“Hm, I wonder what will happen if I do this?”
He drops a rock off a cliff.
An hour later, at a different cliff.
“Hm, I wonder what will happen?”
He drops another rock off of a cliff.
“Where did that pool of water come from?”
I stare at a pool of water the width of a dinner plate and the depth of a penny.
I respond, “Geez, I don’t know, the sky?”
I respond, “Ah, yeah, you’re probably right.”
..I resist the urge to explode since we have been climbing for at least one and half hours. We are traversing what feels like the earth’s jungle gym, except there’s no escape route except to turn around whence we came from.
I wonder what happens if you fall and break a leg? A helicopter has nowhere to land. How are the paramedics going to get me if I’m a 50 minute hike from the road? Can they carry a stretcher that far?
“I think these rocks here fell from these walls.”
He points to a random pile of rocks the size of bowling balls or greater in our path and then points to the walls of the canyon that surround us.
Who gives a fuck where the rocks came from? It almost seems obvious that these rocks fell from the walls.
I have to hand it to my friend the quantitative genius; his sense of wonder and curiosity permeates throughout all aspects of his life.
I’m half exasperated, half enervated by his zest for life.
Why can’t I wonder where rocks and water came from?
I trudge on, hoping to make it out alive out of the Ice Box hike in Red Rock National Canyon Park to further contemplate my friend’s seemingly self-evident questions.