One afternoon, shortly after arriving in Alamosa, I drove with Buddy 25 miles to the northwest corner of the Valley for a stroll among the rolling foothills, broken occasionally by rock outcroppings, that climb to the San Juan Mountains. The hills are treeless but, in the summer, lushly carpeted with green grasses.
That day, pronghorns, hyper-alert as usual, roamed those hills, and their presence surprised me. I recalled these lords of the vacant lands from my days of documenting the high plains of eastern New Mexico; however, I hadn’t realized they dwell on the intermountain lands west of the front range of the Rockies. Buddy had chased deer in New Mexico’s forests and desert mountains, but never pronghorn. Now, he chased two herds of them. Flummoxed―a pronghorn can sustain a speed of 55 miles-per-hour―he returned to my side and collapsed, panting heavily, his tongue and muzzle smeared with foam.
From moody skies a misty rain began to fall, but Buddy didn’t mind. Nor did I. I luxuriated in it, smelling and tasting its sweetness, spreading it like a balm upon my face and arms. Gazing at this verdant, glamorous landscape at the feet of densely-forested Del Norte and Bennett peaks, I had to laugh at my misery in this very same high country over a quarter-century earlier, and I understood why the Colorado mountains are so coveted. Yet, after walking for a mile or two, I was happy to return to the patchwork of pastures, vegetable fields, and desert scrublands, to the Rio Grande’s sluggishness and muddy banks, of the central San Luis Valley.
 Well, coveted by most. “Obvious Arizona, eh, Vladimir [Nabokov]?” wrote Edward Abbey. “Obvious Colorado, if you ask me. Colorado with its one big city and conventional alpinetype mountains is what would appeal to the European hotel-manager’s imagination of Nabokov, the wide-eyed wonder of pop music hack John Denver, the myriad mannikins of this world. Let them have it. Colorado has gone to hell anyhow . . .”