Elephant Canyon

I have been sleeping again in the cold, open air, body curled warm in my sleeping bag, face open to the sky, crisp air filling my lungs. My deepest sleep came in Elephant Canyon, with the hush of the desert settled over us, the moon rising over hoodoo rocks, all the world silent except for the wind and the sand and the stars. At Windwhistle, our tent nestled against red rock mesa, I woke to the soft brush of snow against the tent, the whoo-ing of an owl in a pinyon pine. Later, back in Fort Collins, I slept outside still, choosing the futon on a friend's back deck over the indoor couch, trading the muted desert soundscape for traffic passing and the distant call of the midnight train as it crossed the plains and began its ascent into the Rocky Mountains.