The pickup, long past its prime, bounced and rattled over ruts in the hard-packed road. The road ended at the base of a trail that would take her to the top of Mesa Roca.

It was late June in west Texas, just after midnight of a day so hot it could rip the hide right off you. A battered driver-side door opened, and a figure stepped down from the ancient F-150.

The vertical wall and jumble of rock at the base of the mesa re-radiated the day’s heat. Even after sunset, it was still brutal.

She lifted a backpack from the truck’s bed and steadied it on the side while she checked the water bottles and the main load in the bag. That secure, she shrugged into the straps, buckled it about her waist, and grabbed the walking stick.