To speak to John B’s observation (he lived in Pahrump) the only sound, besides my squeaky joints, is the wind funneling past the phone’s receiver.

I’m 2 1/2 miles from the water tower and l’ve gained 1500 feet. I can see sagebrush sand and rocks, green and pink hued mountains. The sun is warm, not hot and though I drink a lot I’m not thirsty.

Silence? Not as much as you think as sounds reverberate from the city below. Although since there’s no one here to talk to I have to generate my own noise. I feel like an old refrigerator.There’s this whirring noise and then long periods of silence.

As I look out over the desert I don’t see Peter nearby. I know, I sound like Irene the psychic, but I just think he’s closer to home. Wishful thinking? Maybe, but that’s the only way Peter’s going to be found. There are neither hunters nor hikers or mountain bikers to stumble upon the man.

I have a heavy heart for Ken. Hard enough to be present with your parents when they die, but you have to face the hurt to process your own changes, to grow as a person. What would you do if your father just disappeared?

I love the sound of your voice, Hilary, you’ve always been one of the blogs biggest cheerleaders.

I found a Mylar balloon caught in a cactus, a plastic bag or two and some horse crap, but otherwise not much evidence of other humans. I guess that’s a good thing.