the fan of his tail up to all those glorious colors. Boys are trying to be bigger and bolder than they actually are. So they puff up, hang over the edge of the cliff, fall in. They don’t know when to stop, and they don’t want to be seen as chicken, and there’s a lot of pressure from each other to perform in these ways.”
“I can’t see Dad as ever having been like that,” I say.
“Me either,” says Greta. “Your father is not a typical male, no way no how.”
“And Jasper,” I say. “He’d never hot-dog around on the edge of the Grand Canyon. He’s Mr. Boy Scout.”
“So that’s good. You choose men who aren’t afraid to be safe. They’re secure enough in who they are that they don’t have to take big showy risks.”
“Sawyer…” I begin, then stop myself.
“Who’s Sawyer?”
“This guy who taught Kale swimming lessons.”
“Is he a hot-dogging type? A show-off? Macho dude?”
“Not at all.”
“And why are we examining the habits of this Sawyer fellow, may I ask? This guy who taught Kale’s swim class?”
“We’re not examining his habits,” I say. “I just think he’s also the kind of guy who doesn’t fit this park ranger’s stereotype of the average young male.”
Greta looks at me.
“What?” I say.
She just smiles.
“Stop it,” I say. “We were just talking about macho behavior and I was telling you guys I know who aren’t necessarily like that.”
“And,” says Greta, “you brought up your father, your ex-boyfriend, and this Sawyer fellow. Like, Sawyer got put in a pretty key category of men you know, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Yeah, so? I’m not going to be dating anyone anyway, remember?”
“I remember.”
“So. End of story.”
“But if you were, just hypothetically, this Sawyer guy might be of interest.”
“Hypothetically speaking, perhaps.”
Greta gives me a hip bump, hard, and I lose my balance and knock into the kid next to me, who nearly drops his hamburger.
“Sorry!” I say to the boy. Greta cracks up. “Are you crazy?” I say to her. “Are you trying to lose me over the edge of the canyon?” We’re not even close to the edge, but I’m just messing with her.
“Right,” says Greta. “You figured out my master plan. Over the edge. And then I’ll never have to take you on one of these silly trips again.” She rubs her hands together. “Hmmm, I wonder if there will be any insurance money.”
“I want a hamburger,” I say. “Like that kid had.”
“So get in line. Weird breakfast, but to each her own. So this Sawyer, is he a vegan also?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Just checking.”
“You can forget about him, Garbo, okay?”
“But can you? That is the question.”
I hip bump her back when she least expects it, and she bashes into the trash can outside of the concession. The outside of the can is covered with melted ice cream and flies and bees. When she regains her balance, she runs after me, but I’m already way ahead of her. People step back to make way for our chase scene. They hold their children’s shoulders, and look at us like we’re nuts, or juvenile delinquents, or criminals. But we’re just a girl and her aunt, having a blast. Right then, running like that, wild, at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, I feel better than I’ve felt in a long time.
At Phantom Ranch, Greta wakes me early so we can get a head start on the hard part of this hike—the trek back up to the rim. We each have a Luna Bar and then get going. We’re set for water and munchies and will get a big meal, our reward, at one of the restaurants when we finish. Greta always likes to talk about what she’s craving, what she’s going to order. She has a long list going of foods she misses, even though we’ve only been camping for three days.
“I’m already tired,” she says, before we’ve gone a quarter-mile. “Whose idea was this? It’s all uphill.”
“You could’ve hired one of those mules,” I remind her.
“I don’t like the mules. Well, let me qualify that: I don’t like the poopie the mules leave all over this damn trail.”
“They have to poop somewhere.”
“I know. I’m not blaming the mules. I’m saying I don’t think people should be riding mules into the Grand Canyon. If they’re too lazy to walk it, they should just stay up at the top.”
“What about a handicapped person?”
Greta thinks about this. “I guess they can have a mule,” she says. “But they have to be handicapped! I want card-carrying handicapped people only on the mules.”
“When you’re governor of the state of Arizona, you can make that rule.”
“Damn straight,” says Greta. “I’m going to write my campaign speech when we get back.”
We’re quiet for a long while. Occasionally we pass someone, or someone from behind passes us. We take frequent breaks. The backs of my calves hurt with every step and I fear my body will stick permanently in this upward-seeking angle.
Just after we pass a mile marker indicating we’re halfway through the day’s ascent, Greta calls for a break. “Can’t believe I’m already thirsty again,” she says.
We remove our packs, pull out our water bottles, and sit down just off the trail near some rocks. As I’m screwing the lid off my bottle, it slips from my hands, bounces once on the ground, and spills, turning the red sand on the ground from a coral color to a deep brick.
“Damn,” I say, and right the bottle before much has escaped.
“Who needs water?” says Greta. “It’s only about 110 degrees. I think I’ll share some of mine with the trees and rocks also.”
“Wise ass,” I say. “Anyway, I didn’t share mine with trees and rocks. I shared it with the earth.”
“The parched earth,” Greta
