked like salvation.

That way, Dylan said pointing.

We book it up there, camp high, and we're golden.

We turned into the side canyon.

The temperature dropped 10 degrees in as many minutes as the storm rolled overhead.

Rain went from scattered drops to a sheet.

The sandstone darkened, sucking in the moisture.

The smell of wet dust rose around us, sharp and metallic.

It would have been beautiful if I wasn't so scared.

We scrambled up over a series of little dry falls, hands and boots slipping on suddenly slick rock.

Water started to trickle down the bed, then flow, then rush, turning the flat bottom into a series of shallow, fast streams.

Thunder cracked overhead, echoing between the walls like the sky was splitting open.

"'Move!'

Erin shouted, her voice almost lost in the roar.

"'We gotta get above the runoff.