Snowmen From Mars

A Short Story in Goblin Valley State Park

I brushed my hand across the mass of silt and limestone. It felt like sandpaper. Wind and floods had carved the rock into a geological hoodoo, a “goblin” in local slang. Terracotta red and as tall as basketball hoops. The state park was full of them. Each of their nicknames was more fantastical than the last: goblins, spirit chimneys, basilisk teeth, snowmen from Mars. 

We were visiting Goblin Valley the summer after I started high school. You and I had set out hiking before anyone else was awake. 

“How old do you think it is?” you asked.

“It started to form twenty-four-million years ago.”

“Holy shit. How can you tell?”

“I tasted minerals from the Miocene Epoch when I licked it.”

“You licked the fucking goblin?” 

“No, idiot, I read the sign by the parking lot.”

You shoved me, hard, with manic glee on your face. I grinned and shoved you back. You tackled me with all your strength. We rolled in the sand, wrestling and giggling, two stupid hyperactive teenage brothers. You were two years older, and you played sports — you pinned me to the ground easily. 

“Say you’re a little baby.”

“Fuck you.”

You punched me in the shoulder. 

“Say you’re a little baby!” You hit me there again. 

I gave up when I lost count of the punches. 

“I’m a little baby.”

You helped me stand.

“You okay?” 

“I’m fine.”

You brushed the dirt off my back.

“Let’s go, asshole.” I smiled to show I wasn’t really mad. “I want to see the valley’s other side.”

Rabbitbrush shrubs nudged our ankles. Bristlecone pines swayed in the wind — some of the oldest organisms on Earth, waving at us like neighbors at a potluck. When we reached the east side, I began climbing the biggest goblin. The top was taller than our two-story house. 

“What are you doing? I’ll get in trouble if you’re caught.”

“Mom and Dad probably aren’t even awake yet,” I said.

When I was nearly at the top of the goblin, I couldn’t find another handhold. I should have planned my route in advance. I would have to climb back down and find a new way up. 

You sighed and began climbing. You reached the top almost immediately.

“You never think things through.” You stuck out your hand. “C’mon, numbnuts.”

I took your hand and pushed off my footholds. We sat together, panting, staring at the valley. A prehistoric gash in the Earth, full of mutant rocks and hidden caverns. Sunrise made the wispy clouds look like strawberry cotton candy. 

“Okay, fine, the view was worth the climb,” you said. 

I spotted three grazing antelopes. They looked like deer-goat hybrids with straight horns longer than their legs. I saw their necks bent toward the ground, but they were too distant for me to see their jaws moving, or to distinguish their legs from their hooves. I poked you and pointed. You whipped your digital camera out from your coat pocket, and squinted through the viewfinder, but you didn’t take the picture. 

“Too far away…” you muttered. “The shot would come out all hazy.”

We couldn’t show anyone else — only the two of us could see them, and only through memory. 

When the antelopes wandered off, I said, “We should go.”

On the back side of the goblin, facing away from where we had climbed, the ground was so close that I thought I could jump. I made a dumb mistake: I didn’t look at the ground first. I had assumed the ground was solid rock, but near the cusp of the valley, it was just sand. I skidded, and my right knee snapped backwards. I heard a crack and my own voice screaming. Birds rushed away. 

I felt your hand in mine. 

“If the Moon were twice as close to Earth, would the number of lunar eclipses change?” you asked.

“What?”

“Would the number of lunar eclipses change, genius?” Your voice was steady. “I know you know.”

I did the geometry in my head. As I mapped out the thought experiment, a little pain went away. 

“We’d have more,” I gasped. 

When celestial objects move closer together, they change everything. They change what is obscured, what is illuminated, what is said, what is unsaid, what is known without words. I didn’t remember the last time you held my hand while I cried. It probably hadn’t happened since I was afraid of crossing the street. 

You tried to call our parents, but you didn’t have signal. 

“Can you walk?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s probably sprained, maybe broken. I’ll go get help.”

You kissed my forehead, and blinked in surprise; you hadn’t expected the kiss anymore than I had. Before I could say a word, you were running toward camp. You moved faster than I would have guessed possible. A blur among the stone monsters.

Author’s Note: The picture was taken by Leoboudv and accessed through Wikimedia. No changes have been made.