Footprints

Tumbleweeds and antelope bounced across the prairie and a road sign sagged on its rails, barely hanging on. Sunlight glowed on the horizon. My car swayed between lanes in the relentless wind. Noise rattled through the speakers, blending into nothingness—news, opinions, podcasts. Inside my head I formed commentary, prosecutions, arguments and counterarguments. I shadowboxed ghosts.

But no more. I turned it off and listened only to the wind, staring at the yellow lines blurring into blacktop.

The next morning, just past sunrise, I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulders. Deep snow buried an old dirt road that disappeared into the mountains of western Wyoming. I clicked into my skis and began walking uphill. Tiny four-legged footprints crossed the snow. Songbirds sang, whistled, and chirped, and by early afternoon I napped on the snow in the sun on a frozen lake.

Thirty years ago, in my first summer out west, on a backpacking trip, I met an oddball named Jason. He lived in a remote