The earth keeps a record nobody intended for us to read.
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Every band of colour in a hillside is a year, or a thousand years, or a million. The rocks were red because of what was in them when they were laid down, and yellow because of what was in them later, and grey because of what came through them after that. The record is honest in ways no human record is. Nothing got softened in the editing. The hill remembers the year of the volcano and the century of the dry.
These hills in northwest China have been folded and turned on their side, so the stripes that should be horizontal run diagonal across the slope. Rust reds and dust yellows on the same ridge. None of it was made for us to look at. We look anyway.
Belongs in the same shelf as Annals of the Former World by John McPhee, The Songlines by Bruce Chatwin, or any book read with attention to scales larger than a life.
Every continent has at least one of these. A finger of stone, a spire, a monolith, left standing by erosion long after the rock around it has gone. From a distance it looks placed on purpose, as if someone had built it to keep an eye on the valley. Closer up, it is older than the country it stands in. The whole thing has been doing the same job for longer than there have been people to notice.
