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Just after my fifteenth birthday, I packed up and rode out of the green depths of Glen Canyon, into the burnt red rocks that cracked into the Colorado River gorge and past a thousand slabs of time. On that day, just as the rivers and streams sometimes changed their courses, so did I.
I did not think I would miss my father's cabin in the side canyon he'd claimed as his own before I was born. I did not think I would miss the cattails and cottonwoods or the creek and their sounds that had always soothed me to sleep.
When I had met Sister Louisa Olsen at Dandy Crossing, she had stepped down from her wagon and shown me a book. I'd seen a book only once before when the railroad engineer, Stanton, had come through when I was seven. All those tiny figures in straight lines across the page were, to me, a curled and looped art form that only the wise could decipher. Sister Louisa Olsen had promised me an education if I left with her. Then she gave me a nice blue dress, nearly new, and I didn't hesitate to promise I'd go, even though my father knew nothing about it.