By seven-fifteen, Milo and I were at the back of a long queue at the Southwest Airlines gate. The terminal was Ellis Island minus the overcoats—weary posture, worried eyes, language-soup.

“Thought we had our seats,” he said, eyeing the front of the line.

“We have electronic tickets,” I said. “Southwest’s system is you wait for your seat assignment. They board in groups, give you little plastic number tags.”

“Great . . . I’ll take half a dozen bagels, a rye sliced thin, and two onion rolls.”

The flight was booked full and cramped, but amiable, populated by seasoned, mostly easygoing passengers and flight attendants who fancied themselves stand-up comedians. We arrived early on a tarmac specked with snow and turned our watches ahead one hour. Sunport Airport was low-profile and blessedly quiet, done up in earth tones, turquoise, and mock adobe, and riddled with talismanic hints of a decimated Indian culture.

We picked up a Ford Escort at the Budget desk, and I drove north on Highway 25 toward Santa Fe, feeling the wind buffet the tiny car. Snow—clean white fluff—was banked up along the side of the road, but the asphalt was plowed clear and the sky was bluer and bigger than I’d ever imagined and when I opened the window to test the air, I got a faceful of pure, sweet chill.

“Nice,” I said.

Milo grunted.

City sprawl, fast-food franchises, and Indian casinos gave way soon enough to long, low vistas of desert, bounded by the purplish tips of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and that vast sky that just seemed to grow bigger.

“Gorgeous,” I said.

“Hey, look at this,” said Milo. “Seventy-five-mile-an-hour speed limit. Put some weight on that pedal.”

As we neared Santa Fe, the highway climbed and the altitude registers increased steadily to seven thousand feet. I was speeding across the highest of deserts, no cactus or sandy desolation. The mountains were green where the snow had melted and so were the lowlands, bearded by wind-hardy, drought-tolerant piñon trees, ancient and ragged and low to the ground—Darwinian victors—and the occasional vertical statement of bare-branch aspens. Millions of trees, tipped with white, not a cloud in the sky. I wondered if Melinda Waters, Attorney-at-Law, had woken up thinking this was going to be a great day. Would we be a petty annoyance or an intrusion she’d never forget?