The coach yawns to life before dawn and the neon of Las Vegas slides backward into the desert. Windows fog with breath and coffee; the highway hums, and the Mojave gives way to a harder, older landscape where red and orange become the grammar of the land. After hours of scrub and shale the bus rounds an escarpment and Lake Powell appears like a cut in the earth, a vast mirror catching sky. You step down into a different syntax of stone: Antelope Canyon’s slit walls that funnel light into theatrical shafts, and farther along, Horseshoe Bend where the Colorado River tucks itself into a thousand-foot loop and dares you to stand at the rim and feel small.