Reach up and touch one of those pale-green tufts dangling off the branch overhead. Go ahead. That's not a plant, and it isn't decay either. It's lichen, and it's two living things sharing one body. A fungus builds the structure, and tucked inside it, a green alga makes the food. Neither could pull this off alone. Together they hang here in tattered beards, what folks call old-man's-beard, draped over every limb at face height.
Look down at the boulder beside the trail and you'll find their cousins, flat crusty patches in chalk-gray and rust and a sea-foam green, spreading across the rock like maps drawn by something with all the time in the world. Some of these crusts grow slower than your fingernail. The ones you're brushing past may be older than your grandparents.
Here's the part that ought to make you breathe a little deeper. Lichens drink straight from the air. They've got no roots and no skin to filter what comes in, so when the air carries grime, they sicken and vanish. The fact that they're thriving on every branch and stone around you is a verdict. The air in this canyon is about as clean as air gets. You're filling your lungs with the proof. Take a long one.
