In a hidden valley in the foothills of Utah’s La Sal mountains, my old friend and I sat on his stone porch in the fading light and watched the sun disappear behind the soaring limestone of the Moab Wall ten miles off to the west. As always from this perch along the fault line between basin and range, the view from Pack Creek revealed four different American landscapes: desert, farmland, rolling ranch land, and high mountains.
In the pasture to our right, the wranglers were bedding down the ranch’s horses for the night. Up along the pine-dotted cliffs on our left the last hunting hawks were circling. In front of us, the impossible burnt orange of a Moab sunset swarmed up the side of the western sky.
It was September again. Not like that September at the beginning of the century. Not like that at all. But it was close enough that in September you still felt it again. Felt that September feeling and not in the manner of Frank Sinatra’s romp through the nostalgia of lost love. Not that sort of bittersweet September at all. Bitter? Yes. Sweet? Never again. . . .
Continued at || Contrails . . . for members @ The New American Digest