Page 14 of Without a Clue

“Buhl, Idaho. Down a tiny valley near Snake Ridge Canyon.”

“Snake Ridge Canyon,” I repeat with a suggestive lift of my brow. “Sounds charming.”

I know the place.

I looked it up when he told me he might be going offline again a few months back, heading out beneath the wild sky to clear his head for book research and just general living. He juggles the states up quite a bit, but they all have some similarities: out west. Places either hot enough to melt butter or so cold you get frostbite (he’s had it—twice). Humidity that you could slice through with a knife.

He brings his boots and his hat and jumps on a random horse with two saddlebags of canned beans and jerky and a tin coffee can and water and a notebook and his trusty computer and—let’s hope—a toothbrush.

Sleeps on the ground with his hat over his head—just like in his books.

Drinks coffee that looks a lot like mudwater—just like in his books.

Pops into town to charge up his laptop every few days and grab a few more cans of beans.

Does nothing but muse in silence for days on end—and write his books.

He usually comes back with a half-written novel or, if not half, at least a quarter and a plan.

Every author has his method for inspiration, I guess.

“I thought you were going for four weeks this time.”

“I went eight.”

“You never go eight.”

“This was a trip I needed eight. I had to . . .”—he pauses and his eyes jog away for a moment—“get away from it all for a bit. Get some perspective.”

“About what?”

Nash hesitates.

Shakes his head.

“Just people. Work. Life. To remember my place.”

He’s shutting down over it. I can see it plainly in the shift of his body as he turns and takes a swig of his beer.

Well. I understand. If there’s one thing, one tiny little takeaway I’ve had drilled into my brain over the past six weeks, it’s that I will never pry again. People can be well-meaning, but if I have to say, “I’m fine, and you?” while piecing my face into a perfectly effortless smile for their daily inquisition one more time, I just might throw a boom box into the ocean.

I shift the subject, keeping my tone light.

“Get bit by anything interesting?”

“Found a rattler in my boot one morning.”

I make a face. It’s revolting. His hobbies are revolting. “The number of times you’ve discovered living creatures in your shoes is really concerning, Nash. Have you ever, oh, I don’t know, considered rolled-up towels in them or something?”

“No room in the saddlebags.”

“You have shirts.”

“I have shirt,” he corrects.

“You don’t even carry an extra shirt?”

“If it gets dirty, you just take it off. Clean it. Put it back on again. Keeps things simple.”