“There,” he said, pointing toward a nearly invisible wrinkle of ledge just below the canyon rim. As we rounded a bend along the trail, Greg Child, an expert climber from Castle Valley, Utah, stopped and looked upward. More than seven centuries ago, however, the last inhabitants of the canyon had made quite a different decision about where to live. Still, the place had a cozy appeal: had we wanted to pitch camp, we could have selected a grassy bank beside the creek, with clear water running under the skin of ice, dead cottonwood branches for a fire, and-beneath the 800-foot-high rock walls-shelter from the wind. It was midwinter, and the stream that ran alongside us was frozen over, forming graceful terraces of milky ice.
The four of us walked slowly down the deep, narrow canyon in southern Utah.
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