Matt

He'd been going through a rough breakup, and when I floated the idea of getting out of town for a long weekend, he said yes before I'd even finished explaining.

The original plan was simple.

Leave Friday afternoon, drive down past Green River, cut off onto the BLM road somewhere between the San Rafael Swell and the Navajo Nation border, find a remote campsite, and spend two nights under stupidly bright stars.

No crowds, no reservations, no rangers.

Just us, a fire, and the kind of silence you can't get near the city.

We weren't total idiots about it.

We had extra water, a GPS, paper maps, first aid, radios, brand new tires on the truck.

I'd camped a lot, and Ryan was almost annoyingly careful with safety.

We even had a PLB, personal locator beacon, in case something went really sideways.

Looking back, that almost makes it worse.

We did everything right, and it still didn't matter.

The first weird thing happened at a gas station.

We stopped in Green River to top off, because there's this unspoken rule in the desert, if you see gas, you get gas.

I went inside to grab some snacks and pay, and while Miguel was fawning over the beef jerky wall and Ryan was scoping out the cooler for drinks, I ended up in line behind this older guy.

He looked like somebody had carved him out of the land around us.

Weathered, dark skin, deep lines in his face, gray hair tied back under a sun-bleached hat.

He had on a faded denim shirt with pearl snaps and dusty work pants, the kind of guy who could probably fix anything with bailing wire and duct tape.

He glanced at the topo map rolled up under my arm and then at the jerry cans we were filling outside.

"'Y'all heading out past the highway?'

he asked, just sort of casual.