I have lived in Chicago for almost ten years—I left the mountains and returned to the gridded urban jungle shortly before my 30th birthday. My first year back in Chicagoland, I merrily explored almost every inch of the Loop with my camera—spending hours in dark alleys and lost time mingling with strangers on sidewalks. The façades of skyscrapers became my fictitious mountains, welcoming me home from the Dan Ryan, as the Great Divide had once greeted me. This past mild winter has allowed me to meet this anniversary with a bit less reluctance. However, in downtown Chicago spring is indicated by the sudden appearance of white buoys at the yacht club—where in Colorado I remember the season change was marked by overflowing streambeds. While I stand at the lakefront and look back at the skyline, I long for the vistas in Summit County. In the spring, I always treasured a brisk hike to a peak where I was startled by a foot of snow, since I began the climb in green grass. Chicago’s limestone walls are a bit claustrophobic for me these days—I find myself searching for open sky.