…below the canyon

We round the bend toward Flagstaff – or so it seems – and the gorse and fur of the dessert plains suddenly rise into a trio of blue mountains. We pass through them and it is as if that little ridge has buffeted the sagebrush and behind its fortress they have learned to grow into towering pines. The alteration in the landscape is remarkable; as strange as the moment the red, clay cliffs and round green shrubs of New Mexico gave way to the pale, flat lands of “the big country” as Connie-the-injured-cowboy called it. Winding farther on we are suddenly in the midst of a full blown forest, then a clear mountain lake and then our campsite tucked far and away, so serene that when the wind bends the tall trees it makes the music of the ocean.