The first day on the Colorado River, the heat soared to 105 degrees. Frigid splashes of 46-degree water, and soaking deluges from the rapids, were a startling but welcomed contrast. A bend in the river sheltered us behind sheer canyon walls and provided momentary respite from the scorching sun. One of the river guides mentioned we were rafting into an area called the Crematorium. Such an ominous name for an environment of stark splendor. I mentally filed it away to find a use for it in Zero-Day.
The sun and the moon had been rising, setting, waning and waxing over these rocks for 1.8 billion years. It’s hard to comprehend being in the same place with a piece of the earth so ancient; a silent witness to the rise and fall of dinosaurs and long gone civilizations.
The group stopped to camp at 4pm on a sandy area of about an acre with small trees and brush. It took a few minutes to set up my cot, then I fetched my notepad and pen out of a dry bag and took a camp chair to the ankle-deep water of the shoreline. I watched small fingerling fish dart around my feet and listened to the gurgle and flow of the river.
It was July 2021. I was on a 10-day rafting trip down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. No cell service. Completely unplugged. Zero-Day: The Sommerfeld Experiment hadn’t been published yet, although it was close to a final draft. I knew I wanted three or four books, and I had a vague idea of where I wanted the story to go but didn’t know all the details.
In the camp chair, with a breeze on my face heated by the canyon walls, I began to outline.
The Crematorium became a place in Old Town, San Francisco, ravaged by a series of earthquakes. One of the river guides, a lovely Navajo woman, became the inspiration for Nizhoni (she actually suggested the name). It means ‘beautiful’ in her language. The quiet, and the peace and lack of distractions provided the canvas for which four Sommerfeld Experiment story outlines emerged.
