It’s well past bedtime, but I’m wide awake in the dark. I’ve got my hand cupped over my ear where there’s a cheap plastic earbud tucked. The wire rests on my cheek and winds its way down to a battery-powered radio I’ve got gripped in my hand. It’s tuned to the AM station 830 WCCO. John Gordon’s voice crackles over the airwaves, and the Minnesota Twins are playing ball at the Dome. In my mind, I can see the team lined up in the dugout, their white pinstriped uniforms glowing and their cheeks lumpy with tobacco.

Months ago we started planning a trip for a friend’s bachelor party. SoCal, Colorado, and Arizona were at the top of the list. Sedona won out, none of us having ever been. We got a rental house at the bottom of a valley. In its backyard there was a private pickleball court and a creek beyond that. Surrounded by high rock on each side, we were tucked in a little oasis for a few days.

Last summer I sold my little cabin on the lake.

What a dream it was! A soul searcher’s dream! Here I’d attempt to see how deep the well might reach into the rocky self.

In college I studied philosophy, by the book, but the cabin was a more hands-on experience. I played guitar many nights, writing verses to songs I wouldn’t finish. I hiked here and there. I drew and I dreamt. I fixed and updated much of the inside, bringing a Pinterest board to life. I read Sigurd Olson, and I started taking photos again. All on the edge of the wilderness.

You might think after walking twenty miles in the sun, up gravely ravines, through muddy pastures, and down steep hard pavement that sleep would come quickly when you lay down at night. For many it did. I was not usually so fortunate. Rooms were stuffy with sweaty clothes and humid air. Dull aches pulsed from my hip to knee to foot and back. I had a slice of bread for a mattress. The worst of it, though, was the snoring.