With sore eyes and a rumble in our stomachs, we stop at our Inn.
Now fully rested we head back out in our rented Chevy, buy some food, and continue to Antelope Canyon: the famously fluid sandstone crafted by years of flash floods. We have pre-booked a tour, but throughout the day, dark clouds have loitered overhead and our minds have raced with the disappointment of a cancelled trip. Not to have our adventure washed away we are here early to swap our tour time. No luck. The clouds advance and we wait. It is not long before the sky opens and we take shelter from the golf balls as they pour from the sky. The assault is fierce but rapid. In the damp calmness that follows we still wait – we did get here early.
Our ticket number is called and we gather our cameras, scamper into the back of the jeep, and begin our drive to the canyon. Click. Off goes my lens cap as we ride up a rut. Thump. Down goes my bottom on the metal seat. I grip the rail tighter, and slap my lens cap to the floor with my foot. I look cool. Or anxious. In my attempt to save my camera gear, it might be me that falls overboard. The dust splashes around us, drawn up by the engine as it laughs and carries us on our adventure.
The canyon entrance points into the darkness, like an arrowhead set into the sandstone. My fiancée and I gather in a small group, out of many, to be led by a guide, out of many, through the canyon. There is a hustle in the air as we move up to the canyon and step into the shadows.
Click. Our shutters start to snap.