From your camp-site you can see the scruffy looking motorcycle and it's even scruffier owner on the far bank. He sits on the grass, eyes squeezed shut against the bright summer sun, his mouth agape in a jaw-dislocating yawn. He opens one eye tentatively and waves to you. Later in the long August afternoon you fall in together and amble the trails talking--you discover he works at the Ranger's Station as a medic, and lives by himself in a little house in Flagstaff. You find the day folding softly into evening, still together, still easing towards more...