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Last night Ronnie and I hiked Ventana close to sunset.  The memories flooded back.  30 years ago Sonja would have spent most of Saturday in the kitchen making homeade truffles, broiled asperagus and mesquite smoked salmon; Charlie and Ronnie would have loaded their North Faces with champagne, cold packs and obscure Sicilian reds.  All of us would be lost in conversation on our trek to our special sunset picnic spot above the falls, 3 miles in.

The land is timeless. High desert of creosote, mormon tea, prickly pear, ocotillo and saguaro as familiar as a cropped lawn to a midwesterner. We had the path to ourselves last night at sunset, save for two athletic girls, jogging back down from the falls to their car before nightfall.  We pushed on, recalling our times here, our dead friends, the scarred ones, the lost ones too.

Sacamano lives in Italy, Ronnie in Santa Barbara, our kids are pushing 30.  The water trickles, the sinking sun finds an angle and glows neon orange on the stream surface and the cliff faces, just as it always has.