ABSTRACT
I began writing this book in late summer, after many weeks of travel in the West. I could still feel the warm sun on my back, and smell the tangy scent that wafted around the great sweeps of sage brush and pine through which I had trekked. I could still hear the sounds of the rodeo in Cody, with the star-spangled banner sung country style, and recall the thrill of seeing black bear amble across the forest track in front of me. With me, too, were the memories of time spent in pleasant conversation, with ranchers and wranglers, with waitresses and shopkeepers, with environmentalists and truckers, in small towns and the bars of small towns, where people seemed to have plenty of time for both one another and for strangers such as myself. In short, when I put pen to paper, I felt good about the places I had been to, even if I had, at times, been shocked by the way in which public money was being channeled into needless and destructive activities.
