The valley had been a migration route since the Stone Age. There was a life-sized bull, perhaps 9,000 years old, carved into the pottery-colored rock of Wadi Hafir. There were thousands of inscriptions pecked by nomads, by urban Nabateans, by squint-eyed caravaneers traveling the incense roads, by absorbed Muslims trekking to Mecca.
Today the valley is a park. We had walked in from the south, from near the border of Saudi Arabia. The local Bedouins — Zuwaida, Zelabia, others — were settled now and lived off tourism. Most had given up their camels. Who could blame them. Foreigners built their schools, their tiny cinderblock houses. They paid for the second-hand pickup trucks and the dusty TV dishes anchored against fierce desert winds to the roofs of the houses. Some land features were named, spuriously, after Lawrence of Arabia. He had passed through, too, only yesterday, under “cliffs as red as the clouds in the west, like them in scale and in the level bar they raised against the sky.”