The constant breeze – plummeting, turned and careened abreast obstinate resolve, cascading down canyon narrows, destined for indistinct acknowledgement upon buffeting the sparse desert brush. Relentless too; though frustrated, hindered by its composition, or perceived lack thereof, it beat restlessly my flesh and clothes as it had the Joshua for centuries. It tore simultaneously into the jet black of my steed, slightly sidelong, striking his left shoulder directly (so that he had been favoring his right for some time), and I felt his shudder, and knew he was suffering unease at that sense that soon it might break skin – as one feels on scratching too long at one spot.

I pressed him on though, deadlines to make, and with the understanding that my family waited still in danger, though the immediacy of that situation had left my paramount attention with the passing of the first strong gust, and now rolled along the desert sands with the tumbleweeds whence I came. Focused now on making the pass, the closer I drew to hilltop, the further I felt from them, and wondered about the necessity of such trips and the difference making them really made in the run of things. Is remittance worth the resultant separation? Is penance part and parcel, or prerequisite, imperturbable pause? As if agitating the same, the horse stopped in the bottom of a dry wash. I gave in and allowed the moment, for I too would enjoy this brief respite; and shielded slightly for a moment from the incessant breath of empty, hollow, desperate western sky, I sipped a sooty, biting coffee from a travel-weary canteen. Replacing the lid, I felt the anxious tremble neath my saddle of an animal not certain of travels ahead, but aware of my intention to continue and the antithesis of eager to delay any more than necessary the impending events, be they righteous or purposeless. A trusting animal through trying times is quite the boon, and a trustworthy master serves both well. That I had tried most to be since taking on the roll of commander, husband, father. Imperfect at best in all three regards, I was beginning to feel as the wind; throwing every bit of myself against an unyielding force, not entirely certain why, and making little observable progress; but I imagine the wind and I both accomplished more than either ever imagined.

A chill struck me as sunlight retreated briefly, and I noticed as we neared the peaks that the nimbostratus trapped in the basin on the other side danced mightily in the gale about the chaparral lining the highest points. The scene had appeared so stagnant viewed from afar, where it might be immortalized by Van Gogh or Gauguin and admired in galleries at New York, Paris, or London as “the real west”. Up amongst the turmoil I was now fully aware of the power inherent in our surroundings and how insignificant the things we sometimes consider most important or noteworthy. (The capacity for cognitive reasoning man is blessed with can be as much a curse, for after centuries of practice he has developed many misguided paths of logic that convolute even the simplest decisions.) Months before I had searched these hills for the fairest passing, but my favored route, by now well worn from much use, was already in the horse’s sight. He would go, by instinct and the aforementioned trust, down this trail blindfolded and muzzled were I to ask, especially in this weather, since he knew as I did that the bottom meant inturbulent respite. So we descended, that brilliant orb left on the mesa above the grey wetless waters we struck out to float beneath.

The first steps of this descent were always fairly easy and deceive many, but still on guard to the wind, the wet, and the narrow path, our progress was slow. And on cue, the hills steepen. Traction is minimal, and we almost lost footing once or twice, but soon enough the roughest part of the drop is done. I still don’t know if it was the grade, the fact that precarious situations tend to occupy the mind so that time passes more quickly, or the obstruction of all recognizable landmarks by the soft, damp blanket covering the valley, but rather quickly we had dropped through the bottom of the pillowy air-waters and escaped the bite of the circling wind, which now seemed nothing more than the provocateur in the fight between the light of the desert and the shadow of the valley. They do fight ceaselessly, but most times end at a draw when night descends, the border remaining that crossing point I travel oh so often. In the narrow valley now, a wary comfort crept in. This was always my favorite part of the journey. The valley is usually covered like this this time of year, and my natural tendency toward the cold, wet weather – real weather, not this region’s typically complete lack of weather – is sated for a few easy weeks. Honestly, the monotony of the area’s normally perfectly livable, entirely temperate conditions is quite grating.

We settled in to a suitable canter for the remainder of the ride down the easier hills framing the wide open beginnings of this canyon. The clouds draped like cobweb curtains strung peak to peak; a fitting canopy to the four-poster bed we sank slowly into as if for a long needed rest. Admiring the rising walls around, I didn’t feel my shoulders drop an inch or two in my guarded relaxation. I marveled at the fins of weather-worn sandstone that explode from the ancient riverbed just south, dead in the center of the pass. They stand as sentinels at the inner gateway through this passage. Where the canyon really begins to narrow and deepen, and the sand is so relatively shallow that clean, clear spring water surfaces in places, nurturing a grove of cottonwood and willow. We continued, treading the wide, easy, mostly sandy-dry wash that meanders the floor of the natural corridor connecting the high, dry desert with the low.

Again, my thoughts turned to the nature of our existence on the edge of this frontier. Couldn’t we just leave? There are plenty of places in this vast land in which to settle – why did we have to be here? Moving nearer to my destination was no option, for every inch of useable land had been occupied and fenced and cultivated. To go east, or far north would be possibilities, but we knew too many things and people here, and the rest – the distant hopes and “greener grass” – were the extreme unknown. No, we were where we were, and for good reason and with good years ahead. Mostly we did fine, I just suffered a little during the trips – but I was really no worse for the wear. I could dream of better days, more fertile land, less time in the saddle – but I had it easy.

We entered the deepest area and I brought the horse’s canter to a quicker gallop. One long s-turn and we would be able to see the exit of the labyrinth. It was growing darker and windier again, and I wondered if it might in fact open up and rain on us when the first drops kissed my cheeks. I just lowered the brim of my weathered hat and focused on the widening valley ahead at the end of the trail. As I pondered my course in life, I saw it – I knew my place and I knew satisfaction awaited me at the end of the journey. In the short run and the long, the walls would fall away, the skies would clear, and the winds would calm. I press the horse on. Keep moving. Step after step. One foot in front of the other. Ignore the height of the hill, or the depth of the canyon, and look two feet ahead. Could I make one more step? Then I could make one thousand. If I could make those I could make the next thousand as well.

I had traveled this route many times; I could travel it many more. And the days and trips would only grow easier – in comparison to the length of the trail a few sandy washes and chaparral covered hills are just another step or two. The rewards are worth the risks, and are more than just remittance. Long after I quit traveling this course I would watch those rewards find their own favored route and make similar sacrifices for their own penance; and I would rest, in quiet solitude, in a vast four-poster, forgiving my doubts and doubters as all fades to vague, opaque images resembling the trails I used to traverse as if behind a soft canopy, let loose from its posts, descending slowly until it shut my eyes. For now – I just drive the horse.