I was young, maybe 10, when I first realized how tiny I was. On a family camping trip to Canyonlands, my sister and I climbed onto some tall rocks to look at the night sky. What was behind that velvet blackness sprinkled with so many glittering stars? Only more blackness and more stars. I remember being consumed by the knowledge of my own insignificance, but I don’t remember how it made me feel then. Now, when I visit Utah’s southern deserts and feel that same sense of smallness, it’s comforting. I may die without writing the Great American Novel, but The Maze will endure, beckoning future visitors into its ruddy labyrinths, daring them to get lost there, as my childhood friend and I once did.