When I talk about Miguel Loco I will say he knows things about the Backcountry I do not, which is legion. After all, he is the master, I am the humble student. It is from him I have acquired most of my gear and learned of a great many of the secret places within the borders of our Sahel.
We lament the decided lack of snow this season. He chides Sabina and I for not at least going on an overnight last summer. Over a map he speaks of places with names straight out of High Country mythology; Hell's Hole and Bobcat Creek. I promise to speak with him on the subject with more sincerity come spring.
"When you're ready, come see me, and we'll find the perfect place for you to go," He says. There is a glint of whimsical madness in his eyes and a big cheshire cat's grin on his face. "You won't regret it."
I don't doubt him for a second...
Sabina's eyes track toward the high peaks, which mark the outback of our Sahel. The woodsmoke scent on the wind carries the taste of campfires, wilderness, and stars miles away from anything else that walks upon two legs. Spring is sooner than we think, but perhaps later than we hope. Neither one of us can hardly wait.