It was excruciatingly cold, riding up the boxy canyon under a strip of furry sky and bright-twinkling stars, a light breeze of freezing mountain air pouring off the 14,000-foot peaks well above like running water. I hunched in the saddle, listening to the monotonous creak of saddle leather, watching the occasional sparks fly from beneath the hooves of my partner's horse clattering over flinty rock just ahead on a trail I couldn't see. I was obviously underdressed. It had been difficult to convince myself I needed more layers, dressing in the warmth of the 23-foot travel trailer so bright and cheery. If I were hiking it would be different. I'd be sweating under my loaded daypack (now hung over a saddle horn), gulping the oxygen-starved atmosphere of this Colorado high country. It was August 27 after all, a date complete with soaring humidity, chiggers and ticks at home in eastern Kansas. So I hunched and tried to pull inside of myself, thinking of home and that sweltering heat.

When you're that cold and can do nothing about it the eastern sun taunts you with its unwavering patience; like making your kids wait to open Christmas presents as long as possible for no other reason than you believe you're teaching them something of the world, but more likely because you simply enjoy their innocent discomfort and wish to recapture something lost in yourself through it. You understand the sun is coming, that it must come, but it's black dark, with no hint of coming warmth. When you're hiking to reach a specific point before sunrise, to make a plan come together, the sun is yet another adversary and climbs like a shot and you find yourself wishing it back.

We crested a saddle named Buck Pass after three hours on horseback and clambered off our steeds clumsily to work the kinks out of our knees and watch the sun erupting from a faultless sky, watching it with the reverence of a coming god. My buddy, Adrian, tied his mount and ascended a nearby boulder, putting his binoculars to work on the falling terrain. I stood with reins in my hand and waited the sun, holding onto myself tightly as spasms ran through my body.

"There's some pretty nice bucks," Adrian said, still peering intently. I gazed toward the distant bowl he was trained on. I couldn't imagine drawing a bow right then.

I could feel the perceivable weight of the sun and began to feel better, tying off my horse and climbing up beside Adrian. The bucks were there alright, five of them tucked tight beneath a towering ring of cliff that oversaw the huge bowl. There was nothing to do about them even if they were something that interested us. We knew there were much, much bigger.

So we pushed on. The plan--formulated around an evening campfire when we were full of beer and bravery--was to venture deeper into the wilderness than we'd ever dared. We understood the realities, but shared a wanderlust and need to see more of this place we both loved so much.