I honestly would have preferred being on horseback while immersed in the wild west of Utah. I now know why my dad reads only Lois Lamore paperbacks, or loves watching television anytime John Wayne is on; it’s sublime.
The west is open, it is empty, and it is seemingly void of any life. But, as I sat on a ledge and surrendered myself to the vast landscape, it clearly let me know I was not alone. Crickets started chirping, hiding in the shade of cracks created by the rain-deprived soil. Soon grasshoppers perched on sand bluestem serenaded potential mates, rubbing their forelegs against their wings. Within the distance of a stones throw, and in a wash, a cubby of scaled quail rapidly darted, dashing from scrub to scrub. Happily watching my new found friends a movement in my peripheral vision led to antelope trotting across a gully. And, before I departed, a red tailed hawk conserved its energy by riding the thermals rushing up from the near vertical hills.
The west was alive, so very, very alive. It was also majestic, elegant, and somehow powerful all in one.