Back in the 1970s I had the perfect job. A motor club paid me to go to all the resorts and tourist attractions in Colorado. I crossed the continental divide 23 times that summer. I ran free as the snowy clouds that were scuttled over the peaks, close enough to touch.

The boss knew I camped out every night along the rushing rivers, but I was never sure he knew I took my big brown dog along. Perhaps he turned a blind eye because I sold more advertising than my predecessor. Still, the job paid relatively little. The cheap motels I could afford felt like prisons and staying in them would have put my boss in my ear each evening. There are advantages to a lack of connectivity that we fail to value now. To me, forty hours seemed sufficient labor for the little I earned, so I dreamed under the stars and called him each morning instead.

I didn’t have much of a car when I applied. The Rambler was okay …