Trish, Jeff and I are on a hike and we’ve just arrived atop the crooked, molar-toothed rim of a mile-round, 350-foot-tall basaltic tuff ring called Fort Rock, which is Christmas Valley’s literal highpoint. We’d hiked up from inside the ring, the air down there was starting to feel hot and then all-the-sudden the view opens wide and a cool dry desert breeze is feathering our skins. Trish and Jeff are about as delighted as I am—how easily we forget lifelong friends—how easily we are reminded. “Well thank you, ma’am,” I say to the wind.
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