Sitting at the edge of the flat portion of land near the shipping containers (where we camp), I’m overlooking the steep drop-off of the land in front of me. Two ridges that decay as they progress a few hundred yards in front of me form the relatively small valley below. A rocky divot cuts down the center of the slope with the intensity of the vegetation’s greenness increasing as it approaches the gulley that I am assuming occasionally has water flowing through it. On the ridge to my right, large chunks of beige-ish rectangular rocks line the top of the crest. As my eyes follow down the slope of the ridge to the base of the valley, I see the shin-height grass cover the surface along with speckles of sagebrush.
Looking out towards the distance, I see the slightly waved horizon due to the slopes of the property. Peeking up from the horizon, I can see the mountains—a faded blue color—in the distance. Just in front of the mountains, I can see the expansive field of wind turbines clustered together; they’re stagnant at the moment. Just in front of the turbines, an inkling of civilization that I think might be the town of Rock River appears as a dusting of tiny boxes across the landscape.
As some of the thin, spindly grass brushes against my calves, my attention is brought back to my more immediate surroundings. I’m sitting on a mostly rocky patch of ground. The rocks have a lot of diversity. Some are smooth, and some are jagged. Some are a bright white, and some are a deep charcoal. Clumps of short yellow flowers with rounded narrow leaves pop up between some of the rocks.