“It’s an easy drive. Any duffer could do it,” said the Golfer impatiently. Apparently there was something about the drive more difficult than it looked. Perspective was lost in the clear air, and the jumble of rocks before us seemed closer than they were. With only two balls remaining, the Golfer again took his turn, after several brilliant failures on both sides. Once more he turned a majestic glance toward us. A bee had crawled down my back, and Martha was removing it, but after that glance we let the bee stay where he was. A hushed silence fell on our little group at this historic moment. Since Adam and Eve, we were the first group of people ever gathered together in this lonely, inaccessible spot for the purpose of driving a golf-ball over the Rainbow Bridge. No cheers came from the assemblage as the Golfer addressed the ball innumerable times, and at last raised his brassie and drove. “Keep your eye on the ball,” said someone. We did so, and our several eyes soared toward the arch, struck the rock towering beside the bridge, and ricochetted over the far side. Technically, though by a fluke, we had the ball over. I say we, because we all worked as hard as the Golfer and Murray. Murray refused the last ball, and just because he didn’t have to, the Golfer drove this easily and surely over. We had achieved our purpose. We were the first to put a golf ball over Rainbow Bridge, not a great contribution to history or science, but giving us a certain hilarious satisfaction. It is not so easy to be first at anything in these days, when everything has been tried already. Toby who once stigmatized the ambition as “cheap,” crossed her fingers as the Golfer launched his last ball, and photographed him in the act for the benefit of posterity. Our Old-Timer, another scoffer, later spent an hour hunting the triumphal ball, and on retrieving it from the river bank, begged it for a souvenir. Anyone who doubts the authenticity of our feat may see the ball at Kayenta today. And even Hostein Chee, alias Wah-Wah, alias De-jiss-je, salvaged a half-dozen of the lost balls, and was seen patiently hacking away at them with the Golfer’s best brassie. And he was remarkably good at it, too. The campfire, built that night under the sweeping black arch, seemed like home amid the looming cliffs and monoliths. The air was full of that strangest, most arresting odor in the desert,--the smell of fresh, running water.