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Nine days, two thousand nine hundred and sixty-five miles. 

Denver, Kremmling, Grand Junction, Moab, Cortez, Mexican Water, Tuba City, Kanab, Flagstaff, Twin Arrows, Sante Fe and points between.

The fire. The odor of burning juniper is the sweetest fragrance on the face of the earth, in my honest judgment; I doubt if all the smoking censers of Dante’s paradise could equal it. One breath of juniper smoke, like the perfume of sagebrush after rain, evokes in magical catalysis, like certain music, the space and light and clarity and piercing strangeness of the American West. Long may it burn.

Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire.

I also liked the smell of wet clay after a cloudburst on a trail among the hoodoos in Bryce Canyon.