We were sitting on a ledge, square like a box, butted against a higher wall, perfect for leaning against. We took turns rappelling, climbing, belaying, while the others of us talked, laughed and cheered the climber on–when we remembered that one of us was not there. The canyon fingered to the east and west just below. Green-yellow leaves, confused about whether it was summer or fall, webbed over gray polished boulders at the bottom. Across the canyon, tall Ponderosa pines stopped above where the glowing orange canyon walls began. I was laughing, full belly, tightened sore cheeks, a grin a mother would warn would cause wrinkles. This is why I do this.