We deplaned, apparently the only flight of the day, and stopped on the cool tarmac to have a look around. I felt Betsy’s elbow jab at my ribs, a certain comfort. Autumn was well on and the smell of molding hay and pines wafted in on a light breeze. At that moment, and unbeknown to me, the scent memories of Rocky Mountain west stole my heart forever.
As we rolled toward town in our rental car, Betsy, Sarah and I sang hopefully along with Crosby, Stills and Nash on the radio: