There was some sort of argument when we arrived there. I wasn't paying attention, staring out the car window along the gravel road, glaring in the sun. This was part of the country where the rolling hills were made of gray stone, empty of people and oversight. The only promises made were adventure.
The park had no entrance gate, and barely a sign; only a dirt parking lot stood to mark the trailhead half a mile into the hills. You could almost see the canyon, a squared off notch cut into the rock. If you listened, you could even still hear the quarrying equipment. It was a moment waiting in the car, the sound of voices, thick flowers and thin leaves around the roadside under the still summer heat.
There werw two cars idling halfway into the bushes, shaded from view. There was an argument.
"Let's go, don't get out of the car. I know we didn't get to see anything. We're leaving."
I looked back at the cars in the lot, the same way out as we came in, until they were out of sight.