EDITOR'S LETTER

I was on a sailboat off the coast of California when I heard about the death of Lady Diana. My brother and I looked at each other in silence, with that sense of disturbed surprise. The same way people looked at each other when John Lennon died. And Michael Jackson. And Robin Williams. I didn't know the princess, of course, and I was never interested in the royal gossip, but I felt sad about her death. And unsettled. Like I'd lost a distant cousin.

I didn't know Clyde Whiskers, either. But his unexpected death had the same effect. I got the news as our May issue was arriving in mailboxes around the world. Mr. Whiskers was a central character in that issue, in a story about the San Juan Southern Paiute Tribe. You might remember seeing him. With an interplay of light and shadow, his face was a chiaroscuro of hardship and hope. It was the face of his people. Sadly, Mr. Whiskers died from complications of COVID-19 in early April. Just like that, he was gone.

There's a hole in the world tonight, I thought.

Glenn Frey and Don Henley wrote those seven words after the Twin Towers collapsed in 2001. I remembered them as I processed the death of a man I didn't know, but a man I knew to be a good man. It was much worse for writer Morgan Sjogren, who became friends with her protagonist. “Clyde called me before he was hospitalized,” she told me. “He'd just heard about COVID-19 and said he was prepared, even if he had to, 'to eat a horse, like the old times.' He was joking, as he often did, and then he asked me to send him a photo of the two of us together, and the one David Zickl shot for Arizona Highways. I knew something was wrong when I didn't hear from Clyde again that week we talked often. Clyde's loss is devastating. And there's an eerie quiet in no longer getting calls from him. And hearing his distinct voice. Although I miss him, I know he'll live on forever in the canyons he loved and the places where he left his mark.” As I write this column, 147,000 Americans are expected to die from complications of the coronavirus more than twice as many deaths as the Vietnam War. The pandemic has affected everything we do. Including this magazine. In fact, we had something else in mind for this issue, but it didn't seem quite right. Not in this moment. And because we rarely stop the presses, there wasn't a backup plan for an entire issue.

Time was running out, I wasn't sleeping much... then, at some point in that hazy space between deep sleep and conceding the night, I had an idea. I scribbled it down, made some coffee and sent an email to my team: “Here's a thought,” I wrote in the middle of the night. “It's based on the question inmates often get: What's the first thing you're going to eat when you get out of the slammer? Well, I want to put together an issue based on that theme. But instead of food, I want it to focus on the great outdoors. WHERE'S THE FIRST PLACE YOU'RE GOING TO GO WHEN YOU'RE OUT OF QUARANTINE? I realize that, as of now, a lot of the great outdoors isn't off-limits, but that might change. And even if it doesn't, we're all in some kind of lockdown, fighting off the pressures of going stir-crazy. We're all fantasizing about a return to normalcy, and in our world, that means getting back to our great escapes.” When no one balked, an issue was born, and the simple question was sent to some of our writers and photographers. The response was overwhelming. Like the final scene in It's a Wonderful Life, when everyone rallied around George Bailey, “the richest man in town.” “Of course, I'd love to contribute,” Kathy Montgomery replied, almost immediately. “I'd be pleased to be a part of it,” Ruth Rudner said. “I'd be honored to pitch in for this,” Annette McGivney wrote, in the middle of a move to Colorado. Somewhere in the process of pulling it all together, I asked Morgan how Mr. Whiskers might have answered the question. “I imagine Clyde would have wanted to keep on living as he had been,” she said, “splitting his time between Navajo Mountain and Tuba City. Although he'd been 'everywhere,' he truly loved his home.” If you believe in angels or energy forces, you can believe that he's still out there. Somewhere. “They are not dead who live in the hearts they leave behind,” the Tuscarora people say. Still, there's a hole in our world. A dark space where bright eyes used to shine.

Rest in peace, Mr. Whiskers. You've touched us all, and we'll be thinking of you when we make our way into the great outdoors.