I love clear mountain mornings, little warm puppies, and the bawling of spring's calves weaned from their mothers.
I love granite peaks, verdant mountain meadows, and the reverb of summer thunder as it echos above treeline on a rocky pass.
I love the smell of rain in the desert, the feel of wet sand between my toes, and the roar of solitude that hangs over wet creosote.
I love the smell of marshgrass and wet corrals against the song of the redwing blackbird.
I love the strike of hungry trout in a clear Uinta lake, the smell of mountain scrubbed air, and the bugle of bull elk bouncing off of bally peaks.
I love the smell of hard-ridden horse lather, the feel of a mules breath on the back of my neck while trimming her feet, and the sound of a child's giggle behind me on the trail.
I love the smell of fresh cut alfalfa, the itch of hay leaves against my sweaty back, and the squall of a startled pheasant exploding from a ditchbank.
I love warm milk squirted against the back of my tongue on a cold winter's morn, the swish of her impatient bovine tail, and the insistent meow of the cat wondering if I'll share.
I love the agony of climbing Mt Nebo's triune peaks, the struggle for breath at altitude, and the sound of an airplane flying below our hard fought ascent.
I love the thrill of buck fever in the fall, the aroma of golden quakie leaves scattered along the hillside, and the sharp crack of rifle against the sunrise.
I love the steeled complaint of a kid resisting chores, the sullen glare of defiant eyes, and the "Thanks Dad" from that same growing up kid.
I love a rainsoaked felt hat, the smack of rain against my slicker, and the sound of hooves squishing through the mud below my wet saddle.
I love pushing longhorns through shoulder-high sage, the grandeur of Escalante's twisted maze of canyons, and the sound of the campfire's crackle at sunset.
I love watching hens scratch about for their daily bread, the taste of just-laid-eggs, and the brilliance of morning's rooster.
I love the feel of cold wet feet, the iron grip of wet jeans, and the tinkly sound of sprinkler heads beating across the rows of just-changed sprinkler lines.
I love the taste of hanging summer clouds that have just shed their moisture, the smell of ozone along sandstone cliffs, and the rush of wind across my face while soaring through still, wet air.
I love the smell and feel of lanolin from a lamb's wool, and the joyous sound of bleating as they jump and butt heads in mock battle.
I love the soft breeze in a narrow, red canyon, and the chorus of frogs against the lonely bray of a young mule after dark.
I love seeing a mountain lion leap from its perch, powdery snow flying, and the baying of bloodhounds in hot pursuit.
I love the staccato bark and pitchy howl of a mamma coyote who follows us along a ridgeline, worried about our proximity to her den of spring pups.
I love the unspeakable glory of stars reflected on a glassy WindRiver lake at 2 a.m. after the mosquitoes have gone to bed.
I love the shock of standing naked in icy alpine water to wash off several day's trail grime, a warm fire, and the feel of fresh clothes for a new day's trail.
I love crawling into a cold, but soon to be cozy bed roll and drifting off to sleep to the gentle sound of cowbell hung around Molly's neck as she grazes the meadow next to camp.
I love flying through Hop Valley's meandering narrows, climbing out of her pine scented bowels, and gazing down upon the miracle of Kolob's handlike tangle of thrones.
I love the look on a 5 year old's face that is seeing the world for the first time, and the tears on a Mom's face when the child wonders about the cracks in the sky during a thunderstorm.
I love the way moonlight paints a night canyon in shades of gray, stealing the redness of her rocks until the sun steals the red back and repaints them in the morning.
I love the youthful cadence and buoyant pitch of my seven year old son's voice when he recites the story of the cross-eyed bull.
Most of all, I love the miracle of friendship.
Ah... but what little pleasure is found taking these things alone. Everything is better in good company. Well, except for the naked part... I like to bathe in shrivelingly cold lakes all by myself.