GROWING UP IN FLAT FLORIDA, I always nursed a yen to see the West. In 1975, I bought a VW Campmobile, the classic orange one, with intent to summer in the western U.S. That plan was scotched when my wife got pregnant (I suppose I share the blame). But the fantasy persisted and, finally, upon my second retirement in 2004, away we went. The West is thought to begin where the average rainfall drops below twenty inches. The approximate line marking that drop is the one hundredth meridian, the famous dividing line that separates America’s wet East from the dry West. But lately, due to global warming, that line has migrated 140 miles east over the past forty years. Perhaps you’ve seen reports about the Mississippi River drying up due to drought. Once we got out West, I kept hearing the natives bemoaning their perception that it just wasn’t the same anymore, that it had lost its wildness, its untamed spirit. But to me, it seemed pretty wild. I stuck to the rural, middle-of-nowhere places in Utah, which only has two large metropolitan areas. After a short drive, I could go for a wander in a desolate western landscape and not see another human being for as long as I wished to stay out there. It was dangerous territory, as far as my ex-city boy eyes could tell. I was glad that someone had invented back packs you could fill with water, energy bars, and hiking boots. I was thankful that rattlesnakes had rattles. So, I finally got out West and, thanks to my memory, I’m still partly out there.
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