Only Eight Minutes

Out of innate politeness, Steve Rogers tuned his Harley so it was as quiet as it could be, but it still sounded disrespectfully loud when he pulled into the parking lot for the scenic overlook on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.

To the city boy, it seemed amazingly peaceful when dawn was just beginning to lighten the sky. When he silenced his machine, the only sounds came from the rustle of wind in the bushes and a few sleepy chirps from awakening birds.

Steve was glad he seemed to be the only human around, or he would have felt obliged to apologize for his bike.

Steve took his sketchpad from his saddlebags and found a good vantage point. He arranged his pencils and colored pastels within easy reach, then fixed his gaze on the light beginning to outline the North Rim.

The light brightened and the shadows moved, then faded. Steve sketched quickly, flipping pages as the perspective changed. Orange light flowed down the canyon walls, bringing new buttes into view like castles lifted into the air by magic.

Each minute the view changed and Steve sketched quick bare outlines that he hoped to fill in later. When the colors became more visible, Steve switched to pastels, shading bands of orange and pink, purple and tan, making an almost abstract design just to capture the vibrant colors.

The sun rose above the canyon and the light settled eventually — too soon and yet just at the right time, when even a Super Soldier's fingers began cramping. Steve closed his sketchpad, careful not to smudge any of the drawings, then sat back, rubbing his fingers, eyes still on the view.

"You were really working it," commented a cheerful voice from his right.

A hiker stood there, tall, thin, with shaggy dark hair and twinkling brown eyes with an Asian slant to them. "Mark Yang," he said, holding out his hand.

"Steve Rogers." Yang's grip was gentle, considerate of the hard working fingers. "I had to get the colors while I could," Steve continued. "They change so fast. Now I can sit back and just admire it."

"How long have you been here?" Yang asked, leaning on his gnarled walking stick.

"Since before dawn."

"Then you beat the record," Yang said.

"Record?"

"The tour guides say people only look at the canyon for about eight minutes," Yang said. "You must throw the average off a lot."

"Eight minutes." Steve shook his head in disbelief, his eyes drawn irresistibly back to the view.

Yang eyed the muscular soldier up and down. "Are you just here to draw? We've got a group making the hike down to the river tomorrow. It's a two-day trek. Seven miles by trail."

Steve was intrigued. "I'm a city kid. I do a lot of running, but I don't have a lot of hiking experience," he warned. Did military marches through the Alps count? He wondered.

"We have a couple of experts with us," Yang reassured him.

"OK," Steve agreed. "What do I need to bring?"

They began to discuss the equipment Steve needed.

While they talked, the overlook began to fill up. It was still early, not yet 8 a.m., but a few hikers were passing on the rim trail. A tour bus had pulled up. Passengers emerged, following the tour guide over toward the unfenced edge while he described the geologic features they were seeing. A few kids quickly became bored and began a game of tag, chasing each other around.

Steve watched them idly, automatically calculating trajectories. Suddenly he bolted toward the rim, leaving the hiker speechless behind him.

One boy cut left, just as his foot came down in a puddle. The wet stone was slippery and his feet flew out from under him. He kicked the leg of a teenager who was leaning far to her right, trying to take a selfie with the canyon in the background. Already off balance, she fell. Shrieking, she clawed at the child for balance, sending them both tumbling out of control down a steep, slick incline toward the drop-off.

Super soldier muscles launched Steve across the rock. He threw himself down and caught two wrists just as two pairs of feet slipped over the rim. But they were all still sliding. Steve dug his toes and his elbows into the ground to slow their skid, then hooked a foot around a bush. They came to a halt with both frightened tourists looking up and Steve looking past them at the Colorado River a mile straight down. Steve's powerful hands firmly gripped the wrists of the woman and boy, but he didn't know how he could get them up.

Then he felt hands on him all around.

"We've got you," Yang reassured.

"Can you hold them?" the tour guide asked anxiously.

"I have them," Steve said surely. "Pull me back."

People caught Steve by his belt and his ankles and began sliding him backwards, while other hands reached for the boy and girl. Soon they were all safe, with everyone several yards from the edge, chattering in a release of adrenalin.

Someone handed Steve a bottle of water and he was glad to gulp down most of it in two or three swallows. He studied his scraped elbows and knees, which were already healing. He quickly hid his fast-disappearing wounds when Yang plopped down beside him.

"Still want to go on that hike?" he asked breathlessly.

"Yeah," Steve answered. "I think I'd like to see the bottom of the canyon — the easy way."