I'm at Buckboard Campground, 25 miles from nowhere in Wyoming, staring at a high desert sky so close I can smell it.
Across the horizon, I see mountains and buttes and a landscape polka-dotted by yellow and silver sagebrush.
It's still out here. Nothing moves, except jackrabbits.
A breeze kicks up. I hear leaves quiver.
Allen works on his bike and I'm sitting in the shade, reading.
I'm thinking it doesn't get much better than this.
Allen and I look at each other. And we figure it must be a fellow camper a little too enthusiastic about rock 'n roll. Disturbing my peace.
I stand up and scan, looking for the soure of our concert. And I see just one motorhome in the midst of the music. So I leash up my dog to take a walk to find out what's what. As I walk, the Beatles join me in this dusty place. And the Eagles, too, welcoming me to "Hotel California."