Matt

It had been left there on purpose.

I watched it vanish in the side mirror, a dark, twisted shape against the bright sand.

"'Watch we don't end up like that,' I said, more to myself than anyone.

Ryan chuckled.

"'That's why I brought traction boards and a winch.'

The road narrowed, squeezing between low, eroded ridges.

We crossed another wash, this one a little deeper."

The walls on either side rose up, maybe eight or ten feet, crumbly sandstone and packed silt.

There were scratch marks along the sides, probably from cattle or deer, but they looked disturbingly like claw marks in the fading light.

I didn't say anything.

By the time we reached the spot Ryan had chosen, the sun was maybe an hour from setting.

The wash curved in a lazy S-shape, and there was a flat, slightly elevated area on the outer bend that looked like it had been used as a campsite before.

A blackened ring of stones marked an old fire pit.

Somebody had stacked a circle of rocks around it, and there were a few footprints, though they were too wind-softened to read.

This is it, Ryan said, satisfied.

Home for the next two nights.

We got to work.

Miguel and I gathered deadwood from the wash and nearby gullies, while Ryan deployed the rooftop tent and awning.

The temperature dropped quickly once the sun brushed the horizon.

Desert heat bleeds away with the light, and I could feel that sharp edge of nighttime creeping in even as the last rays turned the mesa above us a deep, rusty gold.