You go first to the desk. It’s quiet inside, but full of movement. Maps. Voices. Screens flickering. You ask for the stamp. They know what you mean. They’ve seen thousands like you, collecting parks and miles and years.
They point to the desk with the inked paper with a smile that says, you’re one of us. You are.
You write the date. It feels good. Like a small thing done right.
There is a film. It plays every twenty minutes. You sit near the back where it’s cool and dark. The canyon fills the screen. The river is strong. The clouds are fast. The voice is calm and tells the story like it happened yesterday. You watch the water carve stone, and you understand time a little better.
When the lights come back on, you walk out quieter than when you came in.
You talk to a ranger. She is sunburned and knows things. You ask where the best sunset is. She doesn’t hesitate. “Hopi Point,” she says. “Maybe Pima if the wind is strong.” You nod like you already knew. You didn’t.
You ask about food. She says, “Go to the Market Plaza. There’s a deli there. The pizza isn’t bad. But don’t rush it.”
You don’t.
Outside, people gather at the big map. Fingers trace trails they won’t take. Some will. The air smells of pine and hot rock. It’s good.
You fold your stamped paper. You keep it safe. You’ve got the day ahead, and you know where to go now.
That’s what matters.
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