BY SHANNON KING

This is the country they call life . A place where you can be yourself – unencumbered by city lights , concrete streets , and fashionistas . Where the coyote sits alone on the ridge surveying his domain , and the lion crosses in the dark – almost never seen . A place where tumbleweeds play on the highway because , well … they ain ’ t scared .

And I race down that highway , headlights against the setting sun , just to be there for a moment . To sink into there for an evening . To hold it tight as if it might walk away at any second . Because you see it could , it really could . But for now , even the bears have found their way back , trekking through the desert of Mexico – and she has her secrets this desert , hidden under layers of sand and rock . Thorns and brush . You cannot ask what her story is , you can only listen quietly , and maybe … if you ’ re lucky she will tell you , and if she tells you , you will be lost in it forever as I am .

As I sit tonight , outside Terlingua Ranch Lodge , a cool breeze rises , gently brushing the hair across my eyes . I push it back into place . The horse grazes nearby , a steady stream of molars grinding . The only other sound a symphony of crickets . Tonight the stars are shy , and the day doesn ’ t want to go to bed , but it is time , and so the moon climbs slowly into the seat of these mountains and sits , waiting patiently . Watching me . And with a sip of wine I lean back in this rickety old camp chair – as has become my custom – and close my eyes . Anticipating . For in the morning we will ride the Christmas Mountains , an ascent of almost 2,000 feet in just under four miles .

The trail runs steep , so I put the horse forward at a trot and the dogs follow behind – tongues lolling . At the third switchback we halt and gaze down toward the lodge , but the horse is eager and turns to the west as if to move us along . As if he , too , wants to reach the top .

I have ridden myself into boldness before and that is where I make my mistakes , with a horse you must always remember . But I trust this horse . This is not his first mountain and he has learned to watch his feet . He knows when to run and when to walk – when to stop and enjoy the view . So we teeter along the edge of this trail , farther and farther away from any other sign of human life , and there is something magical in that . About knowing you ’ re the only person in a broad expanse of nothingness . As if the world exists just for you , like some kind of unopened present on Christmas morning .

We follow the road from one end to another and into a hidden valley where catclaw and lechuguilla post a savage guard . There ,

a bevy of quail takes flight and the Chisos Mountains of Big Bend tease from the south , winking seductively between valley walls and rolling hills . Now the dogs run ahead , stopping at each hint of shade to rest , and the horse moves slowly – worn from his climb .

And then , along jumbled rock we crest the final ridge and arrive at our destination , the Christmas Mountains Overlook , and the world changes . Colors bleed together in the distance , and what ’ s hard appears soft . Desert becomes ocean , waves tumbling one over