I pulled into the Panorama Point parking lot. My compadres produced their phones and furiously sorted through text messages and voicemails in the limited patch of cell coverage the point provide. Having no desire to call anyone I slipped out of the car and walked the 100 yards to the 360 view of the largest monocline in the world.

In front of me was a young couple, eerily similar to countless students I had seen in Provo. Clean, modern, a few years younger than I, and utterly wrapped in each other. They lazily walked up the slope holding hands by the fingertips chatting about nothing in particular. I stalked over to the west side sign hungry as ever to understand the lava flows, cliffs, and canyons around me. But I was drawn to their peaceful relaxation, their comfort with each other, and that sense that nothing is really threatening in the world just now. They pulled out a camera and reluctantly released their hand hold long enough to snap obligatory pictures of each other (of course including a panorama which I fear included me).

Their soft laughter and the overwhelming wonder of the scale in which they and I were surrounded caught my mind and imagination. I kept pretending not to watch as they turned and slowly walked back to their shiny city-slicker car which was parked a safe distance away from my dusty beat-up Subaru. I saw flashes of their future reaching to the distant horizons. A struggle to finish school, the first child, the student loans, the mortgage, the second child, unemployment, employment, the holidays with parents, siblings, and college roommates. I saw the regular date nights and ice cream cones at sunset. I saw their cute puppy love maturing into confident assurances of affection, of loyalty proved through the crucible of time, of facing trial after trial and becoming something melded together. I saw shadows and patterns, light and darkness, upheaval and endless sunlight all just an echo behind and in front of the two young lovers before me.

Like the great stone reef before me I was catching just a glimpse of the story. A story stretching into a past full of earthquakes, flash floods and years of wind. A story pushing towards a future of rain-fueled erosion, human alterations, and gradual wearing away. I couldn’t see the volcano that created the mesa before me nor could I see the dramatic details of the young couple’s story. But the mesa, and the lovingly held fingertips proved that it had happened. For a few moments the endless panorama was mine alone as I noted timelessness blurred by change. I took another step into the abstract and glanced back at myself realizing that I was blind to the similar panorama that surely wrapped around my own life.

I awoke remembering that I needed to drive back to camp where there were more campers waiting. I started down and saw the next group of people walking to the point: an elderly couple, clutching each other in a supporting grip that spoke of aging balance and years of familiarity. Careful steps and wrinkled skin reflecting a past of smiles and falls. They gave me a nod and a smile as they passed, the man tipping a hat very much like mine. They spoke of nothing in particular as they tottered up to read the signs and take a couple pictures of the sweeping panorama.

A sudden splurge of motion rattles the shed. The dust stirs with a clatter of feet, stifled laughter, and scraping tools. The dust settles. Silence returns. All is as it was, except for the digging fork missing from its corner.

The process repeats at five or six other sheds in the neighborhood. Some grab pitchforks, some resort to tilling tools. All are sharp, pointy, and about to be used for unintended purposes. A mob is forming.

They gathered along the muddy bands on the other side of the freeway. It was bright afternoon when most reputable persons were working or in school. But this was spring break. And their repute was not yet settled.

They wore basketball shorts and jerseys for their favorite teams. In another situation they might be dismissed as regular 15 year-olds, just starting to get bold enough to publicly act on their ideas. They willfully charged into the waters of the creek with absolute disregard for damaged clothing or bodies. Shift steps punctuated with gleeful shouts of bloodlust, pointed gardening instruments firmly grasped in hand.

They scoured the creek bed, splashing past the dead badger without a second glance. They reached the slower shallows deep in the beds of bulrushes, safe from the sight or hearing of the noisy freeway. They had found that brand of private anonymity that only a swamp provides.

One of them slowed behind the crowd with dark bloodshot eyes scanning a side channel. He saw the glint of burnished golden scales. Unlike the others he saved his war cry for the end of his hunt. He swiftly lunged through the shallow water, his waterlogged cleats churning in the mud and sand.

His prey shot out in front of him aware that some new danger had disturbed its simple life. The predator man-child used his growing height and long legs to chase above the viscus water covering space faster than the fish which soon tired in moving its great bulk and bony head.

The range closed, the victor towered above with digging fork held back in tension. He sprung, the great fish struggled but was endowed with no tools sufficient for this foe. The once-child hoisted the 7 pounds of defamed seafood into the air and released his great battle cry. Rich dark blood poured from the 4 puncture wounds down the handle of the tool onto the hands of the man.

The tools were returned as silently as they had left, washed clean in the clear waters of the creek. Nothing remained to tell the story of the hunt save sodden shoes on the doorstep, a reddish glint in certain eyes, and bleached bones on the shores of Hobble Creek.