By Mary Richardson Brains. The little hill I was walking on looked just like a giant, deeply wrinkled, extremely bumpy, ash-colored brain. I climbed to the other side of the “brain” and looked over a cliff of red and cream rocks, all swirled together. Root beer float. Now I was climbing on a freshly poured root beer float. Only, I could stomp on it and foam didn’t fly. Like the brain, it was solid as a rock. Because that’s what it was. Rock. The…