DRYLANDS

There’s something undeniably captivating about the American West. The horizon stretches forever, mountains meet the sky, and the wind carries tales across plains so wide you can almost hear the echoes of those who came before.

Growing up on black-and-white Westerns left a deep impression. Cowboys were my heroes, indigenous culture was sacred, love was simple, and the closer you got to the land, the closer you got to something real—something you could feel in your bones.

The desert, well… it holds a piece of my heart I’ll never get back. Every time I pack my bags and head west, I felt that magnetic pull—the same one that’s called explorers, pioneers, and dreamers to these lands for centuries. It’s not just a place; it’s a rhythm, a hum, a possibility you can chase if you’re willing to move.

You feel it on the open road—whether you’re kicking up dust on horseback or rolling tires down dirt. The world gets bigger than you, the ordinary fades, and the unknown stretches out like a promise. Hills rise and fall, cliffs jut from the earth, deserts stretch like oceans, and somewhere in all that motion, you catch a glimpse of what you’ve been chasing all along: just being alive, just moving, letting the horizon decide where you end up.

Guadalarjara, Mexico

20.67 N, 103.35 W