I dare myself to follow the indistinct path that runs along the fence line at the back of the viewpoint. The fence keeps me from going farther into the open space, but at least there is some natural reprieve from the grind of the asphalt interstate. And then there, as if purposely placed for those having these thoughts, is a rather solid and well thought out ladder, ascending over the barbed-wire, and descending into the great wild. I’ve been to this viewpoint a dozen times, raced down this highway towards home several times more than that, and yet I never knew of this ladder and what was to be revealed beyond.

I dare myself to climb up and down the ladder. Over the otherwise impassable fence, and escape the rutted humdrum of my own travels. Off into the great expanse I wander, carefully placing footprints on solid sandstone instead of the crust of living soil. Following the old remains of flood channels. And over small rock caves surrounded by pinyon cones, foraged and gathered by local chipmunks. Until I arrive at a hill, desert pavement tilted at 30 degrees.

I dare myself to scramble up the talus. Though it looks like it might slide, it stays in place for the moment, shifting from hues of dusty gray to the brilliant reds and browns known here, into a band of dark white, ubiquitous here as well. And then across a mid-cliff pathway, almost a trail built by the same geologic forces that provide the macro beauty for which this viewpoint was built to admire.

I dare myself to walk along this path. And there as it comes to the cliff’s edge, is the real viewpoint. Not the one I have seen so often, the one I gaze at from inside my car as I enjoy it briefly before racing off again at 80 mph. This view point is higher by 30 or so feet, the road descending almost out of view, the horizon that much farther away. The solitude obvious.

Pull over, walk the path, climb the ladder, ascend the hill, wander down another path.