Sands Of Time
trong winds blast through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and rip the tent from my hands. Long-needled branches of ponderosa pine trees whip around their sturdy yet creaky trunks. The forest floor is bone dry, but the smell of moisture is in the air. Grabbing the billowing tent, I stake the corners and manage to erect a shelter. Dinner is a quick huddle around a boiling pot of rehydrated
