spaced trees over mainly level ground,rnmade for easy travel and echoed the horses’rnfootfalls like a drum. We rode onrnthrough the woods a mile or so beforerndaylight broke through the treelinernahead and we came to an open park borderingrnthe willowy bed of a creek and risingrntoward granite cliffs across the stream.rn”This is what I like best,” Ann said happily.rn”But I enjoy riding in the woods,rntoo.”rnWe crossed the creek at the ford belowrnthe swamp and continued across a grassyrnslope covered with wildflowers under arnbench grown up with widespacedrngnarled pine trees, an excellent place tornput a camp. But, rather than climbingrnup by the bench to the granite fieldsrnsome hundreds of feet above, the trailrnturned with the creek and followed itrndownhill into the timber.rn”I’m glad you like riding in thernwoods,” I told Ann, “since it looks likernwe’ll be doing plent)’ of it, the rest of thernafternoon.” You don’t have to knowrnwhere you’re going to get somewhere.rnThe groundcover showed vivid greenrnbetween the straight tall trees as if pickedrnout by the sun, occluded once more by arnsmall roiling storm coming off the peaks.rnThe creek ran full beside the trail, butrnnow the sound of it was covered by windrnand the rolling thunder. Rain fell fromrndark clouds, the smiley-face came outrnagain like a small defiant sun bobbingrndownhill above the mare’s gray rump,rnand I reached the poncho from the saddlernbags and put my head through therncenter hole. We rode for ten miles thisrnway before I let the gelding overtake thernmarc and Ann and drew rein besidernthem at a wide place in the trail beside arnslough.rn”We must be almost down to Centennialrnby now,” I said, turning the horse.rn”Bet I make it to the barn before you do.”rnIn the freight-train rush to the top ofrnthe mountain, granite ledges and carpetsrnof wildflowers rolled beneath the thunderingrnhooves, and startled elk grazing inrnsunset parks and lengthening forest shadowsrnflashed past beneath an arcing doublernrainbow. The horses were winded atrnthe willow swamp, and we rode the lastrnmile to the trailer at a plodding walk, inrnan aura of horse sweat and body heat.rn”That didn’t work out exactly asrnplanned,” I told Ann as we pulled thernsaddle pads from the lathered horses,rn”but we had a good ride today, anyway.”rn”It was lovely,” she agreed. “My rainrngear worked better than your map, by thernway.rnI was too busy again that week to stoprnby the Forest Service for a map and arrivedrnat Brooklyn Lake prepared to tacklernthe trail around behind Lake Marie andrnfrom there over the mountain to MedicinernBow Peak. But Ann proposed thernintermediate trail, between the higherrnand lower routes. She seemed politelyrndecided about it, and so I let her have herrnway. (A man has a duty to oblige a lady,rnespecially when she could be right.) Wernset out on a broad earthen track —likernpart of the U.S. Interstate Trail System—rnthat skirted a wide meadow before turningrnabruptiy and plunging into the forest.rnHaifa mile farther on, a shining snowdriftrnthe size of a small glacier appearedrnthrough the trees, and we broke onto thernalpine landscape, all bare rock and water,rngrass and wildflowers and krummholzrnpine, and along the trail a carved woodenrnsign pointing the direction to the GaprnLakes and the pass over to the west slopernof the Snow)’ Range.rn”After this, I wear the raingear, and wernuse your map,” I suggested. “Damn, Irnwish I’d brought the camp gear with us.”rnThe trail climbed by easy switchbacksrnto the pass, cutting wide as a valley fromrnwest to east across the summit of thernmountains. Water ran ever)’where, thernhigher ponds and small lakes spillingrnover and running downhill by rockyrnsluices to those below, and the windrnpouring through from the western desertsrnscraped roughened cobalt patches on thernshining turquoise skins of the standingrnwaters around. The wind felt chillyrnwhen the sun ducked behind an easyrnwhite cloud, but wc rode straight into itrnwhere we coidd to hold off the ragingrnhorseflies that goaded the horses almostrnto bucking fits. Looking back, I saw thernyellow plain stretching away toward townrnand, beyond it, the dark ripple of thernLaramie Mountains; while ahead, arnblack triangle eased itself by millimetersrnabove the stratospheric horizon —ElkrnMountain, still 40 miles away by line ofrnsight but distinctive through the sagebrushrnhaze, a dark sentinel posted at therngate to the western desert.rnI was following Ann’s bouncing yellowrnponytail as we crossed over behind therngranite ridge onto the west slope of thernmountain, opening away to a toweringrnwilderness of rock and ice on which thernsky seemed to balance. I called her offrnthe trail, and we rode on slowly togetherrnacross the rolling green highland, southrnby southwest toward Medicine Bow Peakrninto a hard wind chilled by the glaciersrnahead, sheerly hanging from a frozenrngray sky. Ann reached behind herself tornuntie her windbreakcr from the saddlernstrings and pulled it on over the bathingsuitrntop.rn”It’s another world back here,” shernsaid.rn”Another world was what we’re lookingrnfor.”rn”And if s no distance at all, really—likernpassing from one dimension into anoflier.”rn”I’m glad you’re not disappointed,” Irntold her, thinking how Rhonda Lyonrnback in California would have enjoyedrnthis day.rnWe rode out in three hours and wentrnfor supper and a bottle of red wine at thernOld Corral in Centennial, populationrn100, whose most famous part-timernresident is Annie Proulx, the PulitzerrnPrize-winning novelist and author of thernstor)’ “Broke-back Mountain,” about twornWyoming sheepherders who spend thernwinter monflis at home with their lovingrnfamilies and the summer ones sodomizingrnone another in their mountain camp.rnIt was dark when we left the restaurantrnand started back across the plain towardrntown. An electrical storm behind thernLaramie Mountains spanned the easternrnhorizon, one lightning flash overlappingrnanother like a fireworks display, sheets andrncells and glimmering globes of electricit)’rnmaintaining an overall illumination asrnconstant as the accompanying artilleryrnthunder. When raindrops spattered onrnthe windshield, I put the truck windowrndown to receive the welcome scent of rainrnand the cool freshened air on m’ face.rn”You’re only doing 45 miles an hour,”rnAnn, her straight profile ouflined by flierndashboard glow, said.rn”I didn’t know we were in a hurry,” Irntold her.rn”Well. We do have to get home, sometime.”rnI didn’t agree with her, but it seemedrnpointiess to say so.rn’Yes,” I said, “I suppose we do.”rnC/tSSbcKDrnTo Subscribe:rn(800) 877-5459rn58/CHRONICLESrnrnrn