Burro Schmidt tunnel out in the Mojave. Poked right through the top of a mountain by a man. Spent his life doing that. Chipping away with tools and dynamite. You walk in there without a light and there’s nothing. Black. I might’ve said that already.

Second to that is a patch of trees near Strathcona dam along the Campbell river. Can’t tell you where, but I know it when I see it. On the water’s edge. You’ll see tracks and burned wood in the spring. Walk into those trees and you’re surrounded. A green cage. An awful isolation. Makes you face things.

A quiet walk’s like that. No talking. Nothing forced. Surrounded by the presence of someone else.