We pack the car in Teasdale, observing a western tanager who pauses so that we may admire his glorious morning yellow. Sunlight lends a transcendental glow to our descent into Torrey, then Capitol Reef, the landscape a study in declension: from sublime to banal, exquisite mauve, dusty rose, sage and rust, bone, then finally the chalky, disheartening gray. I wonder at the desperation that drove pioneers to stop and bed down in shale. My husband and I wander, not lost, pause beside metal sculptures, a sign preaching, “You are That.” I cleanse myself in the Fremont River, accept the redemption of sourdough and goat cheese, one cold beer. As we turn back, the ancient petroglyphs remind us what endures and what will be washed away.