In the long, homey grandeur of this valley, the rock walls are red and tan and rust, marvelously corrugated, with impossible, draping folds, topped with happy-looking ponderosa pines.

It’s been a relief to be here. I love the sun, the openness of the dry terrain, the self-possessed-looking mountain ranges—snow-capped and always enticing, but clearly okay to be grand all on their own—and I want to go home to New York.