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THE RED ROCK CHRONICLES RACHEL LEWIS There is a story from my childhood that I know I remember wrong. Sometimes when I picture that day, I am alone in the car. And sometimes I remember my sister being there also. For some reason, I don’t remember my mother being there. I know she was— painting or napping in the front passenger seat—while the three of us waited for the rest of the group to return. I attribute these faulty impressions in my memory to youth and the passing of time, but I also blame Ray Bradbury. I stayed behind because I was tired (or maybe I was just bored?), but I used The Martian Chronicles as my excuse. I had a book report due at the end of the holiday break, so I stayed in the car with my coat zipped up and my mittened hands splayed into a poly-blend bookstand for my paperback novel. Perhaps I remember being alone in the car because I felt so alone in the pages. The American astronauts had failed yet again to establish a settlement on Mars. They killed all the Martians with their chickenpox germs and then turned on one another. I found myself alone on the red planet, which I imagined as quite similar to the landscape my family was visiting that day, in the brickred deserts of Southern Utah. Little Wild Horse Canyon is a sandstone slot canyon, not far from Goblin Valley, in the most Mars-like expanse of Utah’s red rock country. It was New Year’s Eve in the early nineties. I was in my early teens. I might have been a “tween,” but we didn’t have that word back then. My parents planned a
Bureau of Land Management
daytrip to share some of their favorite local archaeological spots of interest with friends. My mom’s friend Donna and her son were there. My father had invited a colleague, Fred, and Fred’s wife, Isla, who had their toddler grandson in tow. Even at that difficult age, I was an amenable daughter. I enjoyed hiking and camping and being in the outdoors with my family. I was usually up for any excuse to explore, even though I was never able to match my parents’ enthusiasm for Native American rock art, the prehistoric paintings and etchings found across North America, especially in the American Southwest. My parents were eager rock art hunters, and we went out looking for sites at least one weekend a month. This day was not meant for exploration, though. My parents were introducing their friends to our hobby, taking them