Things never felt right in Flagstaff. I spent my time staring at the San Francisco mountain range, trying to figure out how to tear it down. How to turn it inside out, upside down, drive it into the ground and fill it with water. I wanted to be able to see. All I could see were the mountains, surrounding me, filling my vision with their rocky peaks. One time my partner, Jeff, and I took our vehicle on a two-track to the top of Mt. Humphrey (the smaller of the peaks, only 9000 ft. above sea level). Once we reached the top, the weight lifted from my shoulders. I could see it: the painted desert to the North, the Grand Canyon to the Northwest. I could see till the land met the sky in a hazy reddish blend. Things felt right. We never went up the mountain again. We left Flagstaff two months later.