Desert Solitaire. There are precious few books that I can honestly say have changed me, that have affected me in such a fundmental way as to have tangible effects on my being, my thought processes, even years later. Conversations with God? Perhaps. Twain's Roughing It? You bet. But how different would I be today, as a person, had my father not given me that well-thumbed paperback copy of Desert Solitaire in my early teens.

What is it about this man and his summers working alone in the badlands, that holds such appeal? His bond with the rock and vulture, his fierce love of wilderness, and his glaring, raw insights into the governmental profit centers exploiting it? Yes, and more, between the lines.

Over the years, Edward Abbey has given me a lot to chew on. Taught me a lot about what it means to be a man. And a citizen. And a custodian of the planet. And little things, like how to enjoy a quiet moment with God, out somewhere where there's nothing but me and him.

"The thermometer nailed to a post reads 110F, but in the shade, with a breeze and almost no humidity, such a temperature is comfortable, even pleasant. I sit down at the table, pull off my boots and socks, dig my toes into the gritty, cleansing sand. Fear no more the heat of the sun. This is comfort. More, this is bliss, pure smug animal satisfaction. I relax beneath the sheltering canopy of juniper boughs and gaze out squinting and blinking at a pink world being sunburned to death."

Thanks Ed. I'm trying.