7:30 AM: I deboard in Los Angeles International Airport, feeling again like a child, my loose brown pants billowing as I walk the endless hallways of airline travel, following the rush of people to the nearest monitor, gate, coffeestand, magazine rack, following without understanding. I find a map and a gate number and a route to take, stop at a television to see the results of last night's NCAA game. Ohio State lost, and my dad had them picked to win it all, so I call to console him. My head is reeling, and I desperately need food and caffeine.

8:00 AM: After eating a croissant, with a "Venti" paper cup of coffee in my hand, my shoulders aching to loose this backpack, I discover a singular miracle of LAX: a tiny, cement outdoor patio. Fresh air in an airport. The greatest of paradox, the reason I so despise air travel. I push through the glass doors and breathe deeply the humid, smoky morning air of a coastal metropolis. I crouch in a corner and peel the lid off my steaming coffee, still too hot to drink. There are smokers and cell phone chatters and the patio is crowded with people in suits who know where they're headed for the day, but all I want is to stand on my concrete bench and peer over the wall, over the barbed wire fence, over the tarmack and into the mountains I know are out there in the smog. After a few minutes, the smoke makes me crave the cigarettes I gave up years ago, so I retreat inside to bunk out at my next gate.

8:30 AM: Kevin calls, Kevin calls! He can't wait either, and I board the plane feeling exhausted and euphoric.

9:00 AM: I've never been on such a short flight, such a little hop, but it was worth the extra money, extra ticket, to get there faster and without a rental car. I've never been to California. I've never moved like this before. The impulses he arouses are unexplainable. The plane bends sharply to the left, like a downhill highway curve and we are over the mountains, directly over the mountains. They are all I can see. I realize, though I grew up among mountains, though I now live at the foot of the famously omnipresent Rockies, I have never seen mountains from above. Although its still March, these tops are green, draped in summer green, like a photograph of the ocean with shadows where the sunlight should be. Deep, penetrating waves of ancient rock stretched for miles, shrouding themselves for me in the distance, waiting for my arrival, welcoming me with the sheer terror of their mass, the realization of metal that could so easily curve around these boulders. I'm waiting to land, and tears come into my eyes and I whisper "thank you" to the pilot, for bringing me here this way.