The Pacific Northwest will not be nice to you if you are not nice to it. My friend’s father-in-law was complaining about how rural and backwards and grim this place is. Within twenty-four hours, he was dead. He’d been gored through the femoral artery by a mountain goat up at Hurricane Ridge. The goat stood over him as he bled out. It’s not that he was wrong. But everytime I go up to Heart of the Hills, I tell my ancestors how beautiful the turquoise of the lake is, glimmering in mid-July, and how, on summer evenings, you can smell the pink and lavender of the sunset.