Mark kept up his pace hiking across the foothill terrain. The exertion had long ago passed from a conscious effort into machine-like automation. A trickle of sweat ran down one side of his face. His build was average, but his legs were nicely muscled and responded well to the exertion. He was wearing hiking boots, jeans, and a Sierra Club sweatshirt. His black hair had thin streaks of gray. A backpack pressed down on his shoulders. A pair of sunglasses hung from his neck by a nylon cord. The sun was extremely bright passing through the thinner air. He squinted but left the glasses off. He wanted to see this place the way it truly looked. He wanted no filters of polarized glass to alter the appearance of what nature had put here. A breeze swept up the slope, pushing him from behind. The climb had been more difficult than he’d remembered from the trip half a year ago. In Wyoming, what the locals called a hill was a solid incline that went on for miles. These were the foothills of the Rockies.
