These days, the memory of that ride, the desert, and Valentine is tinged, not with sadness or regret, but with thankfulness. The stable, the canal, the wilderness are gone, of course, bladed and buried under a row crop of houses. But the memory endures. And it's a good memory. I feel fortunate to have experienced that ride with Valentine, and many others as well, thankful to see and smell the desert as a youth before I became "educated" to the sins of manifest destiny, before the desert disappeared, before Progress went on and on. For a while, it was good – great even. I relentlessly explored the fine line between city and desert, nature and culture, fascinated by the influence of one on another, the slice of a canal across the land, the contrast of asphalt and desert pavement, a house on a hill, even a golf course set among the saguaros. It all told a story of expansion and exceptionalism, and our disregard for limits. But that knowledge came later. That day, on Valentine's back, all that mattered was wind.
And freedom.
