The desert drags on in what most would consider sordid lines. The deception lies in our perception, or lack there of. Endless brush and salt pan expanses colliding with great mountain ranges over and over again. They may seem miniscule because there's nothing to properly judge them by, but these are proper mountains. Some of them rise over a mile and a half from the mile high valley we find ourselves upon. We're blasting down a backroad with the dogs breathing heavily in the back seat and encroaching on elbows, but not nerves, not yet. When we turn onto the last dirt road before our destination we crack a beer and get out to stretch our dogs and shrink
our bladders. It's cold for June here,
always seems to be and that's fine
with us.