Fifty-two years ago I breached the west side of the Continental Divide, driven by ancestors
from the High Steppes, who had cracked The Great Wall of China. By the time Kublai Khan
ascended to the throne of the Court of Cathy, the last mountains and rivers poet had been
dead nearly as many years as I've been alive.

  Mountains, mountains—I've raved on and on, and they're still
  clamering for attention. A thousand peaks, ten thousand ridges:
  it's too much for me. If I climb an hour, I need to rest for three.

The same dream twice: Picked my way along a path that wended through a land of canyons,
ravines, and spires, until I arrived where, walking further I would not be able to find my way
home.
Each time, I turned around; each time, I woke up.