On the way back up the Rim, we got off the Interstate. Mainly, we were wondering if out that far north, the real estate prices would drop back down to something less than exorbitant.

We sought the knowledge, in this non-digital half-ass way, but didn’t reach any conclusions. All through the Valley and even up the side of it, there was nothing posted for sale, except rare random chunks of acreage.

People are holding on to the places they have tightly, if they can.

But anyway, six miles out this spur road, there’s a National Monument. A cynic would say it’s nothing but a big muddy hole in the ground, and point out that its name, Montezuma’s Well, is idiotic and a-historical, which is true.

For me though, on my second visit with forty years between them, it brought both peace and possibility.

All weekend we’d been marinating in that tangy Verde air, and the healing it brings without effort.

Then here at the very end, I found myself perched on the edge of the Well, listening to a guy who looked a lot like me parade an assortment of facts about the place. Such as: the spring beneath the pond pushes out 1.6 million gallons of the very best fresh water on the planet, every single day.

And suddenly I thought, in contravention to the whole thrust of a year: I could do his job. Maybe … I even want his job.

To the extent that I want any job, of course–this seems like the least possible hell.