LETTER from the
EDITOR
W
ind circled the canyon, slithering its way down from the stars. You could hear it running along the ridge like a train, slowly circling, brushing the Firs and Hemlocks. It skimmed the lake, eventually sweeping the sides of the tent, only to disappear back into the night. Wind continued this ritual, only interrupted by the whisper of rain. Every time, you could hear the beginnings: the dance on the ridge, which meant the trees would creak, which meant the tent would be greeted next. In the morning, the lake was glass and the trees were quiet, as if nothing happened. There were no puddles, no hoots and yodels from the Loon, no downed branches. Maybe the mountains are nocturnal, at home with the company of a crescent moon— I wouldn’t blame them. We rambled over mountains at 12,000' in elevation, took shade under Junipers in the high desert, breathed in every drop of the sweet Aspen forests. Got covered in gritty salt sweat. Craned our necks up to the Milky Way. Sat with the wonder of it all. I am now back at my desk, Moab mosquito scabs healed, campfire clothes washed, sleeping bag returned to hibernation. But with me are a stack of 16 polaroids, a new bowl from Santa Fe for my favorite rocks, piñon incense as a slow-burning love letter to the desert. But now I would like nothing more than to be in a windswept tent, tucked away in the belly of the Wind Rivers, cocooned in my old sleeping bag. That’s the gift of the Wilds— eternal longing, always waiting to return. Catching the wind and wondering what would happen if you followed on.
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