Through the Badlands. Another milkshake at Wall’s. On to Wyoming, where over Greybull I saw for the first time something that I had dreamed of seeing for ten years. There on the western horizon, under a hot, clear sky, sixty miles away, crowned with snow (in July), was a magical vision, a legend come true: the front range of the Rocky Mountains. An impossible beauty like a boy’s first sight of an undressed girl, the image of those mountains struck a fundamental chord in my imagination that has sounded ever since.
Abbey/Serpents
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