In a series of nine separate and necessary events, each with other people’s decisions involved, in August of 1975 God landed me where I could not have dreamed that big: living in a log cabin in the mountains above Taos, 8,500 ft., the nearest neighbor three miles away. Maybe not heaven for you, but it was for me. No work to do, just living on an unused guest ranch, and being paid for it. In the process of leaving my native SoCal for a fresh start on life, thinking of Colorado but going through Taos in the summer of my 27th year, I found myself “coming home, to a place I’d never been before.” Then came…