Everything Must Go

Fossil Falls cuts through the Mojave like a scar, the remains of a prehistoric struggle between glacial meltwater and basaltic lava flows. It descends in a series of potholes, polished by the eddies of a long gone waterfall. But, its colossal history has been reduced to a lonely draw off Route 395 and Cinder Road, marked by a dusty access road, a bathroom, and an informational bulletin board about the Coso Indians.
I am eighteen. I stand with my dad on the lip of the falls, eager to climb inside. My dad, prone to back problems and sore joints, opts out. He jabs the air with his phone, searching for service.
Before I left on my yearly road trip with him, my mom expressed concerns about the calls he’d been getting. She asked me to report any seedy details, refusing to elaborate when I asked.
My dad wanders the edge while I scale down. The descent plays like a massive piece of playground equipment, smooth stone stretches broken by billy goat leaps. The cool air steadies. Sound is layered with God-like reverb. I slide across slopes and duck through cracks. Sweat greases my palms. The canvas of my Converse starts to blow out. I glance back at my dad to gauge the distance I’ve made.
After the Funland drops and crevices, I’m left with an eleven foot drop. The scar widens; the Mojave opens below me.
I look to my dad, a dab of white Polo shirt talking on his phone. The entire trip has been miles of silence interrupted by phone calls to a woman he cracks dirty jokes with. His voice brightens in a way I’ve never heard.
I ease down. My shoes snag a crag just wide enough for my foot. From here, I either drop to the desert floor or remain racked, gripping the ledge. I look for my dad. I want him to see me make the jump. I want him to know I can stick a landing.
I breathe in, breathe out, and push back.
The ground punches through my heels. I tear through my shoes, stumble, teeter, but regain my footing. I walk the needling pain out of my knees, then turn to scan the rim.
He is gone.
Pubescent bushes nod in the cold air pulsing down from the Sierra Nevadas. I hike the slope leading back to the upper level. My dad is an ashen dust mote floating across the parking lot. I wait by the bathroom for him to finish his call. The informational bulletin board warns me against removing any Indian artifacts I unearth. They belong to the Coso, who once left the region when the landscape grew arid, then returned and altered their culture to accommodate the change.