It is an aspect of Steve’s and my temperaments that we can flow from the rarefied arena of the nature tourist to sin city very easily. Did we play with the one armed bandits? Yes, but only for a few minutes, long enough to lose $7. This was in the bar that Wild Bill Hickok was murdered. It is also in our temperaments to enjoy slipping away from such a scene in the early dawn. And so we did, travel mugs filled with hot water, to which we added instant Starbucks. The entrance to the west was heralded by a 
luminescent beauty: the turning colors of the cottonwoods. This last summer, Steve and I went to Fairbanks where the cottonwoods were “snowing”. To a home owner, a nuisance, I’m told. To a poet and a traveler, pure magic. 
The very air was alive with the lithesome floating seeds, dancing and soaring on every hint of breeze. Our travels and the seasons have been touched by these miraculous trees. 
From the minute we entered Wyoming, I was spellbound. 
I have loved nearly every mile of this journey. But the West is Home. My blood surged and my senses rushed to meet the landscape like a long lost lover. I am an island woman these days, and the ocean is, and always has been, my foundation. But, oh how I have needed and dreamed about mountains and rivers.
Crimson rock, leaves shimmering golden, bottle green and auburn, snow capped mountains against an azure sky and framing indigo rivers. 
Our lips chapped, our eyes squinted against the bright light, our nostrils filled with the scent of sage. I took a million photos, some of which actually made it into the camera. The rest were snapped in my head as splendor poured through the windows. I re-read this now, thinking "oh she does go on...". But add in the aging eyes, as we fumble with glasses and count our days as finite to be doing such a thing and it seems okay to just recklessly go ahead and try to describe it. 
We drove like this from Devils Tower to Cody, where we spent the night on the street, after making dinner in the Visitor Center parking lot. The encroaching storm came, dumped and was gone by the time we woke. Could it get any better? You must know the answer, since we were enroute to Yellowstone. 
Over the snowy pass, coming down into Yellowstone Lake, and on a day so sweet it hardly seemed real, we toured this amazing park. 
If you have never been . . . go. But wait until the Fall, where the cottonwoods will border the plumes of steam and the sun long in the sky lights the steaming breath of bison. 
We snugged up to a creek outside of the park on a night cold enough to penetrate my two coats and vest, not to mention long johns. I tried not to be 
annoyed that Steve was as at home as he 
would be in our living room, legs stretched out and relaxed as Jack and I peered out into the dark night imagining grizzlies or whatever. The creek burbled next to the campfire and the stars seemed to actually sing 
along—music of the spheres I suppose, or maybe the voice of our glass of Scotch. One thing I have noticed over and over is the contrast between Steve and thoroughly modern humans who think nothing of seeing the world through their GPS or using up an entire tank of propane in an RV to stay warm on such a night. Even then, those who knew him “back when” would be amazed at his use of cell phone and computer. 
I count myself lucky (usually) to go on such adventures with him.
This day, we watched the rising sun bathe the Tetons with a pink glow, 
standing next our Coleman stove, 
heating up water for coffee. The journey is soon to end, and I will be both glad and sad.
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