I was driving north on California’s Hwy 395, Mono Lake just about to come into view, when I spotted a road sign for Highway 120 pointing east toward Benton.

Until then, my only experience with 120 was heading west into Yosemite via Tioga Pass and Tuolumne Meadows.

I’d driven this stretch of the 395 dozens of times, always craning my head towards the range of light, staring at the formidable chain of Sierra Nevada peaks rising a mile high from the sagebrush covered foothills.

I’ve walked a hundred miles of that high country, mostly along sections of the Pacific Crest Trail. I’ve switchbacked over the passes, swum in icy lakes, camped in the meadows, and watched shooting stars rip across the sky. Each excursion brought adventure, but I never felt…what’s the word…comfortable? Peace?

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I’ll trade you a hundred Yosemites for just one of these lonely mesas at sunset.

I can’t say the exact feeling I had walking these BLM lands off Highway 120, but reverence is what I felt most deeply. As the fading light worked slowly upward along the mesa, illuminating Sage and Pinyon, and finally turning rocky outcrops crimson, words seemed useless.

I was camping once at the Carrizo Plain during the superbloom and the little campground was bursting with life and movement. There were people of all stripes scattered about. Botanists, flower chasers, mountain bikers, birders, and walkers, sleeping in tents and vans and trailers. But one older gentleman had captivated my attention, doing something I can’t remember ever seeing before…

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