Fiction | January 01, 1983

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Nieman runs in the mountains. He starts from our small house in town at seven thousand feet, and in a few minutes, I see his maroon sweat suit drifting among the dark spruce near the Ute Chief Mine at 7,500. When I returned from the garden with the day’s pick of beans, lettuce, and squash (we got no tomatoes at this altitude), he will be nearing the lip of Silver Lake, a cold, shallow, fishless sea at eight thousand feet.

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