More often than not, the novels I write contain three spices added to the plot: mountains, a motorcycle and music. I muse on that now, in early August.

I am heartily tired of motorcycles this morning. More than enough of them passed me unsafely on the highway yesterday. Harleys all, with on-coming traffic, encroaching on the beginnings of no-passing zones, sharing my lane because they are skinny and I have moved over, catching up with their buddies oblivious to numerous approaching semis and king cabs – all vehicles traveling 10 mph over the speed limit. Men, have you forgotten how fragile your bones really are?

As for music, I will never quit on my music. I am married to my music. How do I know? – I am much too busy to spend more than an hour each evening with my Music. After all, I gave at the office. Oh, I do still take Music out for special occasions. And I never, never would quit on my music.

But the mountains, ah, the mountains. Sigh. I could have chosen a route straight up Highway 191 and never left the desert. It was hot and smoky in Page and it will be hot and smoky in Grand Junction. With little change in the scenery but in the names of the stratigraphic layers of sandstone, I could have made my journey in about 6 and a half hours. But no, I had to alter my route, break my travel at 8,000 feet. In the San Juan Forest. In the mountains. In the conifers. In a cabin. By a bubbling creek.

About ten miles north of Cortez the mountains reached out and stole my heart – again. I was sick with love. My heart yearned for the hundreds of acres and beautiful homes I passed-many with for sale signs. I rued the fact that I don’t make enough to purchase – not even a little postage stamp – in such a beautiful place.

And then I arrived at my destination and my heart was stilled. A cabin. A gurgling river. Englemanns and Spruce and Ponderosa and Pine. Firewood chopped and waiting. A fire ring. But do I remember how to relax? We shall soon find out. A trail awaits tomorrow.