Along the face of the escarpment below me, row on row of tinted strata cascaded down the slope in endless bands of pale yellow, faint rose, ash grey, waves of pastel Op Art patterns traversing the length of the wall like ribbons, like a mountainous layer cake or gargantuan candy cane, disappearing around curves and promontories, only to reappear farther on. Gazing down from the heights, I had a god’s-eye view of the color-coded rocks of ages.
I fumbled through my knapsack and found my cell phone, desperate to share the experience. But there was no service. It was the only place on my trip that my cell phone didn’t work. Maybe that’s the modern definition of Badlands.
