An intensely painful stomach ache kept me awake that night. Every time I lay down, my head spun and nausea swelled in my throat. I ran from the tent to the portable toilet a handful of times. I desperately wanted to vomit. And I tried. But I couldn't. We were scheduled to have five hours of sleep that night, but I managed to get only an hour and a half. I'd felt so strong, almost invincible up to this point.

I was pulling a pizza out of the oven when I nicked the heating element with my left ring finger. Now where a ring might be, I have a half-centimeter stripe, symmetrical enough to suggest a wedding band, a reminder of those I've worn before. It's red—the color of stop, of angry, of hurt—evoking both my marriages: the good one that reached "until death do us part," far too soon, and the bad one that made me feel diminished.

I have never been a wilderness person, preferring to hike through urban shopping districts, explore museums and cathedrals, and slide into cafes for an espresso respite. There is no call-of-the-wild in me. But, at sixty-years of age, I craved nature’s inspiration. I wanted to see ancient beauty that would exist long after my expiration date.