Sage

Thunder clapped in the distance as a storm rolled across the high planes near the New Mexico/Colorado border. Similar to the smell of a Christmas tree or an ex-girlfriend's perfume, the smell of wet sage cutting through the air conjured up memories of my time spent throughout the west.

Wasting no time, I walked along the sandstone outcropping towards the protection of a nearby overhang. The wall of gray mist marched forward catching up to us, just as we made it under the overhang.

Sage and red.

This cabin reminded me of my favorite short story, The Call of the Wild. Highway 550 between Durango and Silverton.

An abandoned trading post.

From the protection of the small cave, the storm pounded the desert, punctuated by an occasional clap of the thunder and flash of light. We watched, biding our time to dash back to the truck.

Bass watching the storm.

Sage and obsidian.

Spring mud.

Bone dry.

As quickly as the storm had come, it passed. We left the protection of the overhang and headed towards the truck. Lingering behind, I stopped by aome sagebrush. Pulling off two of longest the shoots, I shoved them in my pocket as a reminder of the high country and this late April storm.

Here are some more links,
Sage (Picasa).