All desert and mountain country is fine. It's dirt, dust and wide sky over a spare landscape. I like the bones of the world showing, as immutable as granite or gritty sandstone. Water drains away quickly and isn't taken for granted. There's rarely enough of it. When you find yourself in the surprise of lush green, it's a gift. Fine country - at least in my definition - still has some danger in it. You can get into trouble, and have to come to terms with that, which surprisingly, isn't difficult.
When I return to my heartlands and I'm out on my own, I take deep breaths. Perhaps I'm trying to recapture missing pieces of myself. I don't know why lungs filled with thin air make me feel as if all that I would like to think I am, I am indeed once again, if only while I visit.
I miss where I grew up, but painting pictures of it helps. I'm almost there, in places that shape thoughts and haunt dreams. It's hard to capture country carried that deep, especially when I'm away, probably because I know or feel too much. But I manage echoes and moments, and maybe sometimes more.