There is a certain quality, a certain magic about this desert place. The magic, like any good sleight of hand, is not readily seen. It is sensed in the ethereal, whiskey-colored light found late in the day, deep in hidden canyons. It is glimpsed in the melancholy trailings of virgus, those rains that never quite touch the ground. It is whispered, sotto voce, by the wind in the needles of saguaros and Ponderosa pines. It is felt when you see the mysterious, distant, pearl blue mountains. It is in the peachblow sunsets. It calls with a coyote's voice from across faraway basins. Here is our journey through those places, and through each other’s lives.

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