I came into the mountains last June at the so-called golden hour, through cliffs the color of sand and grace. Wildfire smoke made the whole Western Slope seem becalmed, as if through the particles the sun breathed soft light. “‘Do you hear the boys hollering for help?’” In his telling she asks as if she is simply curious. I thought that the mountains were the Earth’s secrets rising to be seen, by me, as if geology were revelation. I thought of Andrew, my friend, who would be soon riding his bicycle up this spine across which I drove.