bright Mexican casitas like a woven potholder still warm to the touch . The once well-traversed Camino Real , the oldest of the great highways north through El Paso del Norte , is now only a distant memory replaced by engine and asphalt .

At a ranch market in Canutillo , I buy a small rattan bag the colors of the ocean . “ Gracias ,” she says , and “ God bless you .” Stands selling aguas frescas and helado , others offering face painting and hand-made crafts bustle next to corrals full of cattle at rest and horses grooming , and somewhere along this route license plates mingle and then shift from Texas to New Mexico without notice .

We camp northeast of the Potrillo Mountains looking out over the town of Anthony , New Mexico , against a backdrop of the Franklins , slowly bleeding into the Organ Mountains to the north with their jagged , sawtooth ridge . In the evening , a marbling of clouds stretches across the fading sky like granite veins , and the soft sound of doves cooing floats across the air . The horse raises his head to listen , then lowers it to the pile of hay at his feet as I brush him out , place a pad along his spine , and turn to lift the saddle from its rack .

A quail sits watching on the mesa ledge as we ride by . The ground erodes into waves and turns beneath us , like runoff after a hard rain flowing to the city below . The dog , horse and I follow this edge of melting earth high above the world below until the sun is only a faint glow and twilight takes over . There , I halt the horse and turn to look back at camp and at the flickering lights of the city . The horse chewing and cropping the grass and the squeaking of a saddle with each small step forward are the only sounds .

In the morning , I toss hay and sit with coffee steaming , watching the sun gently chase the gray from the skies , warming the clouds one at a time . We load and move east to Franklin Mountains State Park .

I tie the horse and saddle and stretch to reach my stirrup as hikers stand aside to give us space . The craggy peaks of the Franklins above , I rein the horse around and squeeze him forward . Slowly we ease our way into desert wilderness through prickly pear , ocotillo and yucca . The tall , brittle stalks of lechuguilla past bloom . Pink flowers dot the grounds between , and what appeared soft from a distance is now hard .

The trail switchbacks down into the foothills and through a dry creek where I stop to let the horse rest , then onward through another small arroyo where we trot up the other side , slowing only as the rock becomes slick and to let the horse blow . There I tie the reins around his neck , and he follows me across , finding his own footing as I search for mine . Remounting , I turn my face to the sun to guess at the time of day . A cool wind moves across the foothills , and a hawk glides above , dipping low with piercing eyes then back up again . This desert works in pockets of sunshine , and the Franklin Mountains are one of them . The city holds on tight protecting its piece of creation – a tilted range of granite and light sedimentary rock topped with the icing of our Chihuahua Desert and a sprinkling of barrel cactus for show . It ’ s hard to

stay pristine surrounded by exhaust , harder still to heal in such a place . Yet somehow it does , and the Franklins remain an arid gem held aloft for all to see by the hand of El Paso , loved and unspoiled by those who care .

These peaks have seen much but speak little of Spaniards crossing or of Native Americans and hermits making a home . Instead , they listen , silently absorbing everything we have to offer without judgement .

Re-approaching the trailer , my horse pauses , staring off toward the distant TransMountain Road and its steady stream of progress . I dismount and meander alongside him , reminded of just how spoiled I ’ ve become – to live in a place without encroachment , with only gravel and grass crunching underfoot .

I love myself better here , in the natural world , the desert asphalt , the rivers and arroyos . The scattered rock lying tousled along the ridgeline . Living the journey and not just rushing through . Held tightly by the quiet and empty . By the smooth open air smelling of grounded earth . Here , I can breathe .

By day ’ s end my boots are the color of the trail , and the inside of my jeans wet with sweat from the horse . I look down at dirt under jagged fingernails and the calluses from leather reins and know I ’ m alive . And more so , I know this trail goes up and down , through thick brush , slick rock and cactus . But at the top there ’ s a view not to be missed , and in this I complete myself . Something yet undone by any other means . �