It was the soft grinding sound that first drew my attention. Lowering my camera, I turned towards the sound and there, just down the road, with snow-melt mud freshly dripping from an angular corner, was a new boulder that had rolled onto the road, completely blocking the approaching lane; a boulder that hadn’t been there but a few moments before. Good thing I parked over here, I thought, that would be hard to explain to the rental company. While Utah’s rock formations have taken geologic lifetimes to form, here it was, erosion in action, measurable in seconds.
I warily walked toward the boulder, scanning the hillside as I went. I could see the path it had taken, splintering a poor tree on its way down; I wondered if it had boulder buddies who would be tempted to follow. A car soon approached in the blocked lane, and came to a stop as surprised European tourists emptied out, marveling at the size of the rock. Had I seen it come down? No, but I had heard it. One climbed up on the boulder and posed while his friend took photos.
After a few photos, I returned to my car and continued down the road, pulling in at a gas station to call the police. Being the off-season, though, the gas station was closed down. Discovering I now had a cell signal, I called it in, and was informed officers had already been dispatched.
When I passed by days later, I saw that it had been pushed roughly onto the shoulder of the road. I did do some hiking there in the hills, although not without keeping a watchful eye on the slope above me, just because, well, you never know.
***
When I returned that summer, I expectantly scanned the shoulder of the road as I approached the spot where I had last seen the boulder, but it was gone. I suppose I knew it wouldn’t be allowed to remain there, just off the pavement, but I felt a certain unexpected sadness at its disappearance just the same. We had shared a moment, that boulder and I, and now that boulder, and the moment, were gone.