I often played atop a nearby foothill of the Little Marias. It was just a couple tiny washes past the last vacant house on our block. You can see it in the photo behind the nearest telephone pole. It's the dark, pointed hill in front of the others behind the row of houses to the left.

I would run up the north side of the hill using the large black stones as giant steps to the top. I don't remember what we called it, lookout mountain, maybe, because the view of Midland was spectacular. The rock outcroppings at the top made a wall effect surrounding a small, flat area with rocks in the middle, like a rough table in the middle of a tiny breakfast nook. My girlfriend and I would bring water and a snack. It was a picnic spot. Sometimes I went up alone.

One of those times, against my parent's warnings, I ventured down the other side of the hill, away from the familiar view of Midland. I stood at the bottom of a gully surrounded by a seemingly endless number of identical foothills that rose up all around me. The noonday sun offered no directional clues. All familiar sounds and sights of Midland were gone. Feeling suddenly lost, I turned and hurried back.