Mountains speak. . .

Of all the times I've ridden through the mountain country, the red dirt rock of New Mexico, looking for adventure outside my home state, I can't help but feel like I'm passing the adventure right there. The shrubs and trees that dot tall structures, the formations of sleek earth, hard and strong, call out to me. They'll wait for me to ready myself, they say. They've got nothing but time and my ancestors and spirits and angels are waiting to speak to me from atop those mountain peaks. There are stars for me to see. There are toxins waiting to run screaming from my body when I sweat and climb and push my body through that which I've never experienced. My English professors would call it a vision quest.

I rarely miss them when I drive by. Even if I'm sleeping, the Most High wakes me up to see the terrain that whispers to me. It made sense that Stephen was the soundtrack to this ride. He sounds so much like his father. He sings so much discovery and redemption with the percussion that feels like what Bob would have been. Him, combined with the view, calms me like home. I want to sleep under the cloudless sky. Conversations with the moon. Melt into the rock and feed the cacti with the water of my spirit. When I look out at the passing peace, I tell it I'm coming. I won't forget. I picture the adventure, the sun rays smiling at me as I walk lone, scale land my feet will want to know better. I'll open my mouth so my dreams and fears and silent prayers can float out untethered. I will receive the lessons. Growth. Strength. The ancestors and spirits and angels will smile at my arrival. They've been waiting for me, they'll say. We are glad you could make it.