Penistaja Mesa, tohellandgone west of Cuba. Cabezón dim and blue on the horizon. Tertiary strata, sometimes black with almost-coal. Everywhere petrified wood: enormous whole logs weathering into chips, as though we walked through slash left by a mad stone woodcutter.

Penistaja is probably a corruption of the Navajo binishdaahi’, “I forced him to sit.” So we sat.