For the past fourteen years, Ken and I have traveled, about once every eighteen months or so, to our shared cabin in the San Juan range of the Rocky Mountains. It is a refuge for us, a place where we can lie around all day and read or hike through a field of wildflowers or climb into the sky atop a fourteener.
Last week, Ken and I spent several days at the cabin, and it was unlike any other time we’ve spent there, beginning with the drive.
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