Near a national park entrance, a man in a folding chair offers visitors a shortcut to “the real Grand Canyon.” His hand-lettered sign promises fewer crowds and a view “the government doesn't talk about.” The price is twelve dollars and a vague commitment to follow his directions.

His directions lead to a roadside turnout overlooking an ordinary wash. It is quiet. A few scrubby plants cling to the slope. A raven passes overhead, briefly making the place seem staged.

The visitors are annoyed at first. The canyon they came to see is still miles away, and the man has sold them access to a public road. Then they notice that, in the absence of a famous landmark, they are actually looking. They ask what made the grooves in the earth. They watch the raven turn into the wind.

None of this excuses charging people for a turnout. Back at the entrance, they tell a ranger about the sign. They also enter the park, wait in the line, and finally stand before the enormous view they had traveled to see.

The real canyon exceeds every photograph. The little wash stays in their minds too, though they would rather have found it without paying for a scam. The next time they see a quiet pullout, they stop on their own terms.