Such Great Heights: 7825 feet

One evening, I met Front Desk Matt. He'd joined the Coast Guard after only one semester in college, six years ago. He said he was going back soon, he'd rather be saving lives than be answering phones. We'd sit for hours and hours, simple conversations at the dorm after work, spiders and grasshoppers and moths swarming the porch lights.

Sometimes, we'd get brave and sit at the picnic table at night, and wait for the herds of javelinas to pass. Or we'd look up at the hillside at dusk, guessing which blur of gray was actually a mountain lion.

We climbed this mountain, Emory Peak, and we drove to the flooded Rio Grande and threw rocks into it. He told me about a restaurant in Terlingua, thirty miles away, as if he was thinking out loud. But we drove back across the desert, listening to the most vacant music I've ever heard.

Desert sunset, like a moonscape.

Then once upon a time, I got a little too involved in the local "culture". Then all of a sudden, I moved away to the trailer park.

But Front Desk Matt never came down to the trailer park to visit. He told me that he didn't want to get too much involved, didn't want to really make any connections with anyone, didn't even want to get any promotions. He said he was only passing the time.

Did I understand?
No, I didn't understand.

I miss him a lot now.
No phone number, no email address.
Ciao?